Secret Single Behavior

When I first heard the term Secret Single Behavior (SSB) on Sex and the City, it made me feel a little more normal in relishing in the habits that I enjoy participating in when I’m all by myself.

While my SSB changes from time to time, recent SSBs for me include coming home after work to an empty house, keeping my winter jacket on until it’s the last thing I have to take off before I slip into my PJs; going to the store for deodorant and shaving cream, then realizing how famished I am, and buying (just to be precise) five pieces of popcorn chicken and two potato wedges at the deli counter and eating them with a spork in the dark parking lot; and listening to embarrassing songs that I love on repeat, such as Level 42’s “Something About You” and Atlantic Starr's "Masterpiece." And, of course there are others that I’ll just keep to myself.

Generally, I love the pockets of time when I have the house to myself to partake in my SSB – to blast music without disrupting my husband, to make weird food concoctions for dinner, or to workout with no pants on (this last one I might actually be guilty of doing even when my husband’s around, but he doesn't seem to mind.)

But however fun and freeing it may be to have time to participate in a little SSB, there is, as with everything in life, a balance. For example, too much SSB time is actually possible I’ve learned, such as when you’re a tax-season widow. For the most part, I live tax-season (the span from January through April 15 when my husband works 65-70-hour weeks) to the fullest: I plan fun weekends with friends, I spend time working on my hobbies, I relish in “me time.” In essence, I have lots of single-girl fun during this time span, and that's not a bad thing.

But last week, to my surprise, I was caught in an unexpected I-don’t-know-what-to-do-with-myself feeling, when the excitement of a dark and empty house suddenly no longer felt very exciting and when the possibilities of so many wide-open single-girl weekends began to feel a little meh. While the good of this is that loneliness makes the heart grow fonder, the bad of it is that there’s no quick fix, since April 15 is but months away.

But, as with everything, it’s awareness and acknowledgement of feelings (whether they are loneliness or sadness or mere discontent) that’s the key to addressing them, even if it means that the feeling doesn't immediately go away. And really, so what if my pie is currently a little overwhelmed by the opportunity for SSB? I think I’ll manage . . . as soon as I find my bucket list.

Susan Sontag on love.

Today is Valentine's Day, and however overrated and commercial that it may be, it's still nice that there's an entire day devoted to love -- romantic or otherwise.  Besides, what other day can you munch on Conversation Hearts to your heart's content? 

The other day Brain Pickings featured Susan Sontag's beautiful reflections on love as illustrated by Wendy MacNaughton, which I thought would be apropos to share today.

Happy Valentine's Day, friends!

How I got over my fear of dying.

I’ve had a fear of death and disease since the age of seven when I was convinced I had breast cancer.  Tucked under the covers at night I would give myself breast exams, and with adamant certainty I detected lumps in my pancake-flat chest.  Too worried that admitting the findings to my mom would make the cancer even more real, I kept the fear deep inside.  At 14, when I suffered from daily headaches due to impacted wisdom teeth I was certain at that point that I had a brain tumor.  When I was 21, and experienced mild eye twitching, I was sure I had MS.  To date – knock on wood – I’m thankfully and gratefully currently disease-free, and though I’m a bit of a mild hypochondriac the good of this is that I very seldom take life for granted. 

Ironically, though, I’ve always had a bit of an adventurous streak, even if my daily life doesn’t always indicate as such.  Though I like to push the envelope on occasion, mostly my adventurousness is buried inside my head and in my thoughts, which is probably a good thing since if it's there I stay out of trouble.  Likewise, because I'm an inherently curious person, I have a strong innate desire for new experiences, and that includes traveling, even if financial circumstances (that in-state tuition was more expensive than one would think!) has precluded me from doing as much as I would like, but thankfully that is slowly changing.

 

 

Two years ago, I planned a trip to San Francisco -- my first big trip since graduating from college.  While I had made a trans-Atlantic trip to eastern Europe when I was a teenager, this was my first trans-America trip to California.  Though I was predominantly excited about taking my first trip to the west coast, I was blindsided with an unexpected fear of flying, even though I had done it multiple times before.   

But when the flight took off en route to California it occurred to me that being in such a state of vulnerability and fear – and, more importantly, embracing being in such a state – is not a bad thing, because pulling away from all that's safe and secure and comfy is the best ingredient for growing, evolving, and becoming.

