Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
It's just a matter of perspective. Unemployed. Single. Sounds like a losing situation from all angles, right?
Yeah. It pretty much sucks.
But.
Just as I discovered there are positive aspects to being eternally single, I'm discovering there are plus sides to being unemployed, and, single and unemployed.
Sure, being unemployed makes me feel scared.
And sure, not getting any nibbles from employers, even the less reputable not-so-interesting ones, barely a "don't call us, we'll call you" response to all of my job applications makes me feel worthless.
Sure, being single makes me feel lonely.
And sure, not getting any interest from men, even the disgusting, not-so-interesting ones, barely a "let me buy you a drink and you can show me a good time" offer at low-lit, low-life dingy bars makes me feel repugnant.
But.
Looking on the bright side of the situation, I haven't had a reason, even societal convention, to shave my legs in weeks. Yep, I've gone through the first couple of prickly, itchy, uncomfortable 5:00 shadow days, the "wow, I really need to shave my legs" days, the "geeze, that's disgusting, how long can leg hair grow, anyway?" days, and now I'm in the "meh, whatever, who cares? what difference does it make?" days. I'm neither repulsed or concerned. When I need to shave my legs, I will. For now I look at my razor perched in the bathroom and give it a knowing smirk. "Whatever. Beckon all you want, until I have a viable reason to use you I'm going to ignore you." When I was merely single, as opposed to single and unemployed, I still felt compelled, bound by convention, to shave my legs. I was going to work for crying out loud.
No one wanted to see my homage to singledom, the obvious mark of a woman who hasn't had sex in months, maybe years, possibly this millennium, and has no prospects or hope for sex any time soon. Least of all me. Work, respectable appearance for coworkers and clients, was my "excuse" for keeping my legs neatly shorn.
But, deep down I knew it was just an excuse masking the last vestiges of hope that somehow, someday, some man would find me interesting enough to at least take me for a spin in the sheets. Keeping my legs sex-ready was a small concession to that deeply repressed hope.
Without the excuse of work I am left with no real reason to shave my legs, wear clean underwear, apply makeup or wash my hair. No man, no job, no reason to not let myself lapse into a state of hygienic chaos.
I still snap to hygienic attention when I am going out - somewhere farther than the mailbox. When I'm going to see people or boldly brave society-at-large, I deign myself to take a shower, wash my hair, put on clean underwear, wear real clothes and even don some mascara and lipstick. My life is falling apart, spiraling out of control, but by golly I still care enough to smile like I mean it and try to dupe my friends and family and society-at-large that everything's okay, I'm doing okay, there's no need to worry about me, nosiree, everything's fine, nothing to see here.
But unfortunately I don't go out that often lately so days and days go by unshowered and unmade-up. It's reaching the point where I feel like an addict trying to convince myself I can quit any time, I just don't need to quit right now so I'll keep using until I need to quit. "I can shower and clean up any time I want. I can, really. I will, when I want, I will. When I need to clean up and get dressed and brush my hair I'll do it." I have fewer occasions to bother, fewer occasions to need to kick the unhygienic habit. Fewer occasions to smile like I mean it these days.
At first I kept up my normal hygiene routines. Showers and hair washings every day, complete with leg and pit shaving. I even bothered to style my hair just about every day. Teeth brushed morning and night. Make-up, even if just an abbreviated dose, was applied every day. Fresh underwear, bra and clean clothes, real clothes, not comfy sweats and t-shirts, every day. Laundry was done on schedule. Dishes were washed. I even liked that I had time to keep a regular routine. I touted that I now had the time to eat real meals at regularly scheduled times. I liked that I could do my laundry during the week-days and could keep up with it and not let it pile out of control. I thought there was merit and virtue in the discipline I was applying to myself during my new unemployment.
Then the discipline started to wane. I relaxed my standards.
I'm now eating cookie dough and Diet Pepsi at 2 AM and calling it breakfast. Around 3 PM, or 2 PM, or 4 PM, I'll saunter into the kitchen and consider cooking something. Sometimes, on the 14 foot trek to the kitchen, I get all inspired and think about pulling out a cookbook and making a real meal. Instead I rummage around for whatever's fast and easy, usually Ramen noodles or toast and peanut butter. Washed down with Diet Pepsi. I call it dunch. Dinner/lunch.
