not bloody perfect

I wonder if I will ever accept and understand that am not only not perfect, and will never be, but also that I will probably never cease to run after this unattainable perfection. That this is the story of my life, the underlying theme, my karma if you will. And the more I chase it the more it eludes me.

I wonder if there will be a day when I wake up and am not immediately breathless with yesterday’s failures and disappointments and today’s pressures. Even though my life right now couldn’t be more laidback, especially the recent period, I still find numerous ways to torment myself. There is the food that I ate last night and the cigarettes I shouldn’t have smoked. There is stuff to prepare around my place for my brother’s soming or just general maintenance household stuff. There is work of course but I don’t even dare to think about that, about my project and what I would to if it fails. There is exercise to be taken, either to improve, tighten and change my body or to maintain the results when I am relatively pleased with what I see. There is hair to be tweezed. There is my face to be washed and made up. There is self-tan to apply. There is a parade of thoughts fleeting through my head: when should I shower today? Is there a chance of sex? Will I go to the gym, should I pack my stuff? What do I have to buy? What do I have to do? Whose email haven’t I replied and on which forum have I neglected to post? When will I finally read the stuff waiting next to my bed? When will I write a summary of the article I read a few days ago before it is lost in oblivion? When will I give my supervisor the new tests? Hang the new shower curtain? And oh, I forgot: when will I get married and have kids, if ever. Do not forget to take your medication. Do not forget to take your vitamins and supplements (I keep forgetting them). When will I reinstall this and that on my computer because the DVD drive isn’t working and I don’t have Hebrew fonts, and when will I give my mobile to the shop to fix the software problem? Didn’t I tell E I would have coffee with her today and aren’t I doing it to pick her brains on how to excel the most at my job (even though I like her in general, although I can’t stop comparing her tall lean frame to mine)? And when, and how, and if… my necvk muscles tighten with the strain of just rtying to recall the parade of thoughts that flash like urgent newsflashes through my maind in just half an hour after waking up (and what feels like a fairly unproductive half hour). That’s why I don’t really like waking up next to P, b/c his presence doesn’t allow it, doesn’t let me run around giving in to my demons, doing this and that. Giving in to the stream of thought.

Maybe I am just too energetic in the morning and always too fatigued in the afternoon. No wonder! The amount of junk that goes through my mind. The amount of stress, when really I am leading one of the most relaxing lifestyles (save for specific periods) a 30 something could lead. No kids, no family, no commitment, the most flexible job ever, no mortgage, no commute except walking in the fresh air, I live a life that to most people would be considered a vacation, except, I don’t know how to relax, breathe, and settle into a routine. Even P has more of a routine than me – at least he has breakfast. Hell, I don’t even wake up to the sound of an alarm clock!

The best thing would be if I could do yoga, pilatis or relaxation in the morning, and engage in mindful eating, followed by my supplements, and keep that up even when I wake up late. But I can’t seem to eat mindfully next to P. since mindful eating (which is like simultaneous meditation and eating, killing two birds with one stone) requires concentration, I can’t pretend to read an article or a book while eating, or watch TV (I try to shut out the TV when I eat with him, but that’s hard), therefore I have to sit in silence with him, and eating silently with him, especially in public but also in private, makes me feel as if I am part of these depressing couples that have nothing to say to eat other (if they exist and are not a cliché I conjured out of my feverish mind).

Just breathe; just observe. But it’s so hard. How can you observe in silence, without doing anything, without panicking, or should I just let the panic ebb and flow like the tide.

I have to glue myself to the chair even writing this, force myself not to get up and start prattling about my apartment, setting the alarm on my mobile for my meds, for instance.

Thank God I can vomit it all here. At least this is becoming a routine of sorts. Write first; but it should be my dissertation I’m writing not this stuff, but I can’t get to my dissertation before I do this, because, even though I believe in my dissertation somewhat more than before, this is real, this is the truth, and I can’t stop spewing it out.

As soon as I start riding a bike I’ll be much faster, but there is a part of me that doesn’t beelive I will ever commute with a bike. But that is the part that told me I could never, ever learn to ride a bike, when all it took was me getting onto one and cycling away… just like yesterday, when P put up a dart borad in his place, we played and it was my first time ever and I hit the bull’s eye! Even though some darts totally missed the board, I wasn’t bad. But if I knew, if I was preparing, to play darts, I would tell myself there’s no way I’d be any good and I would really suck. Then so fucking what? Of course I know I needn’t and shouldn’t and will never be perfect, if anything I am moving away from perfection, but there is just a part of me that just doesn’t believe that, the part that associates perfection with love.

Reminder to self: read The drama of the gifted child at parents’ home.