Soul Thumping

Phone Phobias are Real. I Have One

What I'm about to say is true, though many might think I'm being funny.  Talking on the phone makes me anxious.  I have an actual phone phobia.  The thought of talking on the phone, right this very minute, is making me feel nauseous.  There are only a handful of people I actually speak to on the phone:  My husband, my sister, my brother and my mom (I consider that less than a handful actually).  When my cell phone rings, I get nervous, I stop breathing and my pulse kicks it up a notch.  Phone phobias are real, and also known as telephonophobia, telephobia.  The Wikipedia description is spot on!

My telephone phobia began when I was in junior high school.  My best friend would call, and we would chat about a few things, but then there would be long periods of silence because neither knew what to talk about next.  I felt like an idiot, a dork, an uncomfortable dork.  Phone conversations became something I didn't look forward to.  Hell, they terrified me!

This phone phobia plagues me even now.  Imagine how excited I was in the early 90s when emailing began.  I was so much happier communicating.  Now that texting and chatting are the norm, I've noticed I shy away from the phone even more (if that's possible), and I like it!

When I was unemployed, I couldn't stand to do phone interviews, especially technical phone interviews.  My phobia would rear its ugly head the night before a scheduled call, with symptoms including upset stomach, restlessness, shakes, and sometimes hives to boot.  These symptoms would last until I got the phone call "over with."

The thing is, I'm a very social person, in person, emails, texts and chats.  I'm a very personable, outgoing chick!  I love getting and answering emails.  I get so excited when someone texts me!  I enjoy going out and hanging out with friends.  I'm even fine at parties where I know almost no one.  I can talk to people...in person, just not on the phone.

I've made peace with my phone phobia and we are pals now.  I can make fun of myself and this little quirk of mine.  It is funny if you've never experienced this sort of thing.  If you have, then you know what a ringing phone can do!

The funniest part of this phone phobia business, to me?  My degree is a BS in Communications!

 

--Fortuitous Observer

Why Whole Foods in Durham Brings Out the Worst in Me

Whole Foods is great.  I've been to some great Whole Food stores and I like the selection.  The Whole Foods in Durham?  Not so much.  In fact, I'm going to go so far as to say I hate going to the W.F in Durham.  Notice I said I hate going to the store.  The store itself is fine, although way too small compared to other Whole Foods store locations.  The employees at the Durham store are top notch.  Extremely helpful and polite.  I've never met an employee at Whole Foods in Durham who wasn't.

So why does a trip to the Whole Foods of Durham have me wanting to pop back a handful of Valium?  The self-absorbed, entitled, rude, surly, curt, barbarous, devoid of any social skills whatsoever clodpates who shop there.  Oh my God, I feel better already!

Yesterday Poseidon and I made what should have been a quick, uneventful stop at the Durham Whole Foods store to pick up items for his famous burritos.  We weren't in the market 2 minutes (I'm not exaggerating, it wasn't 2 minutes), when the Baroness of Horse Face Bitchville came right down the aisle with her cart and nearly ran me down.  I was stunned because she just kept going.  Admittedly, I'd had a long day and I was cranky so I said, in a voice full of snark, but without too much venom, "Excuse you," with no reply, so I continued on my way to catch up with Poseidon.

Maybe 15 minutes later, she came up to me and said, "Excuse me."  I said, "Thank you" and I meant it, but then she had to start being a bitch mutt.  Most of it to me was, "Blah, blah, blah" until she said, "I've never had such anger sent my way in all my life."  Seriously?  Wow, she should consider herself more fortunate that any soul on the planet if my "excuse you" was the most anger anyone has ever, ZOMG ever directed toward her.  Anyway, my reply, "Well, all you needed to do was be polite and say 'excuse me' when you nearly knocked me down."  She said something else back that only told me she wanted to keep this pointless banter going, but I ignored it and was already turning my attention back to Poseidon (poor Poseidon, the most laid back dude on the planet...and he married me).

So, will I go to the Whole Foods in Durham again?  Of course I will.  Will I run into ogress-mannered shrews?  Undoubtedly, but after this incident I will wash down my Valium with a full glass of water before entering those sliding glass doors on Broad Street.

--Fortuitous Observer

 

Previously published posts on a similar topic you might find interesting:

It's Senior Day at Kroger - Wear Your Chain Maille

The Bread Lady?

Supermarket Grazers and Serendepity

You Are the Author of Your Own Masterpiece...Will You be Lady Macbeth, Jo March, or Hermione Granger?