When I returned to Maine in one complete piece, I unsurprisingly felt that I was a slightly evolved Sarah, even if only from having been to a place I had never gone to before.  And while I have always valued life because of my fear of death, perhaps for the first time I had fully experienced the lightness of life in its fleeting state, that which makes it more enjoyable to exist in the world, because in a blink of an eye, life not only ends but it continually moves forward, even if from one day to the next.

Now whenever I fly somewhere I fully embrace it, especially the takeoff and landing, so much so that I even find it exhilarating, thrilling, sexy, and empowering, to the point where if I were to die at that moment it would be a great way to go – dramatic, dangerous, and tragic -- and amidst a state of living life to the fullest.  (In case you want to know, Atlantic Starr's "Masterpiece" happens to be my current favorite in-flight song.) 

More importantly, though, flying always makes me self-assess at that point: Am I living enough, exploring enough, loving enough, being true enough, if I were to die right now?  If I’m able to answer yes to each of these questions, I’m doing okay; if not, it’s time to reevaluate. 

 

Whatever the case, it's flying that got me over my fear of dying. 

Who inspires you?

This Chelsea Fagan chick writes so well I could eat her brain. 

I very recently stumbled upon this blog featuring posts by a suite of different bloggers, and every post that catches my eye just so happens to be written by her.  Not only is she the kind of writer that turns me into a melting pot of envy and admiration, but her subject matter always strikes a chord in me, leaving me with chills and goose bumps and just plain old-fashioned awe. 

Though I'm a bit of a hack compared to someone like her, I hope, as with reading the work of any great writer, that reading her posts makes me a better writer too.  Regardless, though, I know that being subjected to her voice gives me the opportunity to think in a completely new and fresh way about the very same topics that I often think about and grapple with too. 

While I always feel a little envy when discovering someone who is so much better than I am at something, I love how inspired it makes me feel, and how effing lucky, to have discovered some piece of art that enlightens me in such a manner, and more importantly how it makes me a better person on however minute a level. 

How lucky are we to know that we are capable of personal growth at every corner we stumble upon, not only through life's unpredictable challenges but also through the basic appreciation of someone else’s creative work? 

The Art of Perfecting a Sunday

There used to be a time when I dreaded Sundays, when the somber cloud loomed over my head telling me that Monday was fast approaching, when all the day, or could be, was a preparation for the workweek ahead.  Luckily, that has since changed.  Perhaps because I now have a different perspective, or because I genuinely like my job, or because my life is so full in other ways, Sunday in all its quiet simplicity is not a day of anticipation for the next day, but instead a day to just be, and I love that.

Regardless of how my weekend preceding Sunday went – whether I embarked on some kind of adventure or just did chores – I like to ease into my Sunday without any kind of schedule or predetermined expectation.  Oftentimes that means sleeping in (which for this nerd means waking up around 6:30-7) and lounging in bed for a while.  Whatever the case, I usually wake up on Sundays in a good mood, because it means that my favorite day of the week is here.  I love lifting the blinds and taking the time to look at the sun rising against the treeline in the distance, something I seldom do during the week.

This particular Sunday morning after getting a brisk power walk in, I made my way up from my "home gym" in the basement to the sunroom where I found my husband lounging back, reading the newspaper, setting the tone for my favorite day.  Sundays are especially sacred because it’s the one day of the week that we both have the luxury to spend the entire morning together, free from distractions and other commitments.

Though I'm sweaty after my workout, there’s something rebellious about not rushing to jump into the shower as I do every other day of the week.  While I usually peel off my sports bra, I relish in hanging out and cooling down in my  workout attire for a while.  I enjoy making breakfast for my man and me, taking the time to sip tea and talk, and be in the moment.  When I do finally get into the shower, I take my time with it, and then afterward, depending on what's in store for the day, I might even slip into my PJs. 

On some Sundays, though, such as today, one of my favorite activities is going out for 'breakfast fer lunch'.  You’re thinking I should be saying brunch, I know you are.  But remember: this lass has been up since since 7 and has already eaten breakfast, so brunch simply would not qualify in this case.  Besides, the concept of brunch is so effing trendy, don't you agree?  So, breakfast fer lunch it is, around noon, at my favorite hole-in-the-wall breakfast joint.  Homemade donuts optional.

What I’ve learned is that the art of perfecting a Sunday is doing whatever it is that you want to do with NO SET SCHEDULE.  For example, today I happened to be in the mood to check out the P-Touch Labelmakers at Staples, so I did, even if I wound up not buying one because I was so overwhelmed by all the freaking options there were.  Other Sundays, I enjoy an entire day devoted to a slumber party, which I affectionately dub Slumber Party Sunday.

