This is my face we're talking about, listen up

I made facial and massage appointments at a local spa to commemorate the graceful aging of Adina and Julia. I spoke with a lovely and seemingly centered woman, Julie, who was very helpful and informative of what we could do for how much. After I made the appointment though, I went back on their website and read a brief description of body treatments. Euuu, body treatments, I thought. That sounds nice and possibly might end in me sitting in a pool of chocolate.

So I call back the spa to get more info on the body treatments. Thus begins the stupidest conversation I have ever had with a man. And this includes conversations I've had with John B, Alirio (who didn't speak english), and Claude.

Just a brief description of the guy on the other end of the phone: he sounded like he was in his early 20s, maybe a recent college graduate, maybe a math major or biology major. He had a really normal voice, in fact too normal sounding to be working at a holistic spa. Like maybe while he was on the phone with me, he was checking ESPN or looking at boobs. Which would be a totally acceptable thing for a dude at work to be doing, if my spiritual well being wasn't being discussed.

Anyway, here is the conversation. At any point, you can insert me shaking my fist in the air or just shoving it down my throat to contain my frustration.

guy: Hello, this is so-and-so spa, this is so-and-so speaking.
me: Hi. I just made an appointment for two on Thursday for a facial and massage. But I was just looking at your website, and I wanted to know a little bit more about the body treatment because we might want to do that instead.
guy: But the facials last an hour.
me: Well, we are getting the half hour ones.
guy: And the massages are an hour too.
me: Right, we're getting half hour massages as well.
guy: But the body treatments are an hour each.
me:...right. We are thinking about getting the body treatments in lieu of the facial and massage.
guy: But the facials last an hour. (this part of the conversation runs on loop for about five minutes.)

me: Ok. Let's start over. Hi, I'm Adina.
guy: uh, hi.
me: Ok. Could you please tell me what is involved with the body treatments.
guy: What do you mean?
me: Well, I've never been to a spa before. And I've never had a body treatment. And I am just wondering what happens during a body treatment.
guy: But I thought you were getting a facial and massage.
me: (head exploding) Um, yes. That is what I have scheduled for right now. But I just want to know what a body treatment is. Just tell me what a body treatment is. (again, with the conversation looping and the head exploding)

me: Look, all I want to know is...what exactly is a body treatment?
guy: Well, it's like, a treatment...for the body.
me: (giant pause to let him take a second to hear what he is saying to me.) You're saying...a body treatment...is like...a treatment for the body.
guy: Yeah. With body scrub.
me: A treatment for the body with body scrub.
guy: yeah.
me: (vein in forehead throbbing) ok. so does someone put the body scrub on you? or do you sit in a pool of body scrub? or on a table?
guy: uh, well someone like, scrubs you down.
me: someone scrubs you down.
guy: yeah.
me: scrubs you down. seriously.
guy: well, yeah. with the scrub.
me: ok. ok. so. ok. so. after the...scrub down...then what happens? are you like, wrapped up? or just...covered in scrub?
guy: well, then you get washed off and then someone massages you for a while.
me: I see.
guy: You should really get a facial. They're nice.
me: Thanks. I think I have to go now.

Here is the note I am going to give to the spa guy today if I see him:

Dear Spa Guy:

Seriously? Get another day job.

love, adina

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26 is a bust in blackjack but a win in my life

Birthday Present #1, from mr. anonymous: A year subscription to US Weekly.

Birthday Present #2, from God: a pimple on my forehead.

I have a good feeling about this year.

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It had to be said

I have been wanting to write this post for awhile, but you have to be in a certain mood to write a post about your depression. First off, you have to be fairly settled into the depression - revel in it for a few months, make a few desperate sobby phone calls to your closest girlfriends, and eventually accept (yet again) that this is a fact of your life and will be until you die.

And then you wrestle with the appropriate way to inform the blogosphere that Yes! I struggle with depression! But at least there is a struggle! Which usually ends in me getting out of bed and showering! Usually!

And while you are figuring out how exactly to discuss something as broad and personal as depression, you have to also be simultaneously looking at the whole situation with a bit of a smirk, because it is a true test of self awareness - to be able to poke fun at the one super melodramatic thing in your life in such a way that, at the end of post, you leave knowing full well that this life, as stupid and painful as it sometimes seems, is a good life. Long on a occasion, but generally very good.

