So far I’m really enjoying my 30 day challenge. Granted, day one of almost anything is enjoyable so I’m trying not to caw with pride. Here is the list and how I did:

 

1. Be in bed every night before 11 pm.
Easy. I made this vague enough so that if I end up reading in bed until the wee hours of the night I will still consider myself successful. Last night I went to bed at 10:50 pm. I intended to go to sleep right away but ended up finishing my book. So I’d say I was asleep by 1:45 am. Good effort.

 

2. Be physically active for at least 30 minutes a day (can be non-consecutive if necessary).
Also easy. Ran two miles then did this awful/awesome rock climbing-type machine at the gym.

 

3. Follow Weight Watchers program with renewed obsession. Feel free to talk about it non-stop and hope that friends and family will forgive me or successfully tune me out.
Great! I love Weight Watchers.

 

4. Write something every day.
Does the first draft of this blog post count?

 

5. Read something every day.
See #1.

 

6. Avoid casual complaining, gossiping and snarkiness.
This is HARD but very very fulfilling. I wasn’t very successful, but it’s a long time habit and will take some time to break. Even making myself aware of my casual complaining helps I think. But this will be the toughest on the list.

 

7. Complete something I’ve been avoiding.
Also easy. All it takes is accomplishing one small goal which snow balls into self-confidence.

 

8. Meditate for 5 minutes.
I failed. It’s ok, I’ll try again.

 

The only problem with this challenge is that if I skip a couple of steps it’s easy to say “forget the whole thing” so I’m going to try hard and fight against that impulse. It’s like the lazy person’s way out of doing something difficult. Stay tuned for Day 2 Wrap Up (I know…I’m a day behind already…)

Welcome to day one of my 30 Day Super Happy Fun Time Challenge! The rules are simple: I do each thing on my list once a day for 30 days. The idea behind the challenge is also simple: occupy my frantic brain with action to combat the stagnant feelings of waiting and lack of control. If you’d like to join the challenge, post your own set of rules in the comments here. We can keep tabs on each other.

 

Without further ado…The List:

 

1. Be in bed every night before 11 pm.

2. Be physically active for at least 30 minutes a day (can be non-consecutive if necessary).

3. Follow Weight Watchers program with renewed obsession. Feel free to talk about it non-stop and hope that friends and family will forgive me or successfully tune me out.

4. Write something every day.

5. Read something every day.

6. Avoid casual complaining, gossiping and snarkiness.

7. Complete something I’ve been avoiding.

8. Meditate for 5 minutes.

That’s it. Eight little things that I already know make me a little happier. Starting Monday I hope to update my blog with my progress…or set backs. This is much easier than training for a marathon, and I think the benefits will be great.

 

Wish me luck!

Well it seems like I’m not pregnant this time. That’s ok. It’s unsettling that the psychic was wrong (she said I’d be pregnant by May) but I suppose I just have to admit that psychics are for entertainment purposes only.

 

One super cool thing that happened is that my insurance company rejected a claim from a recent doctor’s visit. It was one of the doctors I was interviewing to star in the upcoming production of Heather Gets Pregnant Again. While I liked the guy, there were too many doctors in his practice so I went with some one else. My pals at Blue Cross Blue Shield patiently explained that after a review of my records, they didn’t think the procedures preformed were necessary so would I kindly pay them $655.

 

I could appeal if I want, all I have to do is send in every medical record generated since my last conception. I asked what business insurance adjusters had deciding what procedures were necessary, but halfway through the woman’s bland corpor-answer I tuned her out. I don’t care. I’m not going to pay the bill anyway, so what’s the point in arguing about it. If they want to pay a collection agency to come after me I would take great pleasure in making sure they spend $1000 in man hours to try and recover my $655.

 

Passive resistance is all I’ve ever really been capable of.

 

In the meantime, it’s back to Weight Watchers. I can take this next month to lose a little more weight before my dear friend’s wedding in Jamaica. I can focus on adoring my soon-to-be-born nephew. I can take Ramona on her physical-therapist-sanctioned half hour walks. I’m still waiting, but I’ll live a little too.

I’m in Detroit right now for work. Michigan has noticeably beautiful light. It’s the kind of light that makes you wish you had brought your camera, even when you pass a gas station or a really big parking garage.

 

I haven’t written for a while. In part its because I’m suffering very badly from insomnia and most my brain power is devoted to one of two mantras: 1. I’m so tired or 2. Why can’t I just fall asleep? But apart from my insomnia, I just don’t have a lot of mental energy right now. My first nephew is going to be born soon, my son’s birthday is right around the corner, I still don’t know if I’m pregnant, and I don’t know what to hope for anymore. In short: I’m still waiting.

 

Maybe the world is divided between people who wait and people who live. As if the people who live are impervious to waiting…like instead of just waiting they go and do…while I’m at home just waiting. Sometimes I think I’m so used to the waiting that I don’t even notice when the thing actually happens.