Around 9 PM I wonder why I feel like crap and then think about the crap I put in my body. I vow to eat better and get rid of the Diet Pepsi. At the very least bake the cookies. 15 minutes later I'm studying the box of Triscuits, looking for signs of any nutritional value and convincing myself they're a good source of fiber.
Feeling nutritionally virtuous after a late dinner of Triscuits I justify splurging on cookies and Diet Pepsi. I vow to make oatmeal raisin cookies because they have a lot of nutritional value. I make the cookies but as Craig Ferguson does his "what did we learn tonight" closing sequence I don't bother to bake the cookies and instead wash down the cookie dough with another Diet Pepsi.
The worst part of all this is that I'm aware of what I'm doing, or not doing. I know exactly what I should, or should not be doing, even in the moment. I know I shouldn't drink Diet Pepsi. I know I should eat nutritionally balanced meals on an appropriate schedule. I know I should shower and shave my legs. I know I should get dressed in clean, regular clothes. I know I'd be mortified if anyone knew how I'm living, if anyone knew I wasn't showering except when I'm going to see people, if anyone knew that for five days in a row I didn't wear underwear because I ran out of clean pairs and didn't have the energy? desire? money? to do laundry. I know I should at least bake the cookies for crying out loud.
It's apathy born of depression, obviously. Duh.
But there's more to it than that. I do care. I really do. But I know I need to conserve money and letting the laundry pile up rather than doing smaller loads makes financial and environmental sense.
Besides, do I really need to wear underwear every day if I'm not leaving my home? Ditto dishes piled in the sink. Ditto hair washing.
It's all very bohemian. And scary.
Sure, I don't need to wear make-up every day, or style my hair, or even wear work-appropriate attire. I am just sitting around at home working on my job applications. And I was a little high maintenance, I suppose. My standards of personal appearance were a bit, well, high. Clean, pressed real clothes, always. Showered, legs and pits shaved bare every day, every day, no excpetions. Hair shampooed, conditioned and styled every day, no exceptions. Make-up applied before stepping foot out the door, a must. None of this was affected, it was just normal, healthy, respectable grooming. It's how I was raised. You just don't go around being sloppy. Period. It's about self-respect and dignity. It's just what you do.
But the whole hygiene thing catapults me into another league. I think it was the underwear thing that made me realize how far I've fallen. I've gradually weaned out the boyfriend appropriate underwear from my life. I keep a few pairs, you know, just in case Hell freezes over or there's a meteoric catastrophe that sends people into the streets to gaze heavenward at the oncoming assault and grabbing the first person they can find for one last fuck before the world comes to an end. (Which, by the way, is my most regular fantasy and the only hope I have to actually have sex before I die.)
Before I go out into the streets on the night of cosmic-Armageddon, my plan is to quickly rummage in the back of my underwear drawer for a pair of boyfriend-appropriate underwear and don them before heading out for indiscriminate sex and then to die. I figure if I'm going to have indiscriminate cosmic-Armageddon sex I don't want to be caught wearing white cotton sensible briefs verging on granny pants.
I'd prefer to be blasted into eternity wearing white cotton sensible briefs verging on granny pants because forever is a really long time and comfortable undies would be nice, but since I actually want to have indiscriminate cosmic-Armageddon sex I plan to stick to the plan of a quick change before heading out into the streets.
The only question up for debate is whether or not I take the time to shave my legs. I figure cosmic-Armageddon sex is fast and furious sex. Quick and feverish. The jeans probably won't need to fall below my knees. The guy just needs enough clearance for a few quick thrusts. At least that's how it plays out in my fantasies. So taking the time to shave my lower legs probably would just be wasting precious cosmic-Armageddon indiscriminate sex partner finding time.
He'll have to deal with an ungroomed snatch, though. One thing is certain: I've been single long enough to appreciate the liberation that emancipation from snatch waxing and shaving and tweezing gives a girl. And there's no going back. At least not in the event of cosmic-Armageddon. I am not going to take the time, in my last few hours of life, to groom my snatch into some Penthouse® centerfold ready pattern or worse, shave down to prepubescent bareness. Uh-uh. No way. No how. Not in my last few hours of life. I'll give-in to media-molded stereotyped male objectification and desire and throw on the uncomfortable black lace undies but I am not going to groom my snatch. Not in my last few hours on this mortal coil.