At the beginning of the year I subscribed to a flaky pick-me-up inspirational newsletter, and I usually move the daily emails directly to a folder in my inbox that serves as an "eh, I'll get to it when I get to it" catch all, and they mostly go unread, but on some days, the subject line speaks to me (or makes me say aloud, "What???"), and I click on the link and take a peek, like yesterday.  The subject was "Create a Supportive Life Story" which seemed mad cheesy, but less dippy than most, so I opened it and I read this line:

"We all have a story to tell, but sometimes we get stuck in that story and become our story."

I rolled my eyes for minutes on this one, but I decided to buck up and read it anyway because there was a remote possibility I might learn something new about myself, or at least pretend to.

The article was short and precise, and rather than try to paraphrase what I believe the most important part is, I will just quote the author:

Take a moment to look at the life story you create for yourself on an ongoing basis. If you generally feel peaceful about the past and trust in your ability to handle whatever comes your way, then you are framing circumstances in a manner that serves you well. On the other hand, if you retain a lot of guilt or resentment and often feel weighed down by life, you may want to start telling yourself a new version of past and present events.
--Madisyn Taylor

My take away from this?  Clean your house damn it (in an emotional sense)!  We can all tell ourselves (and everyone else) some kick-ass folk tales, but if a person is not truly digging life, then there is a need to do something about it.  No, we cannot re-write our past, but we can grab it by the ears, accept that we can't erase the past, but we sure has heck can deal with it first, then we can re-write our present and future life the way we want.  No kidding...oh this post is so much sappier than normal, but I'm rolling with it.

For example, I could remain Esther Greenwood (The Bell Jar), and simply say, "I've suffered from depression, and that will always be my identity."  Or, I could say, "Nah, thank you, I don't need to identify with that any longer, and write myself a new ending (which is what I've been doing over the past couple of years).

So, I think it is entirely possible to let go of a Hester Prynne life and rewrite a Lady Macbeth life (just don't go talking your love into killing and all that jazz).

Transform a sulky Mary Lennox into a Hermione Granger,  It doesn't matter at what age you decide to write yourself a new ending.  Even Mrs. Clarissa Dalloway can become Jo March.

 

--Fortuitous Observer

Surving Without Cable and Internet for an Entire 6 Hours Can be Done (if Absoultely Necessary)

I woke up this morning around 9am, which to me is "sleeping in."  I came downstairs for my usual breakfast of Diet Coke, spoonful of peanut butter, and 1/2 of a banana.  I picked up the laptop and tried to check the weather and look at my emails.  No go.  I restarted the wireless router.  Nada.  I then looked at the cable box and where the time display normally appears, was a strange message:  ALT 1.  I phoned the cable company and a recorded message let me in on the secret:  "There is a service interruption in your calling area.  We hope to have this issue corrected soon."  "Soon" turned into 6 hours later.

I am ashamed to admit, but I freaked out!  What does one do without an internet connection for 6 hours?  I found myself calling Time Warner Cable every 20 to 30 minutes for a status update.  I thought at one point I might be breaking out in hives.  I started thinking how ridiculous this is, and remembering that I survived my childhood, teens and early 20s without the internet, so chances are good I would survive a couple of hours.

It turns out, there are many things that can be done during an internet outage.  I lounged on the couch on the sun porch and watched the birds check out our bird feeder (disappointed birds had to fly away hungry because we haven't filled the feeder in a couple of weeks, and what is left is, well, moldy), finished a magazine article that has gone unread for a month, oh, and I took some deep breaths.  I vowed to do healthy things today, and planned out a healthy autumn body detox menu.  I wrote in my journal (actual writing, not typing), and started doing some much needed house cleaning.

Poseidon woke up an hour or so later, and I broke the news to him:  No internet.  He seemed to handle it far better than I (though I know deep down he was concerned).  Together we tackled the house work, and he did several loads of laundry.  I finally unpacked the suitcase that has been sitting at the foot of the bed from our quick trip to West Virginia two weeks ago (procrastination is of course my bailiwick).  We made a grocery list and as I headed toward the door to make the grocery run, Poseidon announced that we had internet service and cable once again!  Jubilation!

I was relieved.  It pains me to say it, but alas, it's true.  As Poseidon banged away at the laptop, I drove to the grocery store thinking, "Damn, if the internet outage could last just a little longer, I would finish the book I've been reading!  I could refill that bird feeder!

It boils down to priorities.  Mind numbing surfing is sometimes more appealing than sitting down to finish a novel.  As is evident, because I've just hit the "Publish" button...connected!

 

--Fortuitous Observer

I Could Not Stop Staring at My Second Grade Teacher's Toes

Miss Smith (I'm giving her an alias) was my second grade teacher.  She was funny, smart, pretty, young, etc., but the thing I remember most about her:  Her big toes had almost no toenails.  Why did this pop back into my brain?  It is more than likely a where-should-I-file-this-experience that has lingered in the dust bunny-filled recesses of my mind, waiting for its walking papers.

