I finally removed my last-of-the-summer toenail polish today. It’s almost winter and technically only four of the toes had polish left on them. It was brownish/purple polish so it pretty much just looked like I had four bruised toenails. Well, five because one actually is bruised from the errant placement of a kettlebell.

Logically, I should have pulled out the cotton balls last week before I walked around barefoot in front of some friends. I’m sure they would have appreciated it. They probably would have liked it if I had waxed my eyebrows too. I did shower, though. So I have that going for me. And they for them.

I waited until today to remove the polish because yesterday we went to the movies at this ridiculously redesigned theater where the seats recline. Like REALLY recline.

AMC ain’t lyin’

A friend responded to this picture by saying she thinks we’re on our way to living Wall-E times, to which I say bring on the Big Gulps.

These recliners have nothing to do with my toes. You’re welcome.

The drive to the movies was perilous, though you probably couldn’t see that from the way my husband was speeding down the freeway. He’ll tell you that he was driving under the speed limit and I will tell you not far enough under. It was foggy, rainy, icy, and part of the interstate was shut down due to an accident.

You know how your mother always wraps her fingers around the handle in the car where you’re supposed to hang your dry cleaning, even though no one gets their clothes dry cleaned any more? Here, please soak my shirt in chemicals so I can breathe it in and wear it against my skin. Mmm.

Anyway, your mother. You know how she holds onto that handle and tells you how to drive and says things like, “Please don’t kill us!” – or, is that just my mother? Well, it was also me yesterday before we got to the recliners which have nothing to do with my toes.

So, this morning before mass I was thinking about those roads and our three block drive to church. (That sound you just heard was the collective gasp of everyone who lives in NYC.) I thought about the chance that we could be in an accident and if I went to the hospital, my treatment would suffer because of the state of my toenails.

Don’t act like if you were an ER doctor and someone came in with pretty toenails that you wouldn’t treat them before the person with four, no five, bruised toenails. Because you totally would. If you say otherwise, you’re lying to yourself and should probably go to therapy.

I didn’t want my healthcare in the hands of a student who would probably give up on medicine and go work as a seamstress after treating me, because fabric swatches don’t have feet. I wanted to be seen by a good doctor. Like the time when my daughter was in the NICU and my husband told the nurse practitioner that he wanted a real nurse, not one who was just practicing.

Because I’m a catastrophist I removed the toenail polish and made it safely to church. Which, sadly, also means I didn’t get any morphine or anything. But, at least my toes look pretty.

Well, nine of them anyway.

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Fair warning: I’ve already taken my Ambien so this may not end well. In fact, it will likely end with a string of bbbbbbbbbbb.

I went to the gym today for the sixth time in eight days. When one of the trainers asked if I was training for a race, I pointed to my head and said, “Yes, a mental one.” It’s taken me a long time to realize it, but I finally have the clarity to know my mind is messed up. Wait.

Physical activity – and I mean HARD Crossfit training, or a good run (but my good runs are really just extended bad runs) are the only things that help me manage stress well.

I realized last week that I could feel my mind and body slipping into a familiar state of anxiety. I am so in tune with the connection between my weakened brain and the quivering needs of my muscles….oh, who am I fooling. I had a particularly stressful afternoon and came home and went right for a baked potato. THAT was how I realized it. Once I find myself turning to carbs for emotional needs, I know it’s time to invest some extra time at the gym.

And, every other day – like today – it worked. Not only did I complete most of my work project that’s due tomorrow, I managed to go to the grocery store and make dinner, vacuum, and fold some laundry. I functioned. AFTER the workout.

Maybe it’s the encouragement I get, maybe it’s seeing my own strength improve a lot over the last few months, maybe I need to know that I can accomplish a set of chin-ups before moving onto a career challenge. Either way, this gym and these trainers are all helping me get to a place where my mind feels right and that’s not an easy task. The muscles I’m gaining are a total bonus.

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Do you consider yourself lucky? How about fortunate? Blessed?

If you use one of those phrases with any frequency, in my opinion you’re doing it right. By “it” I mean, life.

I am the complainingest complainer who ever complained (Hi, Chad!) and as I told a co-worker today, I worry that catastrophe will follow me because it pretty much does. Of course, my catastrophes are not really bad at all. A little West Nile Virus, pneumonia, meningitis, antibiotic-resistant infection, concussion, congenital heart disease, or threat of pulmonary embolism never hurt anyone. Wait.

But, despite my ailments or those of my son, I consider myself to be a fortunate person. I have great relatives, I married into a family of wonderful people, I have terrific friends, decent health, a job and co-workers I love, a great community – I could go on and on.

Do I have bad days? Yes. Every day has me facing something lousy and I DO complain about it. No sleep, sick kids, no money, car repairs, the stuff we all deal with on a day-to-day basis – and “stuff” is putting it lightly. Or non-cussingly, if you will. Maybe venting helps me deal with what life throws at me. Maybe keeping the little things bottled up would make my anxiety worse.

I think crying is therapeutic, I know my workouts are the best thing I’ve ever done for my mental state, and I’m pretty sure complaining helps me think through my issues. Zoloft doesn’t hurt, either.

Even though I have to do all of those things to keep my mind right, I still tell myself how lucky I am Every. Single. Day.

Because I’m pretty sure the greatest way to straighten out your head is to be grateful that you still have one.

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At 2:45am this morning I woke from a nightmare about the movie Se7en. If you never saw it, then protect your psyche and DON’T. I can’t tell you exactly what was going on in my dream other than the gluttony scene, likely because I’m three days into some major lifestyle changes (again). I’m starting to feel like that big dude who was forced to eat himself to death. I digress.

The difference between me and someone who doesn’t suffer from anxiety is that I woke up and logically thought that because I was having this nightmare it meant someone was in the house. Probably Kevin Spacey. With a box.

From 2:45am until 4:30am, between stolen glances into the hallway to look for a killer, and playing games of Candy Crush, I tried to tell myself that I was being ridiculous. It’s the same thing I tell myself whenever I get in my car, or drop my daughter off at school, or many other normal tasks where I perceive danger.

Maybe it will benefit me someday; like if someone tries to attack us in church. I may be the only one with a plan to use the candleholders next to the altar as weapons. Fair warning, attackers.

Do you count how many rows you need to climb over to get to the airplane exit in case your pilot lands on the Hudson River? I do. Note, I said “climb over” because everyone else will be messing around in the aisle. Ain’t nobody got time for that.

Maybe our fire escape plan will actually work because I’ve gone over it time and time again in my head. I know exactly how I’m going to throw my children to my husband and then jump into a bush. Of course, my daughter is almost 15 and I’m pretty sure I can’t throw her on an average day, but in a fire? That girl is getting tossed.

Now that I think about it, my anxiety has me uber prepared to handle all kinds of situations.

So bring it, Kevin Spacey. I’ll be the one wide-awake.

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