Cellular Exhaustion

As in atomic level. As in if I napped for the next two days straight it wouldn't chip away at this fatigue. What's strange is that it isn't horrible to feel this way....it's actually kind of peaceful...like the 5 minutes in between an alarm clock snooze. No particular reason; just the time of year. Every time the seasons change, I go through a kind of mini hibernation.

The thing about fatigue is that it excuses me from feeling obligated to do anything. Downtime is rarely so enjoyable, because my underlying guilt is lingering within every "wasted" moment. But when I feel this way I indulge my every lazy desire. Eating spoonful after spoonful of cold chocolate fudge while watching Moonstruck....zipping and unzipping my jacket repeatedly, reading Craigslist rants and raves (you don't know mindless entertainment until you've tried it.) Yes, indeed. Here's to sacrificing ambition for a delicious and long overdue round of navel gazing.

My Tankini did, in fact, kick ass.

I'm an absolute tankini convert now. Having tested my theories about the merits of the tankini as opposed to the bikini, I'm pleased to say that the tankini is:

A. Sexy
B. Comfy
C. Perfect for all seasons!

I mean, how brave was I to disrobe even partially in the dead of winter, right after Gluttony Fest 2009? Not to mention unveiling my trademark pallor before hoards of artifically tanned or naturally sunbaked beach goers. Yet I felt downright svelte in those suits. C'mon people. Kudos are due.

Still...

Upon consideration, I'm not going to post a picture. That's just a bit too much visual information, and I pride myself on being at least *sporadically* conscientious about privacy. Besides, it's not that exciting, right? The skinternet has ensured that a photo of me modeling my swim wear of choice is of little interest to the teeming masses.

My Tankini Kicks Ass

As long as I can remember, I've never felt comfortable in a bikini. It isn't because of some demoralizing beach incident during my tender years, or because I harbor a secret modest streak. I just don't particularly enjoy the sensation of the sun beating down on my incandescently white belly. This also explains how it is possible that I can dislike bikinis but love the way that I look and feel in beautiful lingerie.

Two years ago, I took a trip to Brazil with one of my travel cronies. After casually disclosing my lifelong appreciation for one-piece swimwear, I was lectured about how I could not be seen on a Brazilian beach in anything but a bikini. I packed a couple of two-pieces and an ordinary suit with every intention of relying on the suit. Of course, anybody who knows anything about Brazilian beaches knows that my friend had it right. I'm not sure what would have garnered more attention: My snowy skin or the (apparently) MASSIVE quantities of fabric wrapped around me.

In Rio I was told that I should replace my bright red halter bikini with a string bikini...as it was STILL too old-fashioned and stuffy for the beach. Indeed, every woman and child roughly between the ages of 5 and 90 was wearing one of these bizarre creations. Yes, bizarre is the word I choose. I'm pretty sure--no, I know that I'd feel more comfortable stark naked than wearing a nipple's worth of fabric designed to detach and float away at any wave's caprice. Also, is it just me, or do string bikinis kinda flatten the girls out? They seem to drift east and west, as if in disagreement. I'm sure I could find an obliging pair of conch shells and a shoelace that would provide more support!

So that takes me to today, a week before a vacation to Costa Rica. Darn you, tropical vacations. Why do I have to want to take you???? *Queuing violins*

Sure, I could wear a bikini again. I'll certainly pack one. But a couple of weeks ago I decided to experiment with another option: The Tankini. That lovely compromise of a tank top with a bikini bottom...exposing just a tantalizing stripe of midsection, while providing maximal bosom support! Hooray!

Truth be told, I already own one, but even I will capitulate to it's ugliness. A high neck and boob-deflating level of spandex make it a great swimmer but a terrible bore at parties.

Here's what I discovered: Victoria's Secret swimsuits are awesome. They are very sensibly priced, and what a selection! They make lots of tankinis. Tankinis with animal prints (Raaaaaar!) halter necks (meow!) and best of all, the kind of hardware, ahem, that you'd come to expect from lingerie people. Although I kinda hate their crappy bras. Moving along....