She was a tall, broad shouldered woman and everything about her was large, for a woman, or at least my perception of women in all of my 6 or 7 years.  Her toes were like big fleshy things with small dots in the center of each of them, the small dots being her toenails.  I know this because everyday during story time she would sit in a chair, and we, her students, would sit cross-legged on the floor in front of her.  I always tried to sit up front, right next to her so I could stare at her toes.

Sharing my obsession with Miss Smith's feet with my classmates was never an option.  Not because I was ashamed or embarrassed that I was fascinated by her toenail deformity, but because if everyone knew about those strange toes, there would have been an impromptu game of King of the Mountain to sit next to her feet during story time, and I was a skinny, scrawny little runt with no hopes of winning.

Today I tried googling images of big toes with tiny toe nails, and I didn't see anything that resembled Miss Smith's toes.  Maybe that explains my being enthralled with the things...maybe no one else had or has had since, that toenail problem.  Perhaps she is the one and only person on the planet with that condition, and I was there to see them!

Now that I've written this down, I'm hoping those walking papers will be granted, and the images of Miss Smith's strangely beautiful (in a morbid, creepy sense) toenails will walk right out of my head, and for good.

 

--Fortuitous Observer

Climbing Mountains. Once.

I love finding pictures of myself from years, and years and years ago.  Being that I'm into day 4 on my sick bed (sofa), I started looking through some of my photo albums that have been boxed away for the past year.  Most of the photos are from my adventures in far places.  One photo particularly caught my eye.  This is me from 1993, at the silly young age of 24.  Climbing a mountain in Yosemite Park, CA.

Me!

My friend and I enrolled in a four day mountaineering and climbing school in Yosemite.  This particular picture has special meaning because I truly thought I might never make it down from the mountainside that day.  It was day three of our climbing class.  It was tough.  I had problems early on climbing over a particular crack in the rock and I couldn't move.  I was stranded for nearly 40 minutes trying to maneuver out my predicament.

Strength was leaving me (sayounara, sister), and I wasn't sure if I could make it to the top.  At that moment, just before desperation set in, I heard my friend calling my name.  I thought perhaps he was going to offer me some words of encouragement that would carry me straight to the top of that mountain.  I looked in his direction, waiting to hear those words that would inspire, but instead of, "Come on, you can do it," I heard, "Say cheese!"  Click.  He had taken my picture.  I wanted to laugh, I wanted to cry, I wanted him to repel over the side of the cliff with faulty rope.

Obviously I made it down off that mountain, and I have some fantastic pictures to remember the experience.  I learned two very important things about myself during my climbs on the mountains in Yosemite:

1.  I can do anything I want.  I just have to ask fear to step aside for a bit.

2.  I'm a ground person.  I like the ground.

 

--Fortuitous Observer

Me again!

Today, I am a 7 Year Old Brat Again - Playing Red Rover on the Playground

Because I haven't had a cold like this in ages, I'm not exactly sure how to act.  I'm fidgety, annoyed, bored, tired, cranky, bratty, sick and achy, and I want my mommy to fix me, but I also want to go to the gym, get on the treadmill and sweat this little virus right out of my pores.  For the love of everything glittery and shiny, it is July, and no one should have a flippin' cold in July.

I feel like a whiny brat on the playground again, wiping my stuffy nose on my mittens (except that it isn't cold outside, and I'm not wearing mittens because, well it's JULY, have I mentioned that yet?  It's July!!!), but the difference between then and now is that as a kid, I ignored colds, and continued to play anyway, behaving like a bad tempered little brat if my mom tried to make me slow down and get well.

When did I start letting colds get the best of me?  I nearly wrote that I'm getting old and can't recover as quickly, but I think that isn't true at all (and it would have depressed me into fuzzy-thinking-land had I written that).  I'm more than likely realizing that my body wants to be healthy, and it knows banging out a quick 3 to 4 mile run isn't going to fix things.  That run will only serve to divert the energy my body needs to heal itself to the energy it needs while I'm running.  I can handle that, but seriously no more than today.  I really want to spit and pound my fists on the ground right now.

If I can't get back to work tomorrow I'm going to do something drastic, like pull out my personal journals from 20 years ago and make fun of myself until I cry, or pretend my cats are paper dolls (I loved paper dolls as a kid) and start dressing them in scarves and jewelry and put them on little stands while I snap pictures of them, or rearrange Poseidon's CD collection in reverse alphabetical order.  I'm open to suggestions.

 

--Fortuitous Observer

Is There Anything Worse Than a Summer Cold?

