Attention Deficit

I've been joking about it for years. Actually, I didn't even know that there was such a thing as Attention Deficit Disorder in adult life until my Alexander Technique guy informed me. (Alexander Technique is a bizarre stretching and standing tall thing that helps musicians and speakers but only makes me want to fall asleep). As this was the guy who also used the term "bottom" too often for it not to be creepy, I'd kind of blown him off. Eventually I gave up on the Alexander Technique and the bottoms. But the ADD stayed with me.

I started to notice it when I worked as a school librarian and couldn't sit still for 50 minute meetings. I figured it was because the meetings were boring and asinine. I also couldn't focus on my work for more than 15 minutes at time, but figured it was because my "work" consisted of pacifying surly teachers and stroking our ancient web page and public access catalog.

Of course, all of this was true. And then I had babies and boy oh boy did THAT make the old brain go to seed. And then I somehow, miraculously, made it through Ph.D. coursework and found myself at a place that had been nearly unthinkable when I began: the dissertation proposal. And slowly, surely, things ground to a halt. Because I was motivated, excited, and finally ready to focus on something and I simply, well, couldn't.

It took 15 minutes to gather the courage to open my computer, another hour to drag myself from the internets to my file, and then at least 20 minutes of staring before I could even begin to type. Typing was the writing equivalent of dragging myself through a tar pit until I'd get excited or have a great idea. My first reaction to the great idea? To jump up and walk away from the computer and go do dishes or trim the cat's nails, or fold towels, all the while mentally masturbating my new idea. After an hour of that, I'd sit back down at the computer. The file was still there; the idea? Was gone.

When I called up that shrink in Beverly Hills, you know the one--and gods help me, yes, my shrink lives in Beverly Hills--he was pretty sure I had ADD, but told me there was only one true way to find out. "We'll give you a stimulant," he said. What he gave me was speed. For ordinary brains, this takes you on a madcap roller coaster ride of rearranging the spoon drawer. For those with ADD, it calms and centers and focuses you. Other than some cottonmouth, the first thing I noticed was that I could finally just open up my file and start writing, and that, when I had a brilliant idea, I could KEEP writing and get it down on paper.

Needless to say, this was pretty goddamn cool in several ways. First off, I got most of my literature review written in six weeks. Second off, when I went into the kitchen to do something, I'd remember what it was that I went in there to do, rather than turning in circles staring at every appliance, grasping at memory straws. And third off, I just felt NORMAL for the first time.

Fourth off, I guess, was the feeling of intense relief. That I wasn't lazy or stupid or unmotivated--my brain was just wired differently. This gave me confidence, which gave me energy, which made me less depressed, which made me write more and...so it went.

The problem? My high blood pressure. In combination with the dex, all the coffee I was swilling, my love affair with sodium, and the massive amounts of ibuprofen I was taking for my heel pain, it was the perfect storm. I ended up in the ER with heart palpitations, and was eventually sternly advised by the ER doc, my regular doc, and my Beverly Hills shrink to stop taking it. I did, and SURPRISE! Couldn't focus.

The new ADD medicine I'm on is a non-stimulant. So far, I haven't noticed any increased attentive ability, other than my enhanced ability to focus on the inside of the toilet bowl. It's kind of like being pregnant again, all queasy and pukey. I'm hoping the side effects disappear in a week, as they purportedly do.

In the meantime, though, I'm pretty stoked to know what's been wrong with me all these years. I'm only sorry that I didn't get help sooner.

Maidenform Voyage

I never intended to start another blog, I swear. But this one started itself.

After buying my very first girdle (sounds like a kids' book doesn't it? Oh, I wish) I was driving away from Target full of emotion, but not the usual emotion. Ordinarily, what I'm feeling is a cross between shell-shock at the amount of money just spent and the warm satisfaction of having just purchased a jug of mayo, five hundred rolls of toilet paper, and wine in a box. In fact, I had, in addition to the girdle, just purchased all of those things.

But it was the girdle that was filling me with an odd sensation, almost as if I'd been set free from prison, which is odd considering that a girdle itself is a kind of prison for muffin tops, muffin bottoms, and what have you. It took me awhile to identify the feeling, and longer still to decipher its origin, but once I did I knew what I was also feeling was the birth pangs of a blog being born. For the first time in nearly a year, I couldn't wait to post. Needless to say, this feeling was very, very cool.

Oh, yes. The girdle and freedom. Don't girdles hate freedom? Well, they might, rabbit. But it was less the girdle itself giving my soul wings than it was the fact that I felt like I'd crossed some kind of line. In youth, I'd hoped my flabulous belly and ass would eventually return to normal (high school size, yeah right). I'd had elaborate fantasies of crunches, yoga regimens, and marathons. I'd had a vision of myself wearing a little black dress and pulling it off in the way that I SHOULD have trying pulling sexy off when I weighed 100 pounds.

What the purchase of the girdle said instead was this: The muffin top is here to stay. However, there is no reason why you shouldn't rock the little black dress. Stuff your belly in a shiny, smooth nylon casing and GO, girl! No. Woman. Go, nearly forty year old woman.

And so, with one purchase, I entered middle age. Yes, yes, I know I've been there for at least ten years now. But I squandered most of those years pining for my misspent youth. No more of that shit. Yes, half my life is gone, nothing more to squander there. But ahead of me, on the horizon, is the other half. And you better believe I am going to rock the living fuck out of it.

I also believe that I'm not alone. For those of you who used to rock and party and drink and act immature who STILL do all that shit between plucking chin whiskers, attending PTA meetings, and sighing heavily as you lower your ass to the Lazee Boy at the end of the day?

This blog's for you.