I ordered two: A chocolate brown halter tankini and an aqua blue tankini with a sweet little bow. I diligently took my measurements and chose sizes accordingly.

The aqua is definitely a keeper. Fits like a glove and I would wear it fearlessly. Bravo!

Halter top is ill-fitting. The cups are too small and the waist is all loose and goofy-looking. So much for their handy measurement charts! Moral of the story: Order two sizes and send one back.

Here is the one that I'm keeping:



Why yes, this is my attempt to promote the potential sex factor of a tankini. Just try and stop me.

I will post a picture and detailed review upon my return. Pura vida awaits....

1984

I love looking backwards at this time of year. The longer the view, the better...nothing is more amusing than revisiting music, movies, old journals and other tokens of my youth with these gradually aging eyes. I know that when I'm eventually hobbled by old age and potentially abandoned by loved ones due to my increasingly eccentric sense of humor, I will continue to derive satisfaction from this yearly exercise. Bless you Youtube, if for no other reason than allowing me to watch my favorite music videos from the age of 6/7...1984...a banner year.

I had a well-loved VHS with a random assortment of MTV videos that I watched repeatedly. Billy Idol (Flesh for Fantasy,) Twisted Sister (We're not gonna take it,) Art of Noise (Close to the Edit,) INXS (Send a Letter,) Elvis Costello (She's not the Only Flame in Town,) O'Bryan (Lovelite--I'm actually a little surprised that the censorship-loving conservative element on Youtube haven't flagged this video yet. In the meantime, the uncut version is here.

But my all-time favorite was definitely Laura Branigan's Self Control. Dare I say...they just don't make 'em like they used to? Yes, I'm aware that this comment automatically ages me by about twenty years.

But really, when was the last time you saw a music video that included an orgy simulated by people in leotards and masks on a floor lined with what appears to be tin foil? For a six year old this was some pretty heady stuff. I was equal parts terrified of Distorted Mask Guy (!) and giddy due to the overall naughtiness factor and accompanying feeling of getting away with something that watching this video gave me.

Viewing it now, I am surprised by how much more provocative the suggestions in this video are in comparison to the currently popular yet terminally boring grind-o-rama music videos.

Here it is, in all of its era-specific glory. Hope you have some time this winter to reflect on some of your favorite youthful memories.

Five Years

What a difference five years makes.

Five years ago....

Egads, I was married! I had just graduated from my counseling program. I had two jobs, and had just bought a house.

Five years. If fortune smiles on me, a mere 17th of my life span. And yet, I am miles away from that description, and miles closer to...something else. Oh, the possibilities. Mind boggling, really, to consider where I may be in five more years.

This whole five years concept has gotten me thinking about all of things I'd like to do before I croak. Morbid topic, you say? Perhaps. But nothing mobilizes the chronically lazy like a bittersweet swig of mortality.

I'm currently working on a short list of will-do's.

Pointless Paper

If you want to hear me rave endlessly about something, bring up the topic of junk mail. Not the penis-pill-money-scam-other-random-bullshit variety in your inbox. The stuff that goes thump in your mailbox. It actually angers me how many times I've had to fill my recycling can with this pointless crud, and grieves me to think that trees are a-fallin' so that some scamtacular company can attempt to sell their wares to little ol' me, a totally uninterested audience. I know I'm not alone in this. There should really be a law. A well-written, airtight one.

When I lived at my prior address, I signed up for a service that helps stop junk mail. It kind of worked. But since moving to my new place the junk has located me again. For every piece of legitimate mail I receive, I get ten leaflets for some crummy pizza chain or fake psychology graduate school.

Take for example, yesterday, when I finally picked up the keys for the new mail box in our fully renovated lobby (details later) The neighbor handed me some of my overflow mail and this included a Glamour magazine with my address on it. I have never subscribed to Glamour in my life. How did they find out about me? Did I fill out a card for a discount at the grocery store five years ago that placed me squarely into some sad beauty magazine demographic? Have they been tracking me ever since? Did my old hotmail address start selling my inbox contents to some scabby online marketing pirate? If I'm going to read a fluffy beauty rag it'll be Lucky all the way, thankyouverymuch.