Sure there is...death, blindness, a broken leg, etc., but at this very minute, I'm home with a terrible summer cold and I'm annoyed as all get out.  Seriously, I had a fever yesterday of 100.7!  In July?

I'm unapologetically whining.  I just returned from an out of state trip to my high school reunion (had a great weekend y'all...good to see everyone), went to work on Monday ready to throw myself back into a project that is going "live" this month, and I had to leave early because I started to feel sick!

I want to hit the gym or something, but as much as I always think that will help me get over a cold faster, it doesn't, so I won't.  In fact, I barely had the energy a few minutes ago to fill up my water glass, so getting dressed and finding my running shoes is a pipe dream.  Instead, I'm lying helpless on the sofa, bad tv playing in the background, and both of my cats are asserting squatter's rights on my chest.

 

--Fortuitous Observer

Are You Uncomfortable? I'm Sorry, Can I Buy You a Car?

It distresses me to see people nervous and uncomfortable and I try (at least I think I do) to say things and do things in awkward situations that might put others at ease when they've said or done something that didn't go quite as planned.  I even laugh at jokes that are not particularly funny to save the joke teller from mortification.  Because I've walked in those shoes (well over a mile I might add, with music playing in the background), I'm sensitive to the embarrassment or nervousness that others might be feeling.

Tuesday, while in the waiting room of the spa I visit sometimes (I was going for an eyebrow wax), I noticed the woman sitting across from me was looking very sad and out of sorts.  Maybe a friend gave her a spa gift card or something and she decided to use it.  She just seemed nervous or uncomfortable, or both.  Anyway, I smiled at her and started reading a stupid magazine (it's a local magazine, pretentious at best).

Her aesthetician or masseuse came to get her from the waiting room, and as she stood up, she tripped over her own feet and did an almost tumble.  I could tell she was embarrassed and my knee-jerk reaction was to make her feel better immediately, so I quickly made up a story.  I said, "I did that today at work, I'm such a klutz."  I hadn't done the near face plant to the floor at work, but she didn't know that and I needed to make her feel better.  This complete stranger, who for all I know, could be a serial killer.  I have a compulsion to do whatever it takes to relieve the stress others are feeling in public.  I would have offered to buy her a new car or house if I were independently wealthy (which of course, I'm not), just to take away her awkwardness and make her feel good.

She smiled at me as she left the waiting area and maybe my little white lie helped, maybe she knows I was making it up but appreciated the effort.  I don't know.  Why do I do this?  I'll use my blanket answer for all of these internal questions:  Because I'm neurotic.  That seems to cover it.

--Fortuitous Observer

Taking Up a New Sport After the Age of 40 (Just Might Kill Me)

Boxing class.  The only reason I decided this was a good idea is because I saw one of those Amazon Local coupon deals for boxing/kickboxing classes, so my sister and I gave it a try.  I once read that a person shouldn't take up a new sport after the age of 30, and I think, hogwash.  I took up running at 40, bought a new bike at 41.  Oh, I've had some pain and some nasty spills, but I'm not dead yet.  Having said that, the boxing class nearly did me in.  I went to one class.  One.

I'm not really sure if it was the boxing class, or the yoga class two days later that did the damage, but I pinched a nerve somewhere in my left side that required a round of steroids.  The pinched nerve made me decide that boxing might not be my thing, yet.

I healed from that fiasco, and went back to running.  Now my sister has talked me into something new again.  Pure Barre classes.  These classes combine ballet, yoga, pain, pilates, pain, etc., and are kicking my ass (while shaping it nicely at the same time).  So far, I remain unscathed, and I love that my energy and metabolism have spiked noticeably.  All this brings to mind a saying I read (I don't know who actually said this or I would give them credit), "Health is merely the slowest possible rate at which one can die."

A co-worker drew a graph for me on my whiteboard last week, with an uphill slant he labeled "Youth," a peak labeled "30s" and a sharp, steep drop off he labeled "40s."  That moment you discover youth has packed it's Louis Vitton bag (though I've never owned a Louis Vitton bag, because let's be honest...they are hideous) and headed south.  What?

This graph squicked me out.  I considered taking a picture and adding it to my post, but having to stare at it any longer would have caused irreparable damage to my already fragile psyche, so I erased it, and went back to thinking shiny, happy thoughts.

30s, 40s, WHATEVER (I'm saying this in my best Clueless voice).  My brain and my body feel better when I throw myself into something new (even if I try it only once, you know, like boxing).  I'm open to new forms of torture exercise in order to beat the ageist approach to fitness right out of me (and everyone else if I ever get back to those boxing classes).

 

--Fortuitous Observer

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