There are a lot of college aged and Puerto Rican girls in my neighborhood. You know how they are. I'm certain they'll be wearing boyfriend-ready undies. I don't want to be the only woman left standing alone on the eve of cosmic Armageddon. The guys will say, "I would have grabbed her (pointing at me) but I got a look at her undies and decided to grab this girl with the La Perla black lace thong, instead. I mean, what with it being my last fuck and all, why settle for the girl in sensible white cotton briefs when there's a black lace thong up for the taking just a block away? And besides, under those sensible white cotton briefs she had an ungroomed snatch."
Anyway. That's why I have a couple pairs of boyfriend-appropriate underwear shoved way back in the underwear drawer. A cosmic-Armageddon situation. I'm not holding out real hope for an actual boyfriend, a bona-fide need to wear uncomfortable underwear. A cosmic-Armageddon situation is more likely.
But here's the thing. That underwear is my laundry barometer. When my clean underwear supply is dwindling and I'm down to almost nothing but the boyfriend underwear, I know it's way past time to catch up with the laundry. The threat of having to wear the boyfriend-appropriate underwear is usually enough to motivate me to catch up with the laundry. I know it's there, lurking in the back corner of my underwear drawer, I know it's there in case of a laundry emergency (or cosmic-Armageddon) but it's more of a threat than a comfort. "Aaaack! Alert! Alert! You're dangerously close to having to wear that underwear! Alert! Alert! Do your laundry NOW!!!"
When I was working I used to get dangerously close to the boyfriend-appropriate underpants event horizon. Working 10-12 hour days cuts into your free time, your laundry time. Work clothes can be dropped off at the dry cleaner, towels and sheets can "go a few extra days," but undies? Yeah. There's no denying the need to do laundry when it comes to underwear.
Except when you're unemployed. And single. I ran out of regular underwear, lowered myself to a few uncomfortable days in boyfriend-appropriate underwear, and still, still I couldn't be bothered to do my laundry.
Why? Why not just go down to the laundry room and do a load of laundry? What is the big deal? I've got nothing but time on my hands, I have the quarters, I have the detergent, there's no reason, no logical or illogical reason to not do a load of laundry.
And yet...and this speaks to the crux of the issue...there's no reason to do it, either.
I'm not the sort of girl who goes commando. But. I've been going commando. And no, it's not freeing, liberating or devilishly bad girl.
A friend invited me to go to a movie on the spur of the moment the other day. I turned her down because it meant that I would have to do laundry so that I would have underwear to wear when we went to the movie. Even though I now go commando in the confines of my condo I cannot go out in public a-la-commando. I mean, well, you know, at least not to a movie with a friend, anyway. In jeans. Ouch. Gross. Ouch.
Yep, I turned down an invite to get out for a few hours because I couldn't make myself do laundry. Apparently I prefer to stay home in the same dirty old t-shirt I've worn for five days and no underwear than do laundry, take a shower, brush my hair, get dressed and go to a movie with a friend.
It's symptomatic of my anxiety and despair. I know this and I feel stupid for not doing something about it. I mean, if I couldn't figure it out, if I didn't realize that it's a symptom of the psychology of unemployment, excuses could be made. But no excuses. I know what this all means. I know what's happening to me. And yet I just let it happen. Which is weird because I'm so not the victim type. I'm the self-responsible, self-reliant, put on your big girl panties and snap-out-of-it-and-deal-with-it type. Except my big girl panties are all in the laundry.
I don't know if unemployed people with significant others go through this laundry issue. I mean, the bare minimum you do for your partner is keep up with the laundry and clean underwear, right? No matter how depressed or forlorn or sad you feel about not having a job, out of respect for your partner you garner the wherewithal to keep clean underwear on hand and wear it, right?
