Genetic Win

Apparently, my body is surprisingly awesome at getting and being pregnant.

I find this surprising?  I don’t know why.  Maybe because all I ever seem to hear from others is how horrible, annoying, discouraging, or downright debilitating their pregnancies were.

But here I am at 8 months and everyone always asking, furrowed brow and sympathy faces, “How are you dooooooing?” And I have to say, “Good!*  Then they say, “Really, though?  I mean, really?”  And I say, “Well, yeah!  I feel like I always have felt.  When I pass my reflection I think whoa, belly! But other than that…feeling really normal.  Just, really, really boringly my usual normal self.”

I’m starting to wonder though if now all the pregnant women of present and past will appeal to the pregnancy gods and have some kind of karmic consequence in store for me at some point down the road.  Keep balance in the force or whatever.

If so, I’m in really, really big trouble.

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I can spend hours – literal hours – staring into space, imagining myself in quite a variety of very dramatic scenes.  

Scenes where I’m usually taking the high ground and where I practically stand on tables giving long and very inspiring speeches. (Yes, they are very inspiring.  Sometimes my imaginary self even makes my real self cry.)

Usually, I do this as part of my related but slightly different problem called the “what if” obsession, where I can easily imagine aaaaaall the possible ways things could turn out and usually most of them are not easy.  But I do the right thing and convince everyone else to do the right thing too and by the end everything is perfect and I’m awesome and nothing bad or sad or disappointing ever happens because I can fix it with my stirring paeans to morality.

I think I just realized that this is how I cope with scary things.

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When I was in fifth grade, I was very good at routines.  I took particular pleasure waking up at 6:30 am on Saturday mornings to clean my room.  Not tidy my room–clean my room.  This involved q-tips in the window tracks, re-organizing my closet so my clothes would be in rainbow order, sorting and doing my laundry (from start to finish), ironing, vacuuming, window washing (inside and out), the works.

Sure, there was probably a bit of the OCD about that.  But, maybe not.  I never felt compelled to do it against my will.  I really wanted to do it, it was fun and I liked being able to see what I’d accomplished and have a clean slate for the upcoming week.

I was a person who did things.

Twenty years later I am absolutely not that person anymore.  And I’m really frustrated and sad about it.  I don’t feel like a person who does things anymore.  I feel more like just…a person…who…just keeps living in life.  Instead of thinking, “What am I going to DO today”? I end up thinking, “What am I going to not do today…again?”

And it’s not because I don’t want to do things, it’s that suddenly I feel so helpless to even try.  Even the smallest things sound impossible or herculean.  Go get groceries?  How?  Get a glass of water?  Howwww?  Just stand up and walk five steps?  Howwwwwwww?

I’m not entirely sure what in the world is going on.  Why is everything so hard?  How is it possible that something can seem impossible to me, but sound so silly and, frankly, lazy/stupid/malingering/whiny when I try to explain myself to others.

“How’s that paper coming?” they can ask and all I can do is look back at them, terrified.  Because what am I supposed to say?  They know that technically I have about 20,000 more hours of “free time” in my day than they do.  And if I told them the truth, how disappointing and how completely unreliable and selfish and mental would I seem?

“How’s that paper coming?”

Truth:  “Well, it’s not.  Because, you see, I can’t even will myself to double click on the file.  It takes me an hour to read one paragraph and the whole time it feels like I’m dragging 200 pounds up Everest.  I scroll through those 30 pages and just keep scrolling up and down and up and down and up and down because I know that if I stop scrolling that means that I have to figure out how to do something with the words.  I add one comma or change one word and then I save it and close my laptop, exhausted.  It’s too much.  I can’t.”

Actual: “It’s alright.  I’ll have it to you soon.”

Atticus is in Australia this week.  He is the only reason I can find to try and punch through this horrible metal box every day.  Sometimes, when I know Atticus will be home in a few hours, I can actually do things like make food or go outside.  Two times I even went jogging.  Sometimes I even get dressed in the morning.

But now that Atticus isn’t here, I find myself hiding away.  Random items of clothing on the floor/couch/table/chairs, eating crackers and soup, optional showers.  And I realize that no one knows I’m here, really.  I lock the door and stay in the quiet, convincing myself I don’t need to answer any of those old e-mails or phone calls because if I don’t, no one will remember I was supposed to in the first place.  Just disappearing. Quietly. Without a fuss.  Don’t want to bother people with this weirdness.  Don’t want to have to answer any questions.

Thinking that maybe if I wait quietly, long enough, then everything I was supposed to do, everything piling up, will just reset one day.  And I’ll giddily wake up one Saturday at 6:30 am and clean the already immaculate window tracks with a q-tip, like nothing ever happened.

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Today I bought a 20-pack of ovulation predictor sticks on

Stuff’s gettin’ real up in here.

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Anxiety Dreams

I have two kinds of anxiety dreams.