Generally, I enjoy making a big meal on Sundays.  Last week it was this delicious Morroccan Lentil Soup; this week it’s this Buffalo Chicken Chili.  There’s something so cozy about making a big meal that will last a few days and making the whole house smell all delicious and such.  It also makes me feel extra domesticated and wifey.  Plus, chopping vegetables and preparing food at a Sunday snail's pace is particularly peaceful and meditative.

In addition to spending the morning chillaxing and reading the Sunday paper, puttering around the house, or going into town for something spontaneous and unnecessary (like labelmakers), I generally like to carve out a little time for being creative, hence why I typically write a blog post on this day, after I’ve had a chance to unwind from the workweek and then from a typically action-packed Saturday. 

What makes Sundays so special is that they’re like the chocolate Kiss you  might find at the bottom of your purse – unexpected, sweet, and like nothing else you’d find in there.  What I mean is that Sundays are like no other day of the week.  Monday through Fridays are wrought with routine – things like working out, showering, working, post-work commitments whether they are social or of some other variety, sifting through the mail or feeding your cat all while being exhausted; Saturdays are, at least for me, typically spent either running errands and doing chores or better yet, adventuring off into the world and doing something festive and fun; and then there are Sundays: the one day that marks the end of the week, creating the only true opportunity for pause and reflection, taking it all in, and just being.

And so there you have it: the Art of Perfecting a Sunday. 

A Week in Review - A few things I've learned.

1.      My cat has “cattitude,” according to my vet.  “But he also happens to be very sweet," she qualified.  Heck, I never knew my cat had cattitude. In any case, the perspectives of other people are forever enlightening to me, even when it comes to little things like "cattitude." 

2.      You never know what you’ll find under your couch.   I found the following relics when I vacuumed under it this weekend:  a graveyard of scrunchies, a Buffalo Tom CD jacket, a single cough drop, a lens wipe, and one purple stain.

3.      The food cravings one get during a cold are just par for the course.  Also, I’ve learned that it is never a good idea to attempt to soothe said cravings by waking up at 4 a.m. and snacking on six pieces of chocolate.  You’ll still be hungry and wind up with indigestion. 

4.      Chinese food is delicious any day of the week, but it’s even better when you’re sick, especially Peking dumplings. 

5.      The '90s-era series Beverly Hills 90210 will never get old, even if I may be in the minority that Clare Arnold is superior to drippy Kelly Taylor any day of the week. 

6.      The notion of finding greater meaning by “doing less” has got me thinking, even as I found myself vacuuming, steaming vegetables, and doing laundry somehow simultaneously while battling a cold this weekend. 

7.      Men and women are not all that different from each other, at least not emotionally.  This is particularly apparent to me as I read love letters my father wrote to my mother from sea during their courtship, engagement, and beyond.  (More to come on this at a later date.)

A "Part of Me."

If you really want to know, my Sunday night was spent curled up on the couch watching Katy Perry: Part of Me.  It was everything I hoped it would be: a girly pop-fest featuring Katy in candy-coated confections on the stage and then makeup-less behind it.  (For the record, she’s freaking gorgeous no matter what state she's in, but I digress.)  Basically, it was everything a KatyCat would want and more, even if it geared to the tween in any of us.

I found myself dancing along to the film in the first half (Um, hello!  She covers Whitney Houston’s "I Wanna Dance With Somebody" – you would be dancing too) and then shedding tears during the second half as Katy’s marriage with Russell Brand began to unravel. 

 

"Thanks for believing in my weirdness." - Katy Perry

But what can I say?  It came as a welcome sweet cap to the end of an otherwise gloomy day.  Though I consider myself somewhat of a “KatyCat” (I celebrate her entire catalogue, including the remixes, as an FYI), I was admittedly a little meh when I saw the trailer for the movie this past summer.  But all it took was hearing Opie praising it on Opie & Anthony a couple months ago and then I was all, “Now I gotta see this movie.”  I swear: they could tell me newspaper tasted good and I’d probably believe them, but what are you gonna do? 

Unsurprisingly, Part of Me didn’t have nearly the depth that some of my other favorite documentaries of late had (Queen of Versailles is really, really something if you want to know), but it struck the girly chord in me, and well, a good cathartic cry is really just plain necessary sometimes, right?