Stuff and nonsense

I’ve got a semi-routine going for me on Sunday mornings now. It involves me waking up at 10:13am, drinking Milo at 10:17, cycling like a maniac at 10:21, and arriving at the gym at 10:32am – 2 minutes after my Body Combat class has started.

Although the timing needs improvement, it’s a routine that has me feeling slightly better than my usual dysphoric self for the rest of the day.

Body Combat is a strange and unnatural mode of exercise. Pumping music + non-contact Thai boxing moves + large facing mirror = awkward. I suspect that 90% of the class consists of angry repressed females, myself included. Don’t tell me the dimunitive little Singaporean econs student in the corner so aggressively hook-punching the air doesn’t have issues. Guys, a warning – if your woman is going to Body Combat, you might want to check that it’s not you she’s imagining on the receiving side of her uppercuts.

I caught sight of my Sunny consultant walking in to the gym as I was on my way out. In pigtails and short-shorts (her, not me). Ewww. I don’t mind if my consultants have lifes other than that involving work, but I’d still prefer it if it weren’t in places I frequent.

I used to have a phobia. Actually, that statement is optimistic; rather, I’m currently in remission.

It crept up on me somewhere between the ages of 5 and 7, and while it wasn’t something I was in constant fear of, when I did worry about it I felt the immature childhood equivalent of mortal fear, because how could a kid like me brought up in a secure place truly comprehend their own death? Possibly DSM might classify it as Specific Phobia blood-injection-injury type, except for some reason I seem quite happy when dealing with blood and injections and maimed body bits. Oh yes, there was that embarassing vaso-vagal episode back when I saw my own blood fill up one too many test tubes, but to be fair, they had only just finished squeezing a pint out of me.

So somehow it has been left on the backburner, for now. What’s my secret? Well, my chosen profession seemed to force the issue a bit…with its own form of systematic desensitisation. Granted, my graded exposure seemed to skip around, with some higher anxiety-provoking stimuli preceding the lesser phobic events, and I never got to choose the time or place for my “therapy” (but what person with a phobia ever really gets a choice). And much of my exposure (not profession-related) was when I was significantly under the influence, which may have given me extra reserve.

Maybe I just Grew Up. Ha. I don’t think so. I’m not saying I haven’t progressed (I’m not saying I have either), but what I mean is that most phobias are completely irrational, and no amount of maturity or understanding is going to beat my phobia into submission. I know when I’m being neurotic, bizarre, anxious in the extreme, but that doesn’t stop me from getting scared shitless. It’s illogical to use logic when solving an illogical problem.

Anyway, the whole point of this is to remind myself and anyone else: fear may or may not be life-long, but if you persist, there will always be ways to cope with it. Some of those ways involve tranqillising drugs, and if those are difficult to obtain, alcohol is a good substitute.

Because this is a YAB (yet another blog), you’re just going to have to put up with the self-indulgent crap I write from time to time.

Watched Mel Gibson’s trillion dollar rake-in that is The Passion last week. Apart from being clumsy and crude, I found it strangely empty considering the subject manner. Extended slow-mos do not a movie make. What’s with the hyperbolic depictions of the Romans, Mel? I get the idea, Romans are bad, you don’t have to flog me with multiple close-ups of violent grinning goons.

So why watch it? I don’t know, I promised someone I would, and yes, there really wasn’t anything else left in my local library. And, lame as it is, I kind of hoped that I would hope for some sort of connection, not out of the stupid movie, but from something greater. Is soullessness a fault one can be blamed for? Not the soullessness that stops you from empathising with the rest of the world. The soullessness I hear when I listen to the desperation in my breathing, the one that opens the bottle of cheap wine. If only the Holy Ghost didn’t appear to me from unreputable and frankly, aggravating sources, could I find something to grasp, once and for all?

My one goal today was to make a brownie. Not just any brownie mind you; none of that cakey, fluffy crap, but the chewy dense mass of chocolate that will have you scrambling to the nearest gym.

Alas, it was not to be. Overcooked and bitter, my one saving grace is that the boys will probably not know better and will be too distracted by the soccer to take note of the embarrassing mess they'll be eating. Despite my best intentions I seem to be on no fast-track to adding "domestic goddess" to my CV. Nigella cannot possibly be a true mortal, how can one be so successful in the kitchen and still resemble some insanely beautiful Greek deity? I'm sick with jealousy Nigella; jealous of your impossibly perfect pavlova and of your gravity-defying cleavage.

So, disenchanted, I thought a good option would be to force my opinions on the rest of the world and write yet another blog. It's getting late and although I'm supposed to be filling out my intern application, I think answering questions like: "Describe your commitment to the promotion, protection, maintenance and restoration of the health of the people of Western Australia (350 words)" is not compatible nor advisable for my current state of ambivalence. I knew I should've paid someone to fill it in for me.

Is it too late to change careers?