We are all of us social animals

Pain Spectrum – red again, and pretty deep at that, but this is mostly due to babysitting our wonderful 1 1/2 year old niece on Saturday. Babies. Cute, cuddly, and capable of debilitating you with one well-placed kick.
BM/RD Index – 12
Fuzz meter – 8

Hi all. Sorry I haven’t posted for a while. I opted to do more physical than mental activities last week, and I haven’t built up the strength yet to do both. Moving doesn’t stop me from thinking, however, and one of the things I’ve been mulling over has been that cocktail party. Not because anything went wrong (and thank you again to everyone for all your suggestions), but because I had been so worried about it. See, I used to be fine at social events. I grew up going to them. Events and dinners and the like were something that, while never truly enjoyable, was at least no big deal. The secret was not to worry, and not to care what others thought of you. Oh, and of course, not to make an ass of yourself. It was relatively simple.

Problem was, somewhere over the last few years I forgot what I had taught myself; I forgot that I could be social. Fortunately, I remembered again once I was there and ended up having an enjoyable evening. But I have been so focused these last few years on maintaining my mobility that I missed the fact that being ill makes me vulnerable to losing more than just that. I joke about turning into a recluse, without really thinking about what a recluse means: “a person who lives an unsocial life”. That is not actually someone I want to be.

Fighting for mobility will always trump remembering how to talk to strangers: I can always re-teach myself how to interact with others, but if my legs go, they’re gone. Still, it would be wrong to downplay how important having a social life is to one’s well-being. I felt good about myself after the cocktail party. I enjoyed meeting new people and saw that I was able to hold it together better than I had hoped. This, in turn, gave me the strength to go out and about more than I would have last week. In short, being out and about helped me to go out and about. Again, something I used to know but had forgotten since the car accident.

There is no quick fix to this: I am not going to start going to clubs and social groups and such: I cannot be a go-out-everyday type of girl. But it has caused me to examine how I interact with others, and I can see that I’ve regressed a bit. I worry more about how I am perceived. I am shyer and less likely to speak in a group. And when I do talk, I tend to censor myself more than I used to (and to those out there who scoff at this, well, obviously, I am not talking about how I interact with you). I don’t think that any severe damage has been done - and I am caustic enough that holding back occasionally can even be seen as a good thing - but it is one more thing that I need to be aware of. I had to fight hard to become comfortable with myself. I don’t feel like losing that out of sheer neglect.

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Cocktails and Klimt

Pain Spectrum – let's try something new and just say yellow. We might all know that I am lying a bit, but so what?
BM/RD Index – 8
Fuzz meter – 7

News Flash: the cocktail party was fun! I was able to work the room and I’m pretty sure I didn’t embarrass my K. For the record, when asked, I introduced myself as a writer and then usually winged it from there. I would talk about the novel if specially asked what I wrote. People were generally amazed to hear that I had already written a book, which surprised me. I guess I am surrounded by so many superb writers (and you all know who you are) that I had forgotten that producing copious amounts of words can be construed as a novel (heh) ability. I was also surprised at how easy it was for me to admit that I have not published, do not have an agent, and am not actively looking for one. Guess that bullshit I always spout about caring more about the writing than the publishing is actually true. Who knew? I always thought I was just scared.

The other mind-blowing surprise: the only people who asked about my disability all are ill themselves, which let to some pretty open and interesting discussions. I met people there who might eventually become friends. Proving yet again that my worst enemy is often myself: I was so scared about making some sort of mistake that I almost didn’t go, which would have been the biggest mistake of all. This is not to say that I didn’t put my foot in my mouth – I wouldn’t be my mother’s daughter if I hadn’t! (Best one - asking the one freaking couple that was NOT a couple how long they had been married for. Yeah. That was uncomfortable. And then she turned out to be in publishing. Oh well.) I just didn’t let it bother me and moved on. All in all, a very cool and eye-opening evening.