This is a lot to think about when relapsing into depression. Especially when your depression takes the form of turning every voice into a blurred version of tears falling, of sighs without sound. A depression that leaves your senses dulled and without motion. A depression that leaves you without sense or sensation. A depression that leaves you with nothing, as depression is known to do.

This is sometimes my life. I sense when it is coming, I can hear it in my voice - a slightly higher pitched, strained happy squeak. a lie. That might be the worst part - hearing it in your voice before you actually know it is hitting. The revelating moment where you look in the mirror and can physically see the tightness in your throat. And then the instant after, when you look into the unforeseeable future and wonder when it will end.

I have memories powering through a day, holding this giant ball of hurt inside my chest as I flew through the halls of my high school, organizing and flirting and theoretically thriving. I balanced four nights a week of waitressing with dozens of extracurricular responsibilities, familial duties, and don't forget the hours spent asking the boy du jour, no but really, do you really love me? And yet, at the end of the day (the end being only a few hours before I had to get up and start the entire painful shuffle again), I felt completely empty. Utterly alone. Foolish.

As a recent addition to the adult club (complete with wedding band and 401k), I often times scoff at this time of my life as simply a display of teenage angst. Why else describe in such end-all terms? Why throw the back of my hand to my forehead and drop my shoulders just so?

But as I get older, I am slowly starting to realize this is not the case. Hopeless words, while cliché, are here to describe an actual hopelessness that exists within me. And while the gestures become less grandiose, the general sentiment remains - I can't look at the world without feeling a terrible sense of loss. Loss of what, who knows. If I knew I wouldn't be writing this goddamn post.

It is a very bittersweet experience to be told that you suffer from clinical depression. On one hand, you feel justified for spending all those mornings curled up in a ball unable to pull yourself away from what then seemed like the most engaging duvet cover to exist on this earth. On the other, you have developed a subhuman interest in your bedroom, specifically the bottom of the pillow and how your knees taste when soaked with tears.

Lately, I find myself falling into the very familiar routine of sucking it up. Despite the many proactive steps I have made to address my depression - bimonthly therapy appointments, daily doses of antidepressants, surrounding myself with constant and positive reinforcement - I can't seem to find the happy niche that I have frequented many times before. And so I accept the fact that sometimes, during the day, it feels like a small puppy just died in my lap and the only choice I have is to let it sit there, all sad and dead, and continue with my day. And then maybe later, when the rest of world is not looking, I will be able to steal a moment to mourn my loss. Privately, while facing the window in my office or while riding my bike with more reckless abandon than usual.

And while "suck it up" has been a favorite mantra of mine for many years, it is slowly being outchanted by a less abrasive albeit more doubtful phrase: "maybe it'll be better tomorrow." This has been hard for me, to admit that I just don't have the energy anymore to pretend that this is not happening. And while this might make me a more honest person, at the same time it makes me a person less sure of herself, a person less ready for the world. My depression makes me less me, which always strikes me as ironic (no matter what the Zoloft commercials say).

I am looking for the turn of the post, where I push myself back into the reality of my beautiful life - my supportive and gentle husband, my nonjudgmental friends, my unconditionally loving parents - but the rub of the situation is that I can't see that right now. I know it is there. I hold on to the very comforting fact that when I come back (and I will come back), it will all be there, waiting for me, possibly not even aware that I was gone. But just right now, it is not what I see. I see one more day that I have to muddle through with lies and forced smiles, desperately hoping that this "one more day" will be the last day for now.

So I guess the turn of my story for now is - maybe it will be better tomorrow.

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Punch Drunk

Today I:

- took a cab to work. because it was raining. Usually I take the bus, standing at the corner with a goofy grin on my face because who doesn't love the rain?

- had a hoagie and diet pepsi for breakfast. immediately got gas. EVERYONE IS SHOCKED.

- asked my coworker to give me pigtail braids. which has made me feel even more punchy and nutso than usual.

I NEED NAP. OR FLOWERS.

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oh my god I didn't know they had a graph of my life online

à la xkcd.com, à la claude.

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