And really, truly, if I get a call for a job interview (ha!) or have a reason to go out, in public, I will rally and do the laundry and don the underwear. It's become a sort of superstitious test of will for me. How long can I endure not wearing underwear? I'm not doing laundry until I have a darned good reason to wear underwear. So Universe, you better hurry up and get some interviews lined up for me.
The thing is, though, I suspect most unemployed people go through some form of hygienic breakdown. A few of my unemployed friends have confided to me that they have "let things 'slip' a little" in the hygiene and cleanliness aspects of their lives. Signs of depression and despair, of course, but there's a practical aspect to it: Saving money.
Most of my female friends who are unemployed start their skimping on unemployment budget by eliminating "good" make-up and skin care products. Drug store brands instead of the specialty brands. Unfortunately for one of my friends the switch to a cheaper moisturizer resulted in a horrible breakout and now a case of what appears to be Rosacea. It's bad and painful enough to warrant a trip to a dermatologist, but, oops, no job, no health insurance, no dermatologist so she's stuck with painful cheeks. What price unemployment? No one thinks about this kind of stuff. And sure, in the grand scheme it's ridiculous to even suggest that her skin problem is in league with, say, losing your home due to unemployment. But. It's the little things that chip away at you. And it really does hurt her. She's in a lot of pain.
There are plus sides, too. We can be mighty resourceful when required. One friend shampoos her hair every other day. She gives herself this "treat" by diluting her shampoo with water to extend the number of shampoos/bottle.
Frankie, an habitual snatch-waxer, confided that she hasn't waxed in months. Benjy, she says, is being a good sport about it. He's not complaining. They're "adjusting" to Frankie's more natural look and feel. At $75++, the once-essential monthly snatch wax has become an expensive frivolity. I laugh at the ridiculousness of this. There are people right here in a America who go days without eating and live in their cars or in shelters and Frankie's big concession to unemployment is going without snatch waxes. She's aware that she's hardly enduring a plight, she knows they're lucky that they have decent severance packages, a trust fund and some savings to live on until one of them can find a job. But nonetheless, ahem, "cut-backs" are necessary while they ride out days of unemployment. Sacrifices must be made. She's diluting her shampoo and skimping on make-up, too.
But I haven't broached the subject of laundry and underwear with my friends. I'm too embarrassed. And they all have boyfriends or husbands. They have reasons to do their laundry and wear underwear. They have significant others relying on them to at least try to keep up with their personal hygiene (Frankie's snatch-waxing notwithstanding).
Me? Yeah. Not so much. It's just me. If I wear the same t-shirt and no undies days in a row no one will ever know. If I don't shower or wash my hair, or even brush my hair for that matter, for days on end, no one will ever know or care. (I'm kind of afraid to take my hair out of the pony tail holder I folded the mats into a few days ago, I think I might be starting to form dreadlocks.) If I stink and look awful, like a sick, mangy alley-cat dying in a dumpster, no one will ever know. No one will ever get mad at me or break-up with me because of it. No one will ever care.
Having said that, it's not apathy. I do care. I guess. I dunno. Maybe not. I must not care, right? If I cared I would do the laundry, wear underwear, wash my hair, bake the cookie dough and at least bother to maintain some semblance of a healthy, normal, hygienic life, right? Yeah, I think so, too.
And yet, I do care. I do want clean clothes and underwear and clean, brushed hair, and a caffeine-free/artificial sweetener-free nutritionally balanced diet. I am troubled with my apparent lack of self-respect. I do care.
It's something else. Something other than apathy.
Laziness? Maybe. I don't consider myself to be a lazy person but then I've never had the opportunity to be lazy. Maybe I am a lazy person who's been too busy to realize I'm lazy. Kinda doubt it, I'm pretty self-motivated and ambitious. But then again, I've always had a job, a career, professional goals to fuel my motivation, so maybe I am lazy. Maybe all these years I've been a lazy person who was too busy to realize it.
Depression, I suppose, sure, of course I'm depressed. I've been unemployed for 12 weeks and I've had next-to-no interest from any employers. Of course I'm depressed. I'm single and unemployed and on the verge of going into foreclosure. Duh, of course I'm depressed.
