Living It Wrong

I know I haven't written in a while. I've thought about it several times, but each time have stopped because right now, I kind of feel like I'm nothing, and nothings shouldn't write.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not depressed, and I don't feel depressed about being nothing. I just feel like it's a temporary setback and it's something I can easily change, once I figure out how. I am fully capable of being something. I'm just not... realizing that capability right now. I am unbelievably grateful for all the good things in my life, and there are plenty. But I'm not living this life the way I should. I'm just taking in food and air. Oh, and beer. That too.

It's been six days since...

I exercised.
Now, you may not guess from looking at me, but before my surgery on Monday I was exercising almost every day. When I was told I couldn't exercise for two weeks, I nodded grimly, telling myself in my head, "That would be OPTIMAL, but I'm sure just taking ONE week off would be fine. We can get through one week, Mandie, we can do it."
And so began a week of my leg muscles perpetually screaming at me. If you're used to working out and suddenly have to stop, you might be familiar with the extreme discomfort that ensues. Sitting at my desk at work shifting the legs again and again, I'd tell myself, "It'll be ok. After this week, you'll work out like it's your job. You'll get a sleeping bag and camp outside of the gym so you can have the pick of the machines at 5 a.m. You're going to break your distance record this year. Running and biking. You'll run 40 miles. Why not 50? You'll bike across the midwest. You will banish your beer belly to the land of wind and ghosts."
But, when you're coming down from any addiction, it's my understanding that only the first few days are tough, and then there's this hump you get over, and it's easy from there.
I've gotten over the hump. Why, oh why oh why, did I have to inadvertently kick the only addiction I've ever wanted to keep?
Yesterday I felt like I was at a breaking point. During the 10 1/2 straight hours I sat at my desk working on release notes, I felt like my leg muscle cells were beginning to commit suicide, one by one. It started with my left calf but the rest of them followed like lemmings. Ignore the mass suicide below your waist, Mandie. Make sure all the feature descriptions are in bold font. HOW CAN I THINK ABOUT FONT RIGHT NOW? THAT'S IT. I CAN'T DO THE WHOLE WEEK. TOMORROW I'M GOING TO THE GYM. THE GYM OPENS AT 7. THEREFORE I AM 14 HOURS AWAY FROM SALVATION. 13:59...
So, this morning, I woke up right at 7, as I promised myself, and realized... dear God... I'd kicked the habit.
My legs felt awesome. In fact, they'd realized inactivity was their favorite thing. If anything, they were a little bit tired by all that walking I'd done this week from the car to the apartment.
"Come on legs! We're going to the gym, just like I promised you! I'll never put you through 6 days of inactivity again!"
My legs slurred something along the lines of "hellllllll naw" and told me their plans for the day involved nothing other than being horizontal and being warm. In fact, if I really wanted to give them a treat, I'd take them to a tanning bed. I tried to reason with the legs and explain that no tanning salons were open yet and if I did go tanning, I'd have some pretty hilarious lines due to half my chest being bandaged up. They were like "Whatever, just don't you dare try to put us on an exercise bike, we will shin splint you up BAD if we have to."
So. It doesn't look like I'm working out today. But maybe tomorrow... or maybe I'll at least find a mall to walk around... or do a sit up... or... I did watch Super Size Me recently, that has to count for something...

It's been two weeks since...