 

Ugh. See why I haven’t written? It seems so interesting in my head, but once it come though my finger tips its just a bunch of boring sentimental drivel.

 

No offense to Einstein, but I don’t think a genius was necessary to discover that time is relative. I mean, I know he did that math equation- I couldn’t have done that- but the concept is obvious. Admitting it can be hard though, especially when you know the only thing that will help you in most situations is time. The slow, tortuous kind.

 

The two week wait. If you’re tried to get pregnant before or you read fertility/baby blogs you’re already familiar with the 2ww. It’s a long long two weeks. It’s a span of time that crawls by, dividing your hours into little dog-crap-bags of minutes. It’s the time between when you last ovulated and when you get your period. Or don’t get your period, and instead get a little pink plus sign in a bed of white plastic that takes your breath away.

 

The two week wait is when everything is a sign: I can smell the printer ink in our office, I knew Tom ate french fries in the car five hours before he picked me up, I’m suddenly not interested in drinking. I go to Whole Foods and buy all natural shampoo and conditioner and a ton of fruit….just in case.

 

Also relative to time: money disasters. When I was in my early 20’s my money disasters were things like $50 parking ticket and the unexpected $120 heating bill. I remember having to call my brother to loan me money to get my car out of impound- it’s was $180 and there was no way I could pay it. In my late 20’s the disasters got more expensive: $500 at the emergency vet, $650 to get my car fixed. Tom and I got a credit card with a $500 balance to help keep our head above water. When my 30’s burst onto the scene they brought much scarier bills. $2000 to the IRS, $2400 for dog surgery. Our credit limit got higher but I’m more paranoid about using it.

 

I almost bought a stress meter the other day. I saw it in a magazine; it measures the temperature of your finger and I guess that means something about your stress level. I imagined keeping it in my pocket and using it obsessively until I because so overwhelmed by the stress that my stress was putting me through that my head exploded. So I decided not to buy it. Plus when I really thought about it I realized that your body is actually it’s own stress meter so it’s sort of stupid.

 

Has it been two weeks yet?

The nighttime hours are long when you’re trying to fall asleep naturally. All the apartment building noises that were dulled by the soothing stupor of the sleeping pill become obnoxious. The whir of a vent that used to be white noise becomes a haunting siren.

 

The bed is hot. I remember when I was young these hours were the shortest, the most chased after. It was the daylight that stretched interminably, bound by panty hose and stuffed into skirt suits. Now it’s only midnight, and tonight’s battle for sleep is only two hours old but it feels like weeks. I’m exhausted but my eyes feel like they’re spring-loaded. I know that staring at the bright computer screen is a major threat to the sleep I want so badly. I know too that hours of uninterrupted thinking leads to brooding leads to obsessing, and that when the obsessing starts the hope for any real sleep slips away.

 

I took the sleeping pills for granted. Instead in reveling in my new ability to snuggle right into bed and fall asleep without a flitter of anxiety about my job performance or future, I immediately forgot that I was ever a bad sleeper. I forgot how after fighting for hours for some precious night-time sleep, I would bolt awake at the smallest noises: my dog’s fitful dreams, that settling noise the toilet makes, the snap of the wind against my 8th floor window. I miss those nights of eight thick hours of sleep like a person in jail must miss sex, or a bath tub.

 

In the apartment building across from ours, one set of windows is lit up like it’s being shown by a realtor. I keep looking over to see if someone else is awake, or if someone has come home yet. I try and practice typing without looking at the keyboard because my hands are starting to look veiny and old, which is kind of a stupid thing to annoy me. But I’m pretty good at typing without looking. I do another math problem- If I fall asleep by one and go to the gym after work, I can wake up at 7:30 which still gives me six and a half hours. I know it won’t be the good six and a half though. When the dog jumps in bed at four A.M. I’ll wake up, and I’ll probably spend the wee hours of the morning contemplating the sharp angles of my bedroom, or whether or not there’s a dividing egg in my body.

By now you’ve probably heard the official announcement of my enemy: Glenn Beck. It was a difficult choice to make, sort of like deciding who you’re going to marry. Barring any radical personality changes, I am going to hate this person for the rest of my life. Of course I don’t have to hate monogamously, which is a relief, but it’s still a big deal.

 

Glenn Beck faced some pretty tough competition. There was my third grade teacher, Sarah Palin, the traffic cop who gave me a parking ticket when I was in my car with the motor running and the engine in drive and my foot on the break, there was Heidi Montag and the dozens of people who currently think they are famous because they appeared on an MTV reality show. Dog the Bounty Hunter’s wife was high up in the running, as was John Edward’s girlfriend, and whoever took that photo of Michael Phelps smoking pot.

 

In the end, it was Glenn’s unmatched dickheadery coupled with his powerful douchebaggery which is always accompanied by his unsurpassed sleaze that really pushed him into first place. I think he’ll be proud of this accomplishment, and probably will invite me to be a guest on his show. I don’t know yet if I’ll decline, or just go ahead and try and create some on-air chaos.

