Tag Archives: crazy

I was dreaming when I wrote this

It is nearly 2:00AM where I sit right now, and I should be tired. But I am not. I have too many thoughts, too much music in my head right now to sleep. And not just actual songs–though those are certainly present: one lyric after another streaming through, one bass line overlapping another, drums and drums and drums–but also the music of the rain, the music of my dog’s slow breathing next to me, the music of my the computer keys under my rapidly moving fingers. It’s so mesmerizingly distracting.

For the record, I am not on drugs.

I have had this one line running on loop in my mind for a few weeks now, and I have to share the series of emotions and thought bubbles it has inspired. No one who has read this blog before will be surprised that the line is from a 30 Seconds To Mars song, A Beautiful Lie:

“Lie awake in bed at night, and think about your life. Do you want to be different?”

My response to that question is a loud and resounding YES.

YES, I do want to be different. In so many ways that I can’t even bear it sometimes.

The first way in which I wish to be different is that I do not want to be an asshole. Is that crude? I’m sorry. But, frankly, I am disheartened by the number of just unfriendly human beings I encounter on a daily basis. I am always pleasantly surprised to encounter kind, sociable people, but I shouldn’t be. Kind and sociable should be the norm. I should not be taken aback when someone holds open a door for me, or smiles at me as we cross paths when I’m out walking my dog, but I am. I am always dumbfounded when I meet other nice people, because it doesn’t happen enough.

That. Is Tragic.

So, yes, I wish to be different and be (pardon me while I utilize an old church analogy) a light for the world rather than a black hole sucking the light from the sky. I try to smile at everyone I can, from the grumpy teller at the bank, to people who pull up next to me at red lights. I try to make someone laugh every day because A) laughter is a cure all for them and B) for me, making others laugh is the greatest feeling in the whole wide world. I want to be one of those people that you meet and in a seconds-long encounter, your day is changed for the better. It depresses me to think that I have ever made anyone sad–and I know I have in the past, and I am sorry–but I hope from here on to only (or at least, mostly) bring happiness. I owe that much to the other nice people in the world: a little reciprocity.

But I am also a conceited little fuck and want to be different for the sake of…not being like anyone else.

If my parents got one thing right with me, it is my name. I LOVE the name Pamela. Spot on, ‘rents, spot on. I mostly loved that name as a child because no one else my age had it. There were a handful of Amandas, a couple Nicoles, plenty of Jessicas, but just one Pamela, and that ROCKED. I never appreciated the existence of Pamela Anderson in the world, particularly when my 3rd grade teacher made that my nickname, but for the most part I enjoyed my unique title. I wasn’t always so down with being different, but sometimes, your soul just takes over and originality happens.

Destined to be different

I also learned from an early age that scars are cool. I have over 80 scars on my body, and while I don’t remember where all of them came from, I do have a story for most of them: the dime-sized spot on my forearm is where my dad’s parrot took a chunk out of me for no reason except it is the devil; the raised purple knob on my knee is where a piece of my high school track is still embedded from falling flat on my face during my first ever track meet; the long thin line on my toe is where a screw wedged itself once; the spot next to my right eye is where my mom cut me with a poorly sharpened eyeliner pencil while getting me ready for my dance recital as a tot. I adore each and every one of my scars because they are proof of the life I have lived. Even the crack in my skull, the one that you can follow with your finger from my hairline down to my eyebrow, is a wonderful part of me that I embrace, for had I no scars, that would have meant I have lived a safe (and utterly BORING) life. Each time I fell off my bike, that was a life experience I wouldn’t give up for anything. Each time my brother pinched me with his dirty little fingernails causing tiny infections all over my arms and eventually leaving a dozen little pockmarks, those were…well, not great experiences, but they shaped me. All my “flaws” are evidence of the life I’ve lived up until now, a life that is all mine, not yours.

Over the years, learning to appreciate what makes me different has led me to yearn for even more originality. I don’t want to be like anyone else but me, thanks. When people say, “You know who you remind me of?” my heart sinks a little, because I only want to remind you of Pamela Wall. I want to be so badly one of those people with a certain je ne sais quoi. I have an asymmetrical face, crooked ears, an annoying voice, and enormous and intrusive hand gestures: you should remember me, goddammit. I am flattered when people tell me I look like Chyler Leigh but I don’t see it, and I don’t want to see it: she is a perfect china doll, and I only wish to be imperfect, lopsided, lovable me. Is that so much to ask?

I am always looking for more ways to be more like myself, more ways to show the world who I am inside. And, you know, that’s not an easy task, seeing as some people don’t want me to be me. Ralph Waldo Emerson is my hero, and he said something that I tell myself on a daily basis:

“To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.”

Fuck yeah, it is. I have people telling me how to look, how to behave all the time: don’t cut your hair, be more like a girl, stop wearing Converse All-Stars, stop being so loud, CALM DOWN. Well, guess what, if I want to chop off my hair, I’m fucking going to. I am a girl, even if I don’t fit your form of what a girl should be. My Cons are my FAVORITE and I will not give them up for anyone or anything and why do you care what I put on my feet anyway?! I AM loud: I am Polish and Italian, it happens. And I will NOT calm down. I am a high-strung crazy chick and I know it, but I thrive on a good dose of anxiety, I get help when it gets to be too much, and it’s up to me to decide which it is, thank you very much. It is real work to ignore all the voices pressing in every day, but when I do, that’s when I feel right. I feel good. I feel…like myself.

