"Blorft" is an adjective I
just made up that means 'Completely overwhelmed but proceeding as if
everything is fine and reacting to the stress with the torpor of a
possum.' I have been blorft every day for the past seven years.
Tina Fey
I was over this semester before it began. And although I am closer than ever to the finish line, I feel like it couldn't be further away. Have
you seen my mojo? Because it's gone. Missing. I'm uninspired, unmotivated, and all kinds of other uns.
As I found myself snipping at Kiddo tonight (and feeling guilty about it), I came to a realization: this is kinda all my fault. Well, I blame my disorganized, demanding professor, too. But mostly it's just me. You see, when the going gets tough, I don't do anything about it. I play possum...and here's proof:
Stress is bubbling out of me, yet until last Thursday I hadn't seen the inside of a gym in over two weeks. Exercise has more than proven its worthiness when it comes to helping me overcome life's little (and big) challenges. Yet it became my redheaded stepchild. A yoga class? I'd rather eat paste. Oh, and enough with the cookies already. You're not in a contest.
I can't remember the last time my fingers or toes were painted. My last massage was, um, last winter? My hair hasn't been trimmed since late summer...or before that? I must sound like a hot mess. You have no idea. At least my legs got shaved today...so most people will be able to tell I'm a woman again. And a non-primate.
We are
so fortunate to own a hot tub, but I've used it only once in the last few weeks. The one night I actually took
ten minutes to soak, I slept like a baby. You know, that rare, elusive baby who actually sleeps a solid eight. You would think I'd be jumping in
every night. Instead, I succumb to the stress and wonder why I am perpetually frazzled. And cold.
As if I wasn't on edge enough, I've been downing coffee like it's
vodka water. Yet I seem to find my desire to scream and kick and quit school quite perplexing. Yeah, I'm not studying to be a rocket scientist.
The last time I read a work of fiction was this spring when I polished off the Fifty Shades series. Then I proceeded to analyze them in a 12-page paper for my Human Sexuality class. Nothing un-sexifies an erotic novel more than writing about the social implications of women everywhere lusting after an emotionally disturbed billionaire.
So I have to wonder...why is it that the times I most need to take care of myself, I instead choose to grossly neglect my well-being? Is it a form of self-loathing? Maybe. But mostly it's a drive to be everything to everyone all the time...even though they like me better when I don't. My family prefers I don't take all that on. I'm efficient, sure, but grouchy as hell. And feeling like I want to crawl out of my anxiety-ridden skin isn't worth being able to say that I was Super Mom. Or Super Wife. Or Super Student. Besides, that's
a lot of capes to get dry cleaned.
It's time to press the reset button, because this gal needs an attitude adjustment. From this day forward, or at least until my next meltdown, I vow to...
...get lost in a good book...
...breathe. be mindful...
...soak up what life has to offer (on a mountaintop in a funky contraption, duh)...
...switch brews...
...eat like my body is a temple, not a garbage can...
...run it off...
...stop procrastinating my way out of a good night's rest...
...and above all: spend more time looking at baby llamas. I want to pinch their little cheeks and carry them in my handbag.
I feel better already.
Reality is the leading cause of stress amongst those in touch with it.
Jane Wagner