First, and by far the most common, are dreams where I have to do something slightly complex but not too difficult (bring someone their wedding dress, find a different gate to catch a flight).  However, as I begin to check things off my list, small things begin to go wrong (construction detour, car won’t start, mishearing directions) and then smaller things go wrong on top of the small things (shoelaces untied, credit card won’t work, can’t hold stuff and open car trunk at the same time so I keep dropping things) and they pile and pile up until I feel absolutely helpless and everything is ruined.


Second, I start by feeling very happy and deciding for one reason or another to go visit some friends.  But, every single friend is cold and distant or just downright mean — for reasons that I really can’t understand and when I ask they won’t explain,  This happens all the way down a long, long street in every house where I know just the day before my best friends lived.  As I keep walking, the friends get more and more silent-mean till, by the end, I stop even trying to knock on their doors and I’m just walking and walking down the middle of the street, alone and confused, and thinking that I’ll never go find a friend again–not because I’m mad that they were mean, but because I’m afraid that I’m hurting people and don’t even know how I’m doing it.  And I’m stressed out the whole time because I’m terrified someone is going to open the doors to one of the houses I’m walking by and just call me horrible names or blame things on me that I don’t even understand.

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It’s that time of year again!  The time of year where I officially become one year older and, contrary to what one might expect, I spend a large chunk of the day reliving all the regrets I have of my life.  Which, on a birthday, is super lame!

I know what you’re thinking right now.  It’s probably something like, “Live life with no regrets” or “Never regret anything, everything makes you stronger and better” or something positive like that.  I totally get that.  But, you know, sometimes you just want to sit around and troll the facebooks and look at all your friends from high school or college school or grad school or not-school and see how they all are, like, assistant managers of important sections of very large companies or have two kids or just published a book (I’m looking at you Matthew and Joanna)… and you’re like, ‘Whaaaaaa?  When did THAT happen?”

And then you’re like, “I just got older!”

And then you’re like, “Life is overrrrr!  And I faaaaaaailed!”

And then you’re like, “I might be overreacting right now but I don’t care!”

So, because I’m preeeeeeeetty sure that I’ve more or less killed this blog and it’s now mine, MINE I tell you!, to write whatever I need to write about and only the die hards who are my good friends anyway are going to read it (maybe), I’m going to do what I’m good at and write a little bloggity blog post on some regrets that are particularly horrific to me this beautiful May morning.

Regret the First:  That I couldn’t figure out a way to assimilate into some sort of fun, interesting, Harvardy/MITy group of people outside of my grad school cohort when I lived in Boston (other than Beth, who saved my life).  Cousin Dave is in Boston now and he seems to be having a much better time of it all–this could be just because of the fact that it’s my birthday and everyone seems to be having a better time of things in general, but regardless…I wish I could have been brave enough to be less shy.  And if I had been less shy then I could have been able to act more “normal” and “confident.”  And if I had been those things then I might have been able to be in-real-life friends with people that I’m only now finding out share a crap load of my same ideas and feelings about certain things since they’re all popping out of the woodwork now that I’m more of an online presence in certain intellectual sectors of the thing we can the internet.  Lame.  So many, many, many lonely days wasted.

Regret the Second:  That I never had a straight-up “You’re mean to me and I want to know exactly why” conversation with a handful of roommates.    Also, I regret that I tried to then make up to them by friending them on facebook, hoping they might say hi! in some nice way after I did…but then they didn’t…and then it crushed me again.  AGAIN!  I let it happen again!  I regret not having more of a backbone when people are mean to me (which reminds me of a related regret involving one of my grad school advisers who deserved to get a drink in the face…which I may or may not have fantasized about doing).

Regret the Third:  Actually…I can’t think of a regret the third.


It’s telling to me that every. single. year. on my birthday I’m crippled with regret over things that happened (or didn’t happen) to me over five years ago.  And they all involve people who I wanted to be friends with not being friends with me–openly, obviously, and painfully.

So, a lesson:  always be friends with people, unless they’re being obviously super mean to you, in which case you should throw a drink in their face, reality TV style.  If you don’t, you’ll regret it.


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Into the Realm of Couple-Blogging

I have decided to make (well, I’ve already made…) a new family-style blog that I will be moving to starting today.

It’s mostly because I have a terrible habit of needing “a clean slate” to write on when I feel like I’m going through a big life transition.

It’s also mostly because we’re moving to Europe and I think that it will become the main way Atticus and I will be able to communicate our day-to-day existence with our families and friends.

I realize that most people who read this blog here already know our “real life” names, but since I’d still like to keep that anonymity valid here…I’m going to go about announcing the new blog address (a place where I’ll be using our real names) in a different way.

If you’d like to keep connected with Atticus and I and read about our German adventures, then leave a comment below letting me know.  I’ll e-mail you the new blog address and then you can check it out.

As for pintosbeans, I don’t know about its fate.  I like the web address and the individual writing space concept so I’ll keep it live, though it may stay dormant till the end of time.  Forever and ever.  Perhaps/probably.

So again, if you want to read about and see pictures of our transition to and life in Europe, just leave me a comment here telling me so.  Your e-mail address is required to comment, but doesn’t show up on the page, so you don’t have to include it in your comment body.

And with that, I’ll just see what happens…


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