In my still-rocking Be Brave phase, I want all the more to stand out from the crowd. I happily danced, sang, and skipped on a 4-mile walk with my dog the other day, and it was SO FUN. I got some weird looks from passing cars (well, actually, the cars didn’t look at me, they’re cars. The people inside the cars did, if I’m using correct English) and a few people who were hanging out on their porches laughed (I’m assuming at my singing which is unabashedly awful) but so what? Even if I see these people again, will they know it was me? And frankly, if I saw a girl skipping down a main drag I’d say, “Damn, that girl has flair.” I’d like to think I have flair. I try to have flair. I hope to someday have flair.


Anywho, I keep humming to myself and answering the “Do you want to be different?” question with a soul-shaking “affirmative!” I’ve never felt like I fit in, so why should I try now when it is so much more fun sticking out like a sore, goofy thumb. It might embarrass the people around me but, clearly, if they’re embarrassed of me then I don’t really need them around and they can fucking leave. I am staying right here, with my purple converse, my nerd glasses, and a smile, because life is so much more fulfilling when I get to be myself, unashamed and unrefined.

Aaaaaand, now it’s 3:00AM, and the music plays on and on and on and…



Filed under self-reflection, The Good Moods, Uncategorized, Wellness

The Loony Side of Weight Loss

Knowing that most of my food/diet-related posts to come will be pretty…unfun… a drag, some may say, for a brief moment, I’d like to keep things light and tell you about some of the ludicrous weight-ish thoughts that drift through my head during the day.

“I finally got used to having boobs, I should keep eating crap but just workout A TON and then I’ll be small everywhere but my bra.” OK, maybe this needs a wee bit of explanation. I was president of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee during high school. I, like many girls, wished at times for something more voluptuous to fill my vintage T-shirts, but I came to terms with inheriting my mother’s boyish chest. As it happened, I took after my father’s sisters more than I did my mother, seeing as my D-cups showed up sophomore year of college. Old (male) friends have had to relearn how to hug me. Boys I crushed on as a flat-chested nerd in 11th grade have been crawling out of the woodwork for the last year,  and I can only assume it’s due to the pictures of my new figure that are up on Facebook. One of my dearest friends has commented ruefully that if I looked like I do now back in the hellish halls of Cousino, I would have probably had a real date to prom…or at least lost my virginity. And one of my mom’s friends even asked me if I got a boob job. So, now you see that my chest is a topic of interest to more than a few people.

It’s took me two years to stop hating my boobs, and another year to learn to appreciate their asthetic value, so now, as they start retreating, it is a bit of a shock. But not totally unwelcome. That said, the shallow side of me panics when I lose so much as an ounce in my bra and starts urging me to give in to my sugar cravings. It hollers, “So what if your ass if fat?! Your breasts are fabulous.

“If I go to the bathroom, my thighs will instantly be smaller.” I know, I know, this is not so, and I’ve never believed it to be at any point. But nearly every time I go to the loo, the little personal trainer in my head says that my pants will instantly fit better. Every time. I don’t get it, really I don’t.

“Coffee erases calories.” This is more wishful thinking than anything else. I love a good cup of tea, and drink that much more often than coffee these days, but one of the great loves-of-my-life is a sweet, creamy latte. Or even a mug of Folger’s with hazelnut Coffee Mate. YUM. I am drawn to the beautiful bean as a moth is drawn to a flame, as Obama is drawn to health care reform, as Amy Winehouse is drawn to…you know what, too far. But yes, I loooovvve coffee. BUT, it has a tendency to…make its escape rather quickly. Ahem. This little side-effect has led me to the thinking that coffee just sweeps all the stuff I just ate right out. It doesn’t, but I’ve used that thinking as an excuse to stop at Starbuck’s more than a few times.

“You will never find love if you are thin!” Yeah, I am for real here. I met my guy when I was coming off a summer of doctor-ordered couch potatoing, so, lemme tell you, I was NOT looking my best. But even then he thought I was cute. Thusly, when I start to shed poundage, something inside me fears losing the curves that “won me my man.” Which is absurd. First of all, I don’t know many guys who have anything against a flat stomach and nice legs on a woman. Am I right? Second, as if I could ever lose enough weight to say goodbye to my bum (even as a twiggy 10 year old, I still had a little peach-bottom. I should post photographic evidence of this at some point, it’s hysterical: bony arms, knobby knees, spiky shoulder blades, BOOTY.) And third, even if my boyfriend for some reason had a problem with my new, fitter frame, uh, he can be replaced. I’m not actively looking to exchange the model I have, but I have enough ego to know that I totally could if I wanted to. (You hear that Richard? I could. Live in fear! Hehehe…kidding.)

“If I exercise I will lose too much weight, so let’s reserve here.” WTF? From whence do these insane thought come? I know not. I workout…sometimes. I do my yoga once or twice a week, I try to go running as often as possible, I workout with resistance bands now and then…but I am by no means overexerting myself. I’ll have a good week during which I go running 4 times, and then I won’t lace up my shoes for two weeks. I can be quite the lazy sack of bricks. So it’s outrageous that during certain moments when I’m ready to break my inertia, this lousy excuse comes to mind. I make myself laugh.

So, yeah, the voices in my head (and apparently there are many of them O.o) tells me rather batty things. These little above mentioned gems float through my head at random, trying to divert my focus on becoming a better version of myself, but these days, they are easier and easier to ignore. And more often than not, I get a good chuckle out of it. Seriously, you try taking a pee and think, “Yay! I’m skinny now!” and not laugh out loud.

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Filed under self-reflection, Wit and Silliness