La Vida es Bueno

I haven't been writing regularly, which might be affecting my mental health, but I'm writing more in my personal journal, so maybe I'm less crazy than I think. How does that work?

Yesterday, I had this complete sense of peace all day long. This rarely happens. Normally I'm running around like Ricochet Rabbit, like I've lost some critical body part that I can't find. Yesterday, I didn't feel like that at all. I just felt whole.

I had a weird couple of days there before yesterday. I went to a small group through my church on Thursday because I have essentially no friends who have the same fundamental beliefs that I do, and I thought it may be a good opportunity to network with some people who share my faith. So. In my typical fashion, I made a few nervous attempts at icebreakers that pretty much left the room silent, like I was doing stand up comedy for the morgue. Some guy said that he was from Jersey, so I started fist pumping, and nobody got the "Jersey Shore" reference. Maybe one should not fist pump at a small group meeting?

I never know the rules.

Maybe I do know them and I ignore them because I always try to talk myself into being a bad ass, which I am not. I'm actually pretty sensitive and then I hide behind my projected bad assity. Ha. Bad assity. That's funny.

Back to rules.

I never know the rules for friendships or work or dating or school or church or funerals or parties. I just sort of wing it and hope I don't make too many people mad. The whole time my brain is in a fog, like I'm some sort of nut job serial antagonist, and I can't catch a glimpse of clarity because I'm so caught up in the energy of the moment that all social norms get thrown under the bus.

Anyway. That was weird.

Friday I had my review at work, and despite the glowing monologue of how hard I work and how I have improved the quality of life in this office (insert inappropriate violin vibrato making hand gesture), I got such an insult of a raise that I was offended and felt a little bit like I wanted to take my fist and break every window in my office. I kept trying to think, "a wee little slap-in-the-face raise is better than no raise, and eat least you have a job, Rach." but I have had this ridiculous, perma-PMS recently, where I cry at insurance commercials, and I think I've just been in a heightened catastrophic state for a few weeks now that amped up the whole review process. Plus, I need a lot of affirmation/validation from authority figures for one reason or another, and I think getting jelly beans for working my ass off more than 40 hours a week hurt my feelings, like when you're in a serious relationship and your boyfriend forgets to call you on your birthday. It's not the end of the world and it's not that you expected fancy jewelry- you just wanted them to remember your special day. Is that the lamest thing I've ever said? Don't judge me. I have perma-PMS and an external locus of control.

Friday night, I had dinner with my coworker and her parents, and I recalled that the last time I'd been in a real home in L.A. was over a year ago. Just seeing pictures of little kids and old people and FAMILY made me feel like a champ. I've become quite the sentimental sap recently. Maybe I've always been like this? My perceived self and real self are completely incongruent, so who knows, but the bottom line here is that I felt really safe and really content. Plus, my picture made the fridge. I was on the freaking fridge! That made me feel great, too. I got some good parental counseling from her parents, and we must have talked for over two hours about my current quarter life crisis. I felt a little more stable when I left, like I'd spent that time over candles and pizza and jazz music normalizing my 25 year tornado of insanity.

On Saturday, I bet I woke up at 8:30 a.m. and started cooking. I should preface this by saying that I burn everything. I have trust issues with people, situations, and recipes. Is this because I am a control freak? Is this because of negative life experiences? I am insecure about my cooking skills because I burn things and always CONVINCE myself that there IS NO WAY that a pie can bake in 30 minutes- better leave it in for 45. If I'd just trust the effing recipe, I'd do fine, but no, no, no. I have to alter everything because I like improv and because I don't trust recipes.

My mom told me something regarding aviation a long time ago, and I don't remember the context of our conversation, but I remember her saying that one of the first things you learn in flight school is to "trust your instruments." A lot of times pilots' equilibrium and crap gets all jacked up there in the sky, and they don't know up from down, and even if something looks safe, it might not be, so they have to TRUST THEIR INSTRUMENTS. So. I started trusting my instruments. Er, recipes.

I cooked up a storm ALL DAY on Saturday. I trusted my recipes. I made the best food ever. I have never fried anything a day in my life, and I even fried okra. Yes, I did. The menu was as follows: sausage and chicken gumbo with rice, black eyed peas, fried okra, cornbread, golden coconut pie, peach cobbler, and sweet tea. I am a champ.

My favorite Tennessean/Los Angelian and I co-hosted our annual south party on Saturday, and it was delicious. I've discovered that I have this immense sense of fulfillment, purpose, and satisfaction when I can do something for someone else; whether it is helping a friend move or making them food. I love the feeling that comes with serving someone. I think that's why I get so depressed at work. I spent 85% of my life there and I don't feel like I'm helping people. My cook fest on Saturday made me realize that I need to regularly do something for someone else to have that sense of purpose consistently.

Now we're at yesterday. I laid (layed? lay? lain? I used to be really good at English...I need to get back into school ASAP) by my pool for several hours, sprawled out on a chair like a starfish, reading "The Catcher in the Rye," which I haven't read since college. I was laughing my head off, out loud, like I'd just escaped from the loony bin. I forgot how crazy funny that book is.

After taking it easy all day, I sat out on my porch in the sun with my bikini top and oxford shirt and boxers on, barefoot and fresh and white trashy, eating a bowl of gumbo and listening to the wind in the palm trees. Made me realize how lucky I am.

It's good to be alive today. It's good to be alive every day. I just need to remember it more and not focus so much on the negative.