Not idly. . .

Not idly fall the stilettos of Lothlórien.

Golden Girls/StarWars mashup. . .

A friend posted this on Facebook and it gave me the lolz. 

I would have left Estelle Getty in there and added Maz Kanata for a quartet of sassy fun. 

Maz Kanata: "I like that wookie." Blanche: "Me too. And he's hung like a tauntaun, if you know what I mean." Dorothy: "That's disgusting, Blanche." Rose: "I don't know, he sounds like fun. Sophia: "I wouldn't touch him with a lightsaber. "

The micro-miracle

The recession has made God rethink the use of his resources. He wants to be sustainable.

After careful consideration, he's decided causing countless micro-miracles is more energy-efficient that prompting the occasional big, GOD-in-neon-lights, kind of miracle. Seeing your crush at the grocery store? Yes. Walking on water? Less likely.

God conceived of the micro-miracle after observing the power of the micro-loan or mini-grant models adopted by nonprofits like Heifer International. He likes to joke that he's the original nonprofit. The angels usually force laughter.

So anyhow, you had one of these micro-miracles granted to you in the last month.

It may have been hearing your favorite song on the radio when you were feeling depressed. It may have been finding an unexpected stash of coins that let you to buy a cup of Starbucks when you thought you'd have to do without your day's one luxury.  First world problems hurt, too.

This is not a chain letter. Fail to forward it and nothing bad will happen. Forward it and your friends will feel inconvenienced. 

Shopping frenzy...

I was at a thrift store the other day and I had a handful of clothes. 

I hadn't been able to find a cart, but I wanted room to be more handsy with the racks and, in case of treasure, grab more. 

I set the clothes down in a corner and went back to the rack and, suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I see two women lurking near my stashed clothes. And I was like, "These bitches better not take my clothes."

Upon closer look, it turns out that the bitches were mannequins.

A disturbing ennui...

Have you ever been on Pinterest, and you've looked at so many pictures of cute animals that you start to feel totally blasé? Like, yes, I see the kitten is small and furry and by all accounts adorable. But I feel nothing.

You start to wonder if you are dead inside. Again cute kitten. Again nothing.




Then you tune into the news: wars, presidential posturing, heinous crimes and general mayhem and meanness.

And the next time you see a picture of a kitten, you realize how much you needed to see it.

Squee!

My life...

My life's an open source code.
Embed it if you dare.
You'll spend your teen years listening to Depeche Mode.
And your adult life typing in a chair.

—Sarah Torribio

So I have anxiety. . .

I'm coming out as suffering from anxiety.

Let me rebrand that in a more positive way. I'm living with anxiety. No, what I mean is I'm thriving through anxiety.

Call it what you want...

But I have lots of free-floating worry. Sometimes it morphs into full-blown panic. Blame it on my personality, my upbringing, my environment, the madness of modern times or an insufficiency of seratonin. I think it's a combination of each of these factors.

It does occasionally get me down. There are volumes contained in that word DOWN, by the way, but I'll leave it at that for now.

I'm not good at just pushing through things. And I believe in being frank about my experience, because I constantly meet other anxious people. My perspective may be able to help someone feel less alone.

I take medication. I've been to therapy many times, and probably will need another counseling tuneup—a checkup from the neck up—before long. I'm also an unrepentant devourer of self-help books.

But anxiety aside, I've got one life to live. (Unless it turns out that there is such a thing as reincarnation, in which case my point is still applicable: I have one life to live at a time.)

I do what I need to do. I mother my kids.  I drive my car. I "adult," as they say, dealing with bank-tellers and bosses.

I also do what I want to do. I'm a writer, so I conduct interviews. Thanks to some entertainment writing I've done, I could even drop a few names, if it were in good taste. Okay, you pulled my arm: Perry Farrel, Adam Ant, Rick Springfield, Henry Rollins, Scotty McCreery, Sandra Bernhard. . .

I'm a musician myself, and have gotten on stage a few times. I hope to do it some more in the future. I also was, before the recession intervened, an adjunct professor in the communications program at a community college. I've been in front of classroom full of students, and if that's not nerve-wracking, I don't know what is.

I think I'm done touting my resilience. I'd venture to guess that this getting on with things despite anxiety is prevalent to an unknown and unbelievable number of people.

How many of us must steel ourselves for a family gathering? And how many of us simultaneously see the irony in having to brace for something that's meant to be a joyful occasion, something that helps keep our support system strong—which is especially important when you have a mood disorder.

My advice to people with anxiety, in general, is as follows: Don't disappear. Know you're not alone. Reach out for help. Try everything. Don't beat yourself up for being imperfect. In fact, from the objective stance of a pretty good day, I can write a phrase that sounds to me like a small epiphany.

"You're not a broken human being because you have trouble controlling worry and fear. You're just extra-human." Not super-human, although that would be great, because you could tell all obstacles, inner and outer, to go to hell.

And keep your eye out for what other people who have experienced anxiety have to say about it. It can be inspiring and enlightening.

I encountered a couple valuable quotes just today while browsing through the enormous shopping mall of the mind that is Pinterest. First, there's this gem by Kierkegaard.

That's a good way to think about it. My significant other Brian, who sometimes has moments of startling insight, occasionally reminds me, "You're not anxious. You're excited." When you spend a lot of time trying to tamp down fear, you become hyper-vigilant. Adrenaline is adrenaline and so, if your inner anxiety police are working overtime, they can confuse eagerness, anticipation and exhilaration with terror. True story.

And here's another.

Can you imagine that? Georgia O'Keeffe, that desert walker, that world painter, terrified?!

So who am I to curse my fate—to rail against being born with what sometimes feels like a rabbit heart. I'm human and I'm in good company.

—Sarah Torribio