 

The point is that this is a really big step I’m taking, and I wanted to share it with my readers. It’s not every day that you find the perfect man to declare as your arch enemy. I feel like such a lucky girl!

There I am! Phew. I found myself. I was hiding behind a tornado of hormones and bad brain chemicals, but that passed and I’m back to normal. From now on I’m going to keep track of my brain more closely- I’ll write down what it’s doing in my calender. Maybe I said that last time I went through this? It’s hard to keep track of the crappy days when you’re in the middle of the good ones.

 

So there you have it…I’m back. Thanks for sticking around.

Please note: This post is not a cry for help, or cause for concern for my general mental health. I am ok. I have many resources at my disposal. I’m just writing, not trying to freak anyone out.

 

I’m sorry to report that I’ve been stuck under a major depression for four or five days now. I don’t want anyone to worry- I know that it’ll pass. Tom G reminds me that this is probably cyclical and that it’s much much better than it has been in the past. But while I’m in it, I thought I should write about it. Maybe it’ll be useful to my readers to understand what this depression feels like.

 

This is not sadness, it’s not the blues, it’s not PMS. It doesn’t prevent me from experiencing laughter or having glimpses of my normal self. Depression, for me anyway, is very physical. It makes my bones hurt. It makes my insides feel black and cold, like all my organs have been replaced with sewer sludge. It makes my heart thud with an inexplicable dread, it makes my mind race in pointless circles.

 

The depression makes me feel caged, squeezed, backed into a corner. It makes me fold in upon myself and revel in my self-obsession. I know many of these descriptions sound cerebral, but they are not. My brain function during a bout of depression probably looks like a small insect, or an ameba- something that is actually just reacting to stimuli. It doesn’t stop me from hoping or loving, but it does make it harder. Sometimes I can get my head high enough above water to have good conversations and make people laugh.

 

In an effort to keep trying, I bought a book called Magnificent Mind At Any Age. I’m only a few pages in, but it’s really interesting. I have never thought about how I fuel or excercise my brain and how that reflects on my emotions. The cynic in me thinks this book is a little too…salesy. But since there’s almost no chance that i’ll go to the author’s clinic to have my brain scan done, it doesn’t bother me too much. I’m happy to have found something new to try.

 

I’ve been thinking more and more about Tommy Jr’s birthday. Well “thinking” isn’t the right word- it’s like the thought darts in and out of my mind. I can’t actually sit and consider what it’ll be like to approach and pass his first birthday. I remember now that the week I was in the hospital it thunderstormed like crazy. Our room had a huge window that the rain thrashed against. The noise competed with the beeps and chirps of the hospital machines. I think towards the end of the week the sun came out. When I went in the hospital it was winter, when I got out, it was spring. At least that’s how I remember it.

 

Tom G’s finals begin on Tommy’s birthday. We’re both worried but can’t seem to talk about it, probably because there’s not very much to say. Life won’t pause or slow down for us.

 

So that’s what’s new. Actually I guess nothing’s new. I’m still Poor Lucky Me.

Dear Poor Lucky Me,

 

Here’s what happened: I have two pugs who I adore and are on a special diet. In my slavish devotion to them, I make rice on the stove top every night to feed them. Last night I put the rice on and decided to leave it cooking while I took the pugs out for a quick bathroom break- I figured I’d be gone less than seven minutes.

 

While we were outside I got a phone call. I chatted for 40 minutes without going upstairs, because I don’t get reception in the elevator and I didn’t want to hang up. Plus it was an incredibly interesting and intellectually stimulating conversation. It wasn’t until my battery died that I remembered the rice was on the stove top.

 

The rice was black, the pot is ruined, the pugs were starving but I was able to improvise. I realize it could have been a major disaster, but when I told a couple people this story they acted shocked that I left the apartment with the burner on.

 

Do you think that was a strange thing to do or something a very normal person would do? I don’t plan on it happening again, but you know how these things go. Please let me know what you think, and I’d love to hear what your readers think as well.

 

Yours Truly,
Just Loving My Pugs

 

Dear JLMP,
I don’t think what you did was strange, certainly not outside the realm of what a “normal person” would do. However, we learned as a nation in the last decade that doing what normal people do isn’t necessary a productive methodology. For instance, plenty of “normal people” hate Muslims, listen to Glenn Beck, wear Uggs, and text while driving.

 

Normalcy isn’t really the goal, at least it’s not my goal. We should try and do what’s right, what’s fair, what’s generous. And especially what’s safe. So the next time you walk your pugs, please turn off the burner, blow out all your candles, even turn out the lights and the television. Every small positive action we do adds to the greater good.

 

I’d love to hear from my readers. Please weigh in either in the comments section or by emailing advice@poorluckyme.com.

 

Best,
Poor Lucky Me