Sunday night sleep is never what you want it to be. You go to bed early in hopes of cashing sleep in or to bed late hoping you can write a check for it later.
In an effort to numb my brain screaming all sorts of Sunday-type worries both old and new, I drowned out the crazy with something even more horrendous: Country Music Television.
...I can explain.
I had gone to Florida Avenue Grill with my friend who had some very exciting news to tell me. She's going to save the world some day, one kid at a time, this friend of mine. She's recently changed her behavior to properly reflect what sort of good she'll do one day, so instead of drowning our dreary Sunday in margaritas, we drowned them in grits.
So, I was battling some serious food coma. I was bacon-induced sludge. I turned on the TV and saw "coyote ugly".
I thought: this is GREAT! This is just what I need, an awesome-terrible movie to keep me company while I food sweat-nap the biscuit out of me.
Except my napping plan was derailed by a SHOW about these gals. A REALITY SHOW.
I'm not exactly their demographic, considering the fact that I have to snort whenever women are consistently referred to as "girls" even though they are well into their child-bearing years. As far as I can tell, "boys" are "guys" the moment they hit 5th grade. You couldn't find a show on Comcast's cable line-up that centered on good looking "boys" handling liquids. You have to pay extra for that shit on Pay-Per-View, and then everyone is actually over 18 and takes monthly tests.
But the premise of the show is hilarious. They were looking for "bartenders" with a talent. It was Miss America for people with a platform of "wooooo!" or "yeeeahhhhh" and they were spokes-girls for their individual boob job funds.
So I spent all lazy afternoon dozing with half an eyelid propped up to watch this glorious train wreck.
Then I cleaned my apartment and winded down my Sunday night as most do: with a Tylenol PM (half a dose) and something to bore me asleep.
Which is right now, since I have two deleted posts and a few lives to stop ruining is: Why Can't you SHUT UP? How We Ruin Relationships-- How Not To by Dr. Anthony E. Wolf. I'm not saying it's not helping, but wallowing in your own shortcomings is not exactly the best way to end up not staring at the ceiling on an idle Sunday night with the 5am news broadcast looming in the near future.
For all my uppity "ew that's so gross" re: the bar booty-shaking that I watched these long-haired, long-legged ladies do, there was something that separated us.
I was awake despite some Tylenol PM, nursing a fragile manic-depressive ego re-adjusted by a life lesson learned that I can't say I'm entirely done processing or feel like anything outside of my own thoughts is going to change; except for the fact that it's no longer a topic of conversation. The green of jealousy is not an attractive color on me and I refuse to say anything about the subject again.
These "girls" were out there on TV embarrassing the hell out of themselves because they thought they could "make it". And perhaps "it" consisting of sharing prize money and getting a cushy bartending job is just about all they wanted. That would make them happy. They knew somewhere in their brains that this show was going to do something for them, whether get them somewhere new or stroke their egos. They liked dancing on bars and fiddling or singing or re-adjusting their bra straps-- whatever their talent may be.
And then there's me. So far in my own head that I can't realize how far in I am that I've become one with my eardrums. There always has to be drama. There always has to be dread. It's like I can't live without a pit in my stomach and making sure someone else know about said pit. Only when I'm drunk and dancing on the living room floor of a house party do I not give two shits about what's going on around me. Or knitting on the subway. Or strutting around the city with my ipod pulling my spine up straight.
I don't walk like that all the time.
Perhaps it's high time I should.
So I am going to try and be more like these ladies on the CMT. I think I need to hit the gym with greater vigor before those short-shorts can enter into the discussion (oh and like my yuppie ennui would even dare let me wear jean shorts). But I think I'm going to try and do something new.
Not worry. Not stress. Not internalize until I can't keep it in me anymore and then spew it out in a force of two years worth of why-did-you-do-this and why-didn't-you-do-that's of fears with no actual basis in reality, but based in the past. In the distant past.
I think trying to relax is going to be the hardest thing I have ever done.
I suppose a nap on an idle Sunday was an OK start.