Oh – and why the Klimt? My K took me to the Neue Galerie on Friday to see an exhibit of five of Klimt’s paintings. Stunning. Beautiful. Extraordinarily sexy. This, topped off with a light meal at Café Sabarsky, Kurt Gutenbrunner’s restaurant at the museum and one of my favorite places to chill, made for quite an afternoon. I highly recommend it.

Things are getting better. I can feel it. This was a big step, and I don’t think I would have done it without you guys. Thanks again.

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Thank You

Pain Spectrum – we are still going with the "red but I'm going to pretend that it's yellow" thing. It's been working so far!
BM/RD Index – 6
Fuzz meter – 6

So, the cocktail party conundrum post got a bunch of comments, online and off, and wow, did they help. A lot. I’m through with worrying. Instead of trying to format the perfect (and perfectly boring) pat phrase, I am going base my responses on what I think the questioners are like, ask lots of questions, and most of all, HAVE A GOOD TIME! In honor of this decision, I am going to go out tomorrow (by myself!!!!!!) to spurge on a mani-pedi, have my K treat me to lunch, and blow a small wad o’ cash on frivolous things. So to all you SCBFs out there: thanks for reminding me to take everything with a dash of humor. I’ll let you know how things go.

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New post on raves & rants

Pain Spectrum – red again, but I'm going to pretend that it's yellow and see where that gets me.
BM/RD Index – 10
Fuzz meter – 7

Got a bit of a rambling rave for you today if you feel up for it: “Babble Rave”. How is everyone out there feeling today?

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So, what do you do?

Pain Spectrum – red. Yuck. Red seems to be the new green. It's not a heavy red, but still. Rather discouraging. Piffle.
BM/RD Index – 14
Fuzz meter – 6

My K has to go to a cocktail party next week, and I really need (and want) to go with him. Unfortunately, it has been a while since I have gone to an event where I know no one. I’m rusty at the basics. The opening salvo, “What do you do?” will be enough to trip me up. I know this, ‘cause I fobbed the question just last week. In my own home. Where I should be comfortable in saying what I do or do not do. Cue panic!

There are so many ways to answer this question, and none of them seem right. I could rest on past glories (“I used to be in banking”) and hope that my cane will spell out more eloquently than words could as to why I left. I could go with monosyllabic truthfulness (“I write”) and hope no one actually asks if I am successful in this endeavor. (“Er, define success. Making money? Um. No. Not successful then.”) I could, as my mother suggested, spin, (“Well I have a master’s in economics [“say from LSE!” I can hear her prompting] but I’m lucky. My husband supports me and lets me do what I want!”) and not really answer the question at all, while simultaneously showing whomever I am speaking to that my husband, while a saint, is married to a bitch. Or I could just go with the brutalist approach (“I’m ill. I don’t do anything”) and spend the next minute in uncomfortable silence as the questioner tries desperately to slip away. And even if I do somehow survive the “Whatcha do for a living?” question, there is always the “So, what’s the cane for?” minefield that often follows. And people, please, do not even get me started on the “What the fuck am I going to wear?” question. Seriously.

Hmmm. I am beginning to remember why I became a recluse.

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Rest Day

Pain Spectrum – red
BM/RD Index – 10
Fuzz meter – 8

It is raining hard in NYC. I am tired and I hurt and my arm is on fire again. But you know what? That’s okay. My K and I managed to have a beautiful three days of rest and wanderings around our fair city. We had a wonderful 4th, with family and friends and a rooftop BBQ. I physically conked out mid-way through the evening but it didn’t matter because everyone else picked up the slack, even our friends of friends who really didn’t have to. And for once, I didn’t even mind. Yes, I was hurting and I was tired. But I didn’t feel like faking and I didn’t want to run away. So I stayed and sat and had a great time. It is always good for me to remember that, as much as I struggle against the pain, I have to struggle against my attitude towards it as well. All too often I forget that there is nothing for me to be ashamed of; that there is no need for me to be embarrassed by the fact that I am ill. Yesterday, I remembered. That’s got to be worth something.

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