It's Monday night and Sam has already taken the Ohio Bar Exam. This means that after three years of living with a law student and three months of living with what basically amounted to a plucky, zombie with non-rotting skin and a blonde pixie cut, I have my sister back. And she's so relaxed. For example, a commercial just came on for Conan the Barbarian and the dialogue went like this:
Sam: OOH! Khal Drogo!
Me: What?
Sam: This really hot guy from... um...
Me: What are you talking about?
Sam: Conan the Barbarian!
Me: You're just saying nouns!
Sam: Sorry! Sorry. This is the movie, Conan the Barbarian. The guy playing Conan was
in the show, Game of Thrones. His character on the show was named Khal Drogo.
Me: Oh.
In her own words, "I'm excited to cook dinner, I don't get angry about unloading the dishwasher and I don't cry when people leave their pots and pans in the sink. I just feel, like, completely relaxed." Is it articulate enough a sentiment to hold up in a court of law? That's not really for me to decide, but it's really nice coming home from work and having a buddy to do stupid shit with.
After what I'll call a moment of clarity at the doctor's office recently, I've resolved to stop sneaking my favorite little cylindrical vices (among other things) and just to generally treat my body more like organic matter that requires a certain internal environment to function properly and less like the side of the couch on which I may or may not wipe boogers.
I think a lot of this attempt at a commitment to health has to do with the fact that I don't feel invincible anymore. When I was in my early twenties, I felt like I could drink a quart of well whiskey, puke it up, have some taco bell, drive myself home and still wake up the next morning and be able to function. Now, if I have a beer and go to bed without drinking a glass of water, I wake up feeling congested and headachy. I used to smoke a pack and a half of cigarettes a day. Now, if I smoke even one, I feel it all day. I used to be able to eat whatever I wanted and now if I don't eat enough fruits and veggies, I feel like I'm lumbering around like a bloated raccoon. I know the appropriate response to this is the time-marches-on resignation to "getting older," but for someone who relishes the ability to pleasure-seek without consequence, in other words this chick *points at self*, it sucks!
I get all temper-tantrum-feeling knowing that a diet of pulled pork, Marlboro reds and bourbon isn't going to work out for me on a permanent basis. Now I have to add it all to the list of things that I'll be able to do when I die and go to heaven, right along with "shred like Eddie Van Halen."
So meanwhile, never to be defeated by my own sabotage (or at least, not for long), I have needed to find better ways to blow off steam. Writing is obviously one of those things, so one of the things I've committed to do is write or edit at least one thing every day.
It's weird coming of age. I was watching Sam read a borrowed kindle, as content as a housecat, while I leaned against the kitchen counter, having my evening carrot and watching Hoarders. She gave me this weird look and I asked her what was up. She said she wanted to keep reading but she didn't want to stay on her ass anymore. I suggested that she come have an evening carrot-in-lieu-of-a-cigarette with me.
"We could pace," she said.
"I never really paced," I replied. "I leaned." I handed her a carrot and she crunched into it with the sort of dramatic flair only possessed by almost-lawyers.
"We could always stretch." And she showed me a stretch that involved your top half eventually going totally limp over your bottom half, thereby folding herself completely in half. The way you fold a baby only vertical and the other way around.
"Nah, I like tree pose," and I proceeded to chew my carrot like a Cuban cigar and pose like a statue of Shiva while Sam wobbled over with each attempt.
"You know, Amanda: Carrots. Cigarettes. They both start with C." She started trailing off. "Carcinogens versus Keratin...."
"Really?" I said.
"Cornucopias of cantankerous carrots to cancel carcinogenic cigarettes, perhaps?"
"Oh, jesus."
Then I told her about how I had writer's block and asked her to give me a theme.
"Why not write about your metamorphosis from a cigarette smoker to a carrot eater. It could be, like, a touching coming of age drama. Also, use some alliterations. Those are fun."
"Done."
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