So, I spent the last 10 minutes on the web jungle of glamour.com trying to wade through made-up statistics about sex and chirpy articles about celebrities and their luscious hair until I finally figured out how to cancel a subscription I never signed up for in the first place.

I know it's rough out there trying to market sub-par products to a world full of brokeass people, but could you stop felling forests and please stick to spamming me with laughable emails and blingy Facebook adverts instead?

Thanks.

Update: Turns out my sister signed me up for Glamour as a gift. Foot, mouth, you are already pretty well-acquainted...

Updated Update: My sister did not sign me up for Glamour; she subscribed me to the glorious Domino, which unexpectedly folded---Glamour was the substitution that was offered. I think she would have preferred a refund.

The best laid plans should really go get laid.

There comes a week in every girl's month where she envisions herself as a more perfected specimen. This week is flanked by other weeks where remembering to run the dishwasher and actually disposing of the umpteenth "low-cost dental care" flyer lining the mailbox is sufficient. But during this particular week, it's all about ambition.

I love to talk a big talk to myself. Sometimes quite literally. I imagine myself being interviewed about how I finally kicked some of my bad habits or assembled the perfect work wardrobe entirely from secondhand clothes, or the perfect apartment decor from objects found on street corners. My fantasy responses would sound something like this:

"Well, yes, I just eventually forced myself to go to bed at 9 on the dot, so it became much easier to wake up at 6:00 AM. If I hadn't developed this habit, I would never have had the time to earn that black belt."

"I just stuck to my guns about eating lunch and dinner in every day until I saved up enough for my new vacation home in Belize."

"Oh, you like my dress? Thanks! I recently took up a sewing apprenticeship in my spare time."

"This arm definition is from my 2-hour long daily home yoga practice."

"Actually, I made this table myself out of reclaimed wine barrels."

And so on.

To kick off my monthly week of lofty goal-setting, I decided that I would get to bed early on Sunday (and for the rest of the week) and wake up extra early for a morning jog. Never mind that I haven't ever gotten up at 6AM for anything but a flight, even when I was a cross-country runner in high school. I was going to be one of those people who prance over dew-covered grass and smile beatifically as they pass still-darkened windows fueled by the glow of inner peace and unshakeable confidence.

So I settled into bed with a book at 10PM, about an hour before I'll usually even think about sleeping. I read until I was drowsy, then switched off the light.

La la la.

Around 10:30 I switched on the light and picked up my book.

11:30. I started getting nervous about that alarm that I'd set for 6AM. No way of achieving the coveted 8 hours at this point.

A few minutes past midnight. I tapped the little button on my alarm that dims the light so I couldn't see how badly I was failing at the very first step in my quest for perfection.

Who knows what time it is now. Dear god what was that noise??????

(Tried to decide whether or not to investigate the noise. On went the bedside lamp.)

4:30 AM, must've finally dozed off at some point, having officially wussed out on the whole potential burglar/serial killer/stalker noise investigation idea. Whoops, left the lamp on. Hence sudden disruption of (now) desperately needed sleep.

I did eventually wake up and do some yoga. And I did make a delicious breakfast that would've done the Lake Merritt Farmer's Market proud. But I had to laugh a little. I rarely have trouble sleeping these days. I'm lucky if I get five pages further along in my book. That whole idea of perfection was like the psychological equivalent of an ice cold bucket of water to the groin.

I kept thinking about the people I serve and how many of them have an all-or-nothing mentality about success and failure. One of my favorite questions is "So, how's that working for you?"

So how's that working for you?

"Well, let's see. Since I officially decided to stop translating my fantasies about ultimate perfection literally, I've found that I can pick up one or two small things at a time and practice getting really good at them instead. I vacuumed every week this month. I went out late on Friday and spent a little money, but I also made a delicious dinner from a new recipe last night. Oh, and I happen to sleep like a 10 year old kid on vacation in Hawaii."

Perfectly.