Whiskers on Kittens.
Over the last few days I have had the following conversation about thirty times:
Me: I think I’m manic.
The Actually: You’re not manic.
Me: Are you sure? Because I have a million ideas racing through my head, and last night I couldn’t get to sleep until eleven.
The Actually: Eleven, huh?
Me: I didn’t say it was a full-blown mania, it could be the beginning stages. Also, I did a bunch of online shopping at work today.
The Actually: It’s Christmas.
Me: It’s just…I have all this energy, and I’m so excited about everything.
The Actually: That’s called “happiness.” Now leave me alone.
I am very suspicious of both happiness and excitement–I always have been. Some of this is the result of growing up with a manic depressive father and learning at a young age to scrutinize his behavior for the signs of exuberance that generally precipitated the less benign stages of mania. But much is merely my temperament. It is in my nature to be suspicious of happiness. Happiness is dangerous. Before a man is crushed by a falling piano, he inevitably steps out into the fresh air drawing in a deep, satisfied breath and exclaiming over the beautiful day.
But there is simply no denying that I am in a perilously good mood.
I know people say scratch a cynic and you’ll find a closeted optimist, but I’ve always maintained that if you scratch a cynic all you’ll find is a pissed-off cynic demanding to know why you’re scratching him. But here I am, and it is hard to write blog entries when I find myself so…out of character. No one wants to read me burbling over my lovely fiance and beautiful wedding and finally-concrete reproductive plans, and yet that is all I seem able to do. The Actually is happy, I am happy–we’re both so goddamn happy I could vomit.
So enough about that.
Instead, let me tell you about the other day, when I fell face first into the coffee table.
No, I hadn’t been drinking. It was something far more treacherous than alcohol that caused my accident: it was exercise.
You see, I am getting married in five months. In an effort to ensure that I do not look like a satin-swathed Hindenberg floating down the aisle, I am attempting to get back to my fighting weight. Or my bickering weight, at the very least.
Because I feel about diets the way nature feels about vacuums, I have decided that I must start burning more calories. I quite enjoy weight lifting, and I recently ran across an interesting weight workout designed specifically for brides with at least three months before their wedding (Yes, I found it in a wedding magazine. Shut up.). I figured my extra two months would give me a buffer for the many times I am sure to skip my workout in favor of watching West Wing reruns and eating pieces of cheese dipped in melted cheese. All very well and good, except that the first exercise turned out to be anatomically impossible.
I tried, really I did. I lay on a mat, and I crossed my feet over each other in an improbable fashion and raised myself up on one arm so as to form a sort of isosceles triangle, and it wasn’t until I attempted to raise my other arm, the one holding a five-pound weight, that I lost my balance and fell straight forward into the coffee table.
So, things aren’t all bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens over here. It’s more bright copper kettles and the occasional humiliating snafu. Next time, remind me to tell you about how I fell off my stability ball and knocked over our Christmas tree.
16 Comments
Burble away! I won’t mind! :)
Cute. CUTE. I, too, am not naturally happy, being a cynical, anxious, depressive-type, but HOLY SHIT, the excitement, despite frustrating external circumstances, it bubbles out of me like some kind of wild bottle of champagne. I feel obnoxious.
But the thing is, dude, I’m so happy you’re happy and I DO want to hear about your happiness. They say it’s a choice, is what they say. That we can choose to be happy, even though it’s a big risk because if we let our guard down, we live in fear of the piano.
Whatever. I digress. I’m excited for you! Oh so excited! And happy! Obnoxiously happy!
(Incidentally, I fell into our glass coffee table a few years ago, DANCING, of all annoying things. Oh man, do I feel you here.)
You’re so right about the piano man.
I bet he was having an AWESOME day before the thing fell on him.
I’d rather have a moment of happiness before the piano crashed down then look up and say: “Well THAT figures.” Besides, dude, I DO want to read about you a bubbly and happy. It’s what I wish for you. And apparently, my wishes have come true.
The coffee table? Is why I avoid exercise. It’s hazardous to my health. And yours, apparently.
Those stability balls are DANGEROUS. I fell off mine and hurt my elbow as I got wedged in the doorway. OUCH. I shake with fear when I look at that thing now.
Glad to hear you are happy! Like Flicka I DO want to read about happiness and things that are “good”.
Dude, people LOVE the burble. Yay burble! (I am burbling about burbling. Which is technically metaburbling. Ask any scientist.)
I’m glad things are going well. And you look hott in that dress already, so don’t sweat it. (That was a pun. My new thing is to do something in a comment and then tell you what I just did in parentheses.)
No warm woolen mittens? The bright copper kettle is certainly a lure, but without www? I don’t know - that’s a tough one.
When I used to take yoga I fell over all the time, and the teacher always looked at me like there was something wrong with me. I told her I don’t have super-human strength or balance, two things needed to do some of the moves she forced on us.
I had a similar conversation before my wedding too, albeit with my therapist. I was really worried about how much, I think I called it “euphoria,” I was feeling and she said “I believe the clinical term for what you are feeling is happiness.” Huh. Fear not the burble!
Dude, I want that ball story, like, yesterday. Falling holiday decorations and balls is a recipe for heaven.
Hi! I just spent an embarrassingly long time reading your archives. And I’m still not done. But I felt compelled to say that I’m glad you’re feeling happy, too. And that your NKOTB reference takes me back to a weird place. And that your post that mentions a rabbit named Bun-Bun made me think about MY rabbit named Bun-Bun (R.I.P.) and how much I would like to reread “Bunnicula” and “The Celery Stalks at Midnight.”
I have to say, I enjoy reading about your happiness. It is suprisingly infectious–in a good way, not in a germ-filled way. I am definitely one of those cynics irritated by scratching…
I’m with everyone: burble away!
And I, too, am terrified of happiness. Falling pianos and all that. Le sigh. But, no, you should enjoy this time. Enjoy it, goddammit!
Worst falling-into-a-coffeetable story I know is this: A girl (NOT ME, I swear) and her boyfriend are laying on the couch, watching TV with a group of friends. Boyfriend farts. Girl jumps up and starts to run away, screeching about the stink. She slips on a magazine that was left on the floor. She falls backward into the coffee table. And she breaks a rib.
I think there’s a lesson in there for all of us.
“That’s called ‘happiness.’ Now leave me alone.”
BWA HA HA HA!
Who ever said exercise was healthy?
I love that you’re happy. And I’ve never trusted those stationary balls.