Ants in my Pants and Thoughts in my Head
Something's bugging me. I can't actually pinpoint it, but it's that kind of antsy feeling you get when you know in your gut that you should be doing something else right this second in your life, but your busy doing what you're doing, knowing damn well you shouldn't be doing it.
When I woke up this morning, my head felt like it was locked in a haze of warm fog that moistened my skin and rattled my thoughts. I considered the possible reasons: high humidity in the air, late summer winds in mid-October, lingering Tylenol PM in my blood stream, lack of sleep, or (more probable) too much sleep. I tossed these ideas all out the window. These aren’t the reasons, I thought.
I went about the usual routine that starts when I wake up, fumbling through the necessary evils of humanness like brushing one’s teeth and hair and feeding and dressing one’s body. It ends when I sit on the bus to head into New York five days a week. More than usual, my mind wandered to the place where I become uncomfortable for the choices I have made and the time that I have wasted. I attempted to distract the loaded thoughts by reading, yet as much as I love to read, today I couldn’t concentrate on a single sentence. I gave up, shut the book and placed back into my bag. I pulled out my bottle of water and sipped it slowly, using the icy liquid to cool the warmth of anguish growing inside me.
When we arrive to our destination and the bus tosses us out like too much rubbish, I am less at peace in my heart than when I boarded 35 minutes before. The anguish is chilling my bones, rattling my brain, angering my soul and saddening my heart. I drag myself unwillingly to the next leg of my voyage, heading to a subway system I abhor a little more with each passing day.
Despair creeps in when I realize that after the journey, the destination will be as unfulfilling as arriving for a sale 10 minutes after the store closed for the day. It makes it that much harder to get some place, to remain in a place, when you really don’t want to be there. It is near impossible when you feel so completely unchallenged and unproductive while you are there. That isn’t even to mention the sense of nothingness you achieve at the end of each day when you realize that you’re not much closer to your real dreams than you were 24 hours ago.
There are certainly other life factors that torment me; everyone has them, of course. I don’t claim to be unique in my human nature; no more so than anyone else could claim it. Some things I write down here and others I bottle up, which I imagine can’t be healthy. I remember when I first saw the movie “Titanic”, around 1996. I remember when the old woman playing Rose Dawson told her captive audience on the ship of Titanic explorers “a woman’s heart is a deep ocean of secrets”. She was playing a centenarian, having lived long enough to know what to say and what not to say and, more importantly, when. I nodded in agreement because I believe that statement to be true.
Women are the carriers of secrets and lies, anger and terror, truth and kindness. In each of these are stories to tell and stories to keep. Stories and lies we tell ourselves and others because we think it will make us, or them, feel better. From these tales, tall and short ones, we gain character, conviction, wisdom and willingness. Just like smooth stones piled neatly atop one another, we build upon the gifts we gain and draw strength from them to make decisions, to change our minds, to pick a different path and to grow a different way.
Oftentimes, though we wish it wasn’t so, we falter and hold back what we know we are, or can become. Most of the time, it is fear of failure. Other times it is fear of hurting someone we love or disappointing someone who is proud of us. That image that we put out there on display, masked behind whatever walls we create, is precious to us. We aren’t that quick to part ways with it because it offers a level of comfort that – say what you will – is a refuge.
As I sat on that bus this morning with only my jumbled thoughts to keep me company, I considered the option of calling out at the last minute and wandering through the city for day. After all, I may work in New York City but there is little of the city that I get to enjoy because I am mostly indoors. I considered pacing around Port Authority in search of a random trip – perhaps a hop onto a bus heading to Boston, Pittsburgh, Baltimore, Washington, Anywhere. Moreover, when I arrived to anywhere at some point anytime, would I find the fulfillment there that escapes me here? Probably not. If I am being completely honest, I know that it isn’t the place where I lay my head that creates the change I desperately seek, so much as the places that are within my head that need to cause the changes that will affect me.