I took my foster cat to his first and only adoption event. I'm planning on taking him to another one today, despite the fact I'm not supposed to lift over 10 pounds and my cat's rear end (I couldn't get all of him on the scale at once) weighs 10.4.
I suck at giving back to the community. There are some causes I really care about, animal welfare being one of them, but I kind of feel like every time I try to volunteer for something, the volunteer organization and even the people (or animals) I'm helping are just kind of humoring me.
My foster cat is a marshmallow with fur.
I mean, I like him a lot, but I don't think any volunteer work could feel less like volunteer work. I just basically go about my life but sometimes have a catblob on my lap. In fact, for three months I just owned said catblob and didn't have to do anything with him, because the organization hadn't yet scheduled a vet appointment so I couldn't start trying to find him a home.
Despite being a blob, my cat is generally happy and friendly. He'll come greet any guests I have in my apartment and rub against their legs.
That's in my apartment, though. When I brought him to the adoption event two weeks ago, he transformed into a dense immovable object made of misery and fur. He devoted the entire two and a half hours I was there to attempting to fuse himself to the corner of his cage at the molecular level. (I promise the girl who got a C in high school physics will never try to make a science analogy again.) Most people did not realize the cat was there. One toddler tried to reach for him, saying "kittycat," but said toddler's dad pulled him back, saying, "No, kittycat is sleeping. Why don't you look at a puppy?"
The head of the volunteer organization told me I didn't have to stay there. So, probably the most charitable thing I'd done for animals that day, I took my kittycat home.
I'm supposed to bring him to at least two events a month. I don't know if he'll get any better at this. I'm pretty sure no one is going to come to an adoption event saying, "I want a pudgy three-year-old tabby who hates everything."
But, doing my part. Sometimes there may just be a fine line between helping animals and abusing them...

But it's also been two weeks since...

I filled out an application for another volunteer organization, this being one that helps homeless people in Chicago. I finally heard back from them, and to find out more, I'll need to go to an orientation a week from today.
The orientation, obviously, is downtown. Me + downtown = several hours of studying maps and train schedules. So, if I'm going to go, the planning phase has to begin now.
But in order for me to do this (especially if it involves going downtown on a regular basis) I'm going to have to feel like I'm actually doing some good. I'm a little afraid that, like most of my attempts to give back, it will be me just kind of hanging out asking, "Can I help anyone with anything? No? You got this? Okay, I'm... uh... here if you need me..."

It's been nine months since...

I traveled. I don't have a whole lot to say about this one. Just that I'm ready to travel again. I'm finally over the jet lag and ready for a new adventure.

It's been over two years since...

I lived with someone who talked to me.
I think that, paired with the fact that I work in a cubicle instead of in a customer service type job now (which I'm fine with!) is part of the reason what little social skills I may have had are gone. You'd never guess this if you met me in the past two years, but I used to classify myself as an extrovert and now I'd imagine most people would call me shy at best and antisocial at more likely.
Everyone has to live alone at some point. Well, not everyone, by "everyone" I really meant "me." But it's amazing sometimes thinking of the things I used to take for granted. Like that I had someone to say hi to when I came home from work. Like if I wanted to go to a store or restaurant I had someone to invite along. Or rent a movie. Or go for a walk.
And more than that, I had some degree of accountability when I lived with roommates. People who knew what I was doing or not doing with my life. A reason to maintain some semblance of normalcy.
Things weren't perfect but there are some things I miss.
Last night I had a dream that I was living with a friend. A friend I used to be really close to. There was nothing to the dream, really. It was morning and we were just lounging around and talking. Kind of like when I used to have roommates, except one thing was different in my dream. I wasn't really talking much, I was listening more. My friend was telling stories and I was intently listening, laughing at the funny ones, feeling like she was glad I was there to lend an ear.
And in my dream, I felt like life was good. I felt like I was living it right. I don't feel that way when I'm awake at all. Could listening be the key? I know I'm not a good listener. If I could have those years back and talk half as much and listen twice as much, would I feel like I hadn't failed them? (Yes, I look at myself as "passing" or "failing" certain years of my life. I've failed some of them. Worse than high school physics.)
So, I could pick that dream as the lesson that life is giving me today (rather than looking for meaning in my other, more depressing dream from last night, where I lived alone in a small apartment with about 10 cats). I want to have that feeling in real life, that I'm okay, that I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing, that my life is on track and I'm not a waste of space. Maybe that feeling is not found in running 50 miles or being a pet savior or volunteer work or traveling across the world (though there's nothing wrong with pursuing any of those things) but just in listening to a friend.

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I didn't really plan this post to reach any kind of conclusion. It kind of got to one, though. That tends to happen when I write blogs. Random unrelated thoughts get tied together into a cohesive whole. It's the English major in me, I suppose. The majority of literary analysis is just comparing things to other things and finding our own subjective meaning of things. We leave the objective analysis to the physicists.