I bought David Allen’s book a while ago, but it’s still sitting on my shelf. Getting Things Done hasn’t got done, yet, apparently.
The book anyway.
I feel like kind of an asshole, lately, I have to admit. I was so good, when I was so good at slacking off, at sitting around online all night and day, talking to my favourite girls, tweeting like my fingers were on fire, commenting on and reading blogs. Now, I’ve been Getting Things Done, sans the book, and because of that, I’ve been pretty away.
I barely know what’s going on in the lives of some of the women I consider best friends. So, that makes me feel like an asshole. And understand why a Blackberry or iPhone is so integral to having a life, working and nourishing those important friendships.
But, see, I’ve been having a life and working and working more and nourishing the most important relationship, for once – mine with Isobel.
Yes, people, Zoeyjane’s taken time from the Internet to be a parent and to be social in real life.
I’ll just wait for you to shut your mouth.
{You know, you could catch flies, if you’re not careful.}
Indulge me. Look at this and tell me what you see:
The calendar of a chick so busy, she even tasks her paycheque cashing? That has at least five things to do, four days ahead, and is constantly adding more? That schedules season premieres?
What else?
Well, if you’re me, you’d notice that today, there were still six tasks left. And that there were none yesterday, or the day before.
Why?
Because Google Calendar is helping me pwn life. And with such pwning, I am Getting Things Done. And so, at the end of every day, all of my tasks have been accomplished, RSVPs have been emailed and scheduled as events and I get to go to bed and sleep the sleep of a person content in her anal-retentiveness.
Life is working, for the first time in a looooooooong time.
You thought modular furniture made me horny? You should see me on Sunday, when I add in the next week’s tasks, knowing that nothing will get forgotten or missed out on because I had to put out fires.
Fires no longer exist here, man.
All there is, is a smoking hot calendar.
Yeah, I know, I took it too far.
{but I really do love Google Calendar.}
As you were. Thank you for humouring me.
I can remember having a conversation, with, I think it was Stargirl, about why it was so hard to stop, just really, for once and for all, quit being anorexic. Reading the post at by flutter is what brought it back to the forefront.
Then, I’d always say something typical when questioned about why, after over a decade, I was still so taken by the emotional vampire that is anorexia. You know, something like, “It’s not that easy.” The same answer every honest alcoholic says, the same one that any person whose just fallen off of a proverbial wagon utters.
And there were typical, and atypical responses, that I’d heard over the years.
“But you’re not fat.”
“It’s so unhealthy. Don’t you want to be healthy?”
“It’s so much energy. Think of how you could use it positively, instead.”
And I’d always agree. And I’d always repeat, “it’s just not that easy.”
Truth be told, it could be that easy, once the ideology of it was broken down.
See mirror, see wrong thing in the mirror, realize that perception is supremely fucked up, ask way-too-honest person for real interpretation, get smacked in the face with exactly how fucked up perception really is. Quit. Rinse and repeat.
I know.
I did it several times.
The thing of it is. As vampiric as anorexia is. It’s also like that boyfriend that taught you that you’re not good enough. He was the only one who loved you, supported you, would be there for you always. That’s anorexia’s motto, when you’re besties.
There’s also a little subtext that anorexia inserts into your mainframe once you’ve been hanging out for a while. It’s a sub-program, it runs adjacent to the hundreds of daily crunches and 100 calorie days – it’s unwavering, for the most part.
Being anorexic makes you special. Invisible. Invinsible. More accomplished and with a much stronger self of willpower than anyone else in the vicinity.
Being anorexic meant that I could go two days without eating, while teaching three classes at the gym, going for two runs, doing four sets of 200 sit-ups and be a fly on the wall. I could be the shy, quiet student that was always chilly and puffing on as many smokes as she could fit in during the class’ coffee break; I could stab the life out of you with my hip bones, bare proof of how much more willing to work for physical perfection I was.
Rarely did I show off those hip bones, except for when my pants were falling down or I was prepping for someone to use them as handles, but they were there and they were fierce.
Mostly, though, without even meaning for it to be, anorexia was a lovely little curtain I could hide behind.
Feelings? We don’t need no feelings, we need to starve until our heads spin and black spots dance in front of our eyes. Hurt? We don’t get hurt. We do the hurting – of others and ourselves. Abuse, betrayal, hands that roamed where they shouldn’t have? Doesn’t matter anymore because we’ve taken our body back, 100%. Under new management.
It’s interesting. I spent….20 years, really, hiding behind this Army of Me(s) – and seriously, if you don’t think there are entire armies devoted to lust of bones and sagging flesh, you’ve never hung out in the social media I used to – and then one day, I blinked and I was pretty much over it.
Call it this past February.
I was done.
I still see the same problems in the mirror. I still want to cry when a size 0 fits tightly. When the pounds creep more toward 110 than 100, it’s still an emotional upheaval. But I’m still done with those moments that spanned months that took all of my energy, sanity and willpower.
I don’t have anything to hide behind anymore, because feelings? They fucking suck, but now I have them. Hurt? Happens nearly continually, but that’s what happens when you trust people (sometimes blindly, sometimes even though you shouldn’t) and I choose to trust people. Abuse and betrayal and hands that roamed where they shouldn’t have? If it happens and I didn’t see it coming, it will teach me something; if I’m asking for it, then it’s my own damn fault (see “sometimes blindly, sometimes even thought you shouldn’t”).
2009. It’s still the year of me.
And me doesn’t have to hide behind an eating disorder anymore. Because I kind of like me a little bit, the more I get to know her and strip away the layers of protective ice and metal.
The calendar of a chick so busy, she even tasks her paycheque cashing? That has at least five things to do, four days ahead, and is constantly adding more? That schedules season premieres?