My life begins each morning with a chance to do something more. If it ends each night with the lost opportunity, then there is no one to blame but me. I hope that I can rip away this shell of self-doubt that encases me, sooner rather than later, because I know that when I do, I will be greatly successful in the business of being the human I know I was meant to become.
When I woke up this morning, my head felt like it was locked in a haze of warm fog that moistened my skin and rattled my thoughts. I considered the possible reasons: high humidity in the air, late summer winds in mid-October, lingering Tylenol PM in my blood stream, lack of sleep, or (more probable) too much sleep. I tossed these ideas all out the window. These aren’t the reasons, I thought.
I went about the usual routine that starts when I wake up, fumbling through the necessary evils of humanness like brushing one’s teeth and hair and feeding and dressing one’s body. It ends when I sit on the bus to head into New York five days a week. More than usual, my mind wandered to the place where I become uncomfortable for the choices I have made and the time that I have wasted. I attempted to distract the loaded thoughts by reading, yet as much as I love to read, today I couldn’t concentrate on a single sentence. I gave up, shut the book and placed back into my bag. I pulled out my bottle of water and sipped it slowly, using the icy liquid to cool the warmth of anguish growing inside me.
When we arrive to our destination and the bus tosses us out like too much rubbish, I am less at peace in my heart than when I boarded 35 minutes before. The anguish is chilling my bones, rattling my brain, angering my soul and saddening my heart. I drag myself unwillingly to the next leg of my voyage, heading to a subway system I abhor a little more with each passing day.
Despair creeps in when I realize that after the journey, the destination will be as unfulfilling as arriving for a sale 10 minutes after the store closed for the day. It makes it that much harder to get some place, to remain in a place, when you really don’t want to be there. It is near impossible when you feel so completely unchallenged and unproductive while you are there. That isn’t even to mention the sense of nothingness you achieve at the end of each day when you realize that you’re not much closer to your real dreams than you were 24 hours ago.
There are certainly other life factors that torment me; everyone has them, of course. I don’t claim to be unique in my human nature; no more so than anyone else could claim it. Some things I write down here and others I bottle up, which I imagine can’t be healthy. I remember when I first saw the movie “Titanic”, around 1996. I remember when the old woman playing Rose Dawson told her captive audience on the ship of Titanic explorers “a woman’s heart is a deep ocean of secrets”. She was playing a centenarian, having lived long enough to know what to say and what not to say and, more importantly, when. I nodded in agreement because I believe that statement to be true.
Women are the carriers of secrets and lies, anger and terror, truth and kindness. In each of these are stories to tell and stories to keep. Stories and lies we tell ourselves and others because we think it will make us, or them, feel better. From these tales, tall and short ones, we gain character, conviction, wisdom and willingness. Just like smooth stones piled neatly atop one another, we build upon the gifts we gain and draw strength from them to make decisions, to change our minds, to pick a different path and to grow a different way.
Oftentimes, though we wish it wasn’t so, we falter and hold back what we know we are, or can become. Most of the time, it is fear of failure. Other times it is fear of hurting someone we love or disappointing someone who is proud of us. That image that we put out there on display, masked behind whatever walls we create, is precious to us. We aren’t that quick to part ways with it because it offers a level of comfort that – say what you will – is a refuge.
As I sat on that bus this morning with only my jumbled thoughts to keep me company, I considered the option of calling out at the last minute and wandering through the city for day. After all, I may work in New York City but there is little of the city that I get to enjoy because I am mostly indoors. I considered pacing around Port Authority in search of a random trip – perhaps a hop onto a bus heading to Boston, Pittsburgh, Baltimore, Washington, Anywhere. Moreover, when I arrived to anywhere at some point anytime, would I find the fulfillment there that escapes me here? Probably not. If I am being completely honest, I know that it isn’t the place where I lay my head that creates the change I desperately seek, so much as the places that are within my head that need to cause the changes that will affect me.
My life begins each morning with a chance to do something more. If it ends each night with the lost opportunity, then there is no one to blame but me. I hope that I can rip away this shell of self-doubt that encases me, sooner rather than later, because I know that when I do, I will be greatly successful in the business of being the human I know I was meant to become.
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