Then again, though, apart from the obvious signs of depression, I still feel pretty darned positive. I'm still wrapping people in forgiveness and sympathy Snuggies®. I'm still feeling pretty darned happy about not having to deal with my former manager anymore, ever again in my life. I'm still feeling, you know, okay about the whole thing. I'm still on my hippie trip mantra. Accept. Forgive. Love. Heal. Peace. In that order.
So why, then, the lack of personal hygiene, balanced nutrition and laundry?
Dunno. Not a clue. I think it has something to do with being unemployed, being alone and feeling worthless in the main facets of life. No job, no man, nothing. I have nothing. Not even my health for crying out loud. (Do not get me started on my ongoing foot saga. We'll be here all night if I start talking about that.)
Then again, I have everything. And I know it. I have a great family and fabulous friends. I have oodles of support and concern. I may very well lose "everything" but I won't have lost anything of real value. My family and (a few of) my friends are showing sides of themselves, depths of compassion and care, to me that goes beyond all realm of conventional duty. A friend who is also unemployed offered to help me pay my mortgage. My mother keeps telling me to stop being so reliable and responsible to her, that I need to be more selfish. Another friend, thousands of miles away, used some connections, swallowed some pride and called in a few favors to get me free Pixies tickets. (Hey! A reason to do laundry, take a shower and wear underwear! Woo hoo! Levitate me!)
I have a blog and intelligent, funny, kind people people who, for some bizarre reason, read it. Somehow, some way, my idiotic ranty words find their way to the right people. Somehow, some way, those words resonate with those right people and voila! the Universe shrinks to a manageable size. (I haven't thanked Al Gore for the internet lately. So, thanks, Al.)
See what I mean? I'm losing everything but I haven't lost anything that matters. It's all very trite and clichéd, of course, but it is.
So why the hygiene? The food? The laundry? The underwear? Yeah. I dunno. It's something I can't articulate. I suspect it's tied into my lack of self-worth at the moment. But even that doesn't fully explain it. If I did my laundry, wore underwear, took a shower and washed my hair, baked the swutting cookies, I'd have a lot more self worth. And I know that. And yet (glancing at three bags of laundry spilling all over the bedroom), I can't make the move to doing the things I want to do, the things I know I need to do, the basic fundamentals of life like hygiene. If anyone, anyone saw me or even knew what's going on with me, all dirty and underwearless, I'd be mortified. Absolutely mortified. And yet...do I do anything about it? Take a 10 minute shower? Shave my legs? Or even just undo the matted pony tail and brush my hair? Do a load, just one load, of laundry? Bake the cookies?
Nope. I do not.
It may be like the shift in perspective I gained when I realized there are upsides to being chronically single. And yes, there are upsides to being single, even chronically single. No uncomfortable underwear. No snatch grooming. No annoying drone of football games blaring from the television every weekend and Monday night. No torturous obsessing over hip, butt and thigh size. No more tying hip, butt and thigh size into my credibility and value as a person. No boyfriend's dysfunctional family and childhood and dealing with the resulting issues. No hurt feelings. No trust betrayed.
Realizing being single means there's no chance of betrayal was a huge turning point for me. I take a lot of solace in that on long, lonely nights. "Sure being alone and lonely sucks and it hurts, but after all the betrayal I've endured in relationships, the pain they caused me, this is a pleasant afternoon at the beach in comparison."
It took me a long time to get to that point of rationalization. A lot of steps down a long path with several missteps onto other paths, but I got there.
Perhaps this is another walk down another path toward a point of realization and ultimately a way of forming it into a manageable rationalization. I'm not sure what hygiene could possibly have to do with managing the anxiety of unemployment, but, in many ways accepting unemployment is similar to accepting being single. Things got pretty ugly after the HWNMNBS breakup. I mean really ugly. But I had a job and responsibilities to that job to keep me doing my laundry and wearing underwear. Now, well, now that I don't have a job I'm just floundering, apparently going through some thing, some phase.
And I suppose that's the whole point. It's all just a series of phases. Some good, some bad, most of them mediocre. This phase, this underwearless, showerless, unbaked cookie, hairy leg phase is a weird one, a bad one, but certainly not a mediocre one. I'm trying to find solace in that. This phase sucks, but I'm not suffering from mediocrity.
