Life's Messy - Stop Trying to Clean it Up

I’m sitting down to write this evening (which means you'll read it tomorrow, which is today, so don't be confused). I haven’t posted since February 19th, 2015. Jesus. That’s nearly a month. Okay, it's OVER a month. Just staring at that date makes me feel like an asshole. So, what have I been up to? What’s my problem? Why are the missives from E. not pouring out like they were in December?

Probably because I’ve told myself that writing is hard again. That it’s more than just sitting down in front of the goddamned computer and hitting the keys as my thoughts come together. That I have to be poignant and ripe and so full of meaning each time I sit down and I haven’t really felt any of those things lately…so what could I possibly have to write about?

Maybe I’d write about another late night bad decision that every time I make it, I know it’s not going to turn out the way I want to. Some people are kryptonite. For me, some dates are kryptonite. It’s like one half of my brain says, “Fuck it – have fun,” while the other side is stewing in the middle of an anxiety attack and fresh out of Xanax because I’m doing the same. fucking. thing. again. If only there were mileage reward programs for bad decisions. Wait -- there is. United has a frequent flyer program. I stand corrected.

 Or maybe I could write about taking my first ever ride in an ambulance on Tuesday of this week. That was surreal. It’s surreal to have doubled over in some crazy abdominal pain, stood up, started sweating profusely while simultaneously freezing, collapsing, getting back up again only to feel like you have to vomit, suddenly getting so hot that all you want to do is take most of you clothes off and lay on the floor of a semi-public bathroom, and somehow realize that you can’t be in that bathroom and you need help so you (somehow) put most of your clothes back on and stumble out of a bathroom into a room with a few of your classmates in it and utter the words, “I need help.” So the ambulance comes and a pair of paramedics gets you to the hospital and one of them failed IV skills and is, of course, the one to get an IV in your hand which sends you into screaming pain and tears and all you can think, two hours later when they say there’s nothing wrong with you – your heart is normal, your bloodwork is normal, and everything is…normal – is that you’re both incredibly relieved nothing is wrong and altogether pissed because you know what that ride in the ambulance is going to cost you and it was a great way to blow your $5,000 deductible.

Y’know. Having nothing wrong.

Which makes me feel like an asshole because some days people are put into ambulances and they make it to the hospital but they don’t, y’know? Or they get there and something is really fucking wrong and they’d trade a $5,000 medical bill for having their life back the way it was before some asshole plowed into their car after running a red light because texting was more important than actually fucking driving. Or how back in 2008 when I had to first carry my own medical insurance, I had an HMO plan where I paid $136 per month for a $1500 deductible plan with $30 doctor visits and prescription coverage and now, I pay $175 per month for a $5,000 deductible and I have to pray I either get really fucking sick or not sick at all. Ever. And then I start thinking I could work at Starbucks for 20 hours a week to get health insurance and some days, that doesn’t seem so bad.

Or maybe I could write about how I booked my first ever union radio commercial this week and how I spent Tuesday morning in an ambulance and the ER and that afternoon, this booking kinda turned things around in a hurry. There’s nothing quite like drinking Gatorade on your sofa and getting a call that says, “Hey – you’re doing good work. How about we pay you for it?” That was grand. The session on Wednesday was fun. I said the phrase "mouth puppet" which was embarrassing and epic all at once. I'm filing it under E for epic.

And then there’s the whole taking-a-ride-in-an-ambulance-and-going-to-the-ER-and-people-asking-if-there-is-someone-you-want-to-call. And the answer is no. You don’t “have someone.” And that still hurts (not even the Bad Decision) and it makes me think about dying alone and my cats and dogs eating my decaying body. That is, after they’ve raided the fridge. Then I make a Gawker news headline that reads something like WOMXN FOUND DEAD AND ALONE IN HER HOME AT 42. DOGS AND CATS FINE. BUT SHE’S PRETTY FUCKING DEAD. Then there’s the part about how two of your classmates took their day to come to the ER with you – one with you in the ambulance and the other in his car so he could (hopefully) drive you back. The part where you’re really grateful and for all those times you tell yourself that you don’t need someone, well, you do. Which sends you back to the top of this whole paragraph, wash-rinse-repeat.

I could tell you about looking Trouble in the eyes and seeing what I know is there but he can’t seem to see and realizing that it isn’t my job or responsibility to show him. And that was the last time. Which is sad to admit, but right. It's true. So fucking true. And final. Because it's a good day when a Bad Decision gives you a moment of dawning recognition where you can tell yourself, "I'm better than this." And for once in a long while, you believe it.

And I could tell you about how writing all of this makes me feel a bit pathetic because on top of it all, I know I have a good life. Sometimes, however, it shows up as a giant pile of messy. Which if I let it, starts to look like a giant pile of shitty with rainbow sprinkles of woe-is-fucking-me all over it.

Which is my cue to remind myself that life’s messy. I’d do better if I stopped trying to clean it up and instead, bought some goddamned Febreeze and kept rocking right the fuck on.

Because I could be in a hospital with something seriously fucking wrong…

In a "relationship" <AIR QUOTES> where I’m the least important person…

Doing all this work to become a better performer and not booking radio commercials or having a badass time in my acting conservatory…

Because all those things could be happening instead of realizing that I’m back to my (ab)normal self, quitting the Bad Decision frequent flyer program, and making shit happen in a city I love living in doing shit I love doing.

And this evening, I was thinking that maybe Febreeze is the best goddamn thing that’s ever happened to humankind (aside from pistachio gelato, natch) because no matter how much you think your life reeks to high heaven – there’s always something lovely waiting if you can rise above the mess.

Because your mess? Oh, honey, it ain’t goin’ anywhere. Best to learn to live with it and every now and again, freshen the place up.