I'm not naming a new reality show: I'm sharing.
My Naturopath is mad at me. Has been for some time. "How do you think you can live the life you're living" etc. "You need to slow down" and so on. "I knew you were an adrenaline junkie when you walked in, from those dark circles under your eyes" Blah Blah Personal Health. Blah Blah.
This year-ago conversation has made me do two things over the last few months:
1) Search all over ebay for a button-maker so that I can print a small button than not only I--but all of you whose naturopaths are also mad at you--I mean, there has to be at least 9 of us--can have the grave joy of telling the truth on our respective lapels.
I can see it in tiny font, white on black. You're with me. This has led to further frustration because all button makers are quite expensive. Plus I don't know which one to buy*. Plus I spent all sorts of time oline shopping for something I didn't have the cash or the chutzpah to purchase when I could have been doing yoga.
2) It's made me take an inventory of all that I do to determine whether or not it's My Life Worthy. I have managed to quit doing roughly two tasks in the last 10 months since seeing aforementioned Naturopath and would consider that a small victory, though I can tell you that I now don't sleep from worry over what a pain it is that those things I am no longer doing are having to be done by someone else.
This "progress" as I would see it will not be a shared evaluation, I fear, when I go to see my Angry Naturopath on Tuesday. I am fully expecting to wait a while in the earth-toned waiting room next to a very soothing bamboo plant, be called in to the office, be scolded, and then go home to invent ways to swallow even bigger supplements with names like Mental Illness Chamomile Extract and be forced to give up coffee in favor of Shriveled Soul Wellness Tea.
I have turned to the solace of my Upper Room today to try to ready my own scattered head for the upcoming verbal lashing about the bags under my eyes, my eye twitch, and the glazed look on my face when I hesitate after she asks me which day of the week it is.
Here's my favorite shirt. It's too big. I took my huge scissors to it to try to make it fit me and I obliterated the poor thing. Working too fast. Yeesh. Even my scissors are all dull. Literally. And Metaphorically.
Have I been upstairs sewing beautifully-backlit gifts for Others, you ask. No, honey. I have been trying to clean the place up, since I do, in fact, know that this room is a fat metaphor for my insides, so I figure it I straigthen it, I'll be readier with my cool-headed response to the Naturopath.
So when she says, "I think you need to slow down."
I will say, "I think you're right, but I find the need to pay my mortgage greater than my desire for a nap and so while it's true that great Personal Time would be wise for me, I am actually working even more than when I saw you last."
Instead of, "Sure. We'll move in with you, Lady."
I fear I have let down not only her, but all of you. I haven't offered a single decent gift idea for Christmas. I have refused to tell you what I'm (not) making. And I've been downright quiet over here in what is otherwise a noisy little corner.
Apologies to you, friends. I'll be back at the machine soon. I have a tshirt quilt to make for a friend, a laptop sleeve to sew up for myself, some strange ideas about making books with old game boards, and even more old quilt squares to frankenstein around with. Oh--and my Chenille Dealer just coughed up some new goods. It's gonna be hoppin in the new year.
In the meantime: light something for me. I'm about to get an organic spanking from a woman who will be telling me it's for my own good.
*Please do advise, WDT Bloggish People Friends, I need full-blow advice. I'm serious about wanting a button press, unwilling to pay more than about 50 bucks. well, really 10 if I'm honest. And I want to make small ones. And I want to be able to slide a tiny piece of fabric in there if I feel like it.