Wasting time wisely

(Yes, I’ve been tracking the election count, and yes, I’ll have more to say here about that. Later. ‘Cos every time I think about commenting before the race is called, I hear Toby Ziegler in my head: “You want to tempt the wrath of the whatever from high atop the thing?” So mum’s the word—for now.)

Anyhow, on the domestic front, I’ve got a day off today. In fact I have a few 3-day weekends coming up during November and December. We can thank COVID for that: Mr. Mezzo and I were planning two fun getaways during the spring (1 to DC in March and 1 to Boston for May) but neither of those happened—of course—on account of the world shutting down.

Those 2 cancelled trips add up to more than a week of vacation time I didn’t cash in, and since my company has a strict policy regarding how many days you can carry over from year to year, I’ve got some time to burn. So: 3-day weekends galore!

Close-up of a mirrored disco ball.
Celebrate good times, come on!
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Unapologetically Real

So, Sherri, how’s that RUHCUS thing going, four days in?

Well, Dear Reader, I am experiencing some of the bumpiness that occurs when the best of intentions collide with the realness of life.

I don’t think I’m alone if having that kind of work-based karmic payback that emerges after a 3-day weekend, when you realize that however much you enjoyed that extra day off, you’re now trying to do 5 full days of work in 4.(1) So between the office re-entry and the side gig(2), my Tuesday and Wednesday have not exactly been flush with time for self-pampering.

So I’ve had some real-world, real-time opportunities to practice living in my skin, and to find moments of sensory enjoyment even on the tilty-est of full-tilt days.

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Raising a RUHCUS

So last night, I mentioned that I was embarking on a project that was inspired by Sonya Renee Taylor’s body of work.(1) Me and some of my fellow Sister Goddesses(2) from Mastery are embarking on a RUHCUS—a structure Sonya created for a 30-day Radically Unapologetic Healing Challenge 4 Us.

Obviously, you’ll get a better explanation of a RUHCUS over on TBINAA, including how-to guides you can download. But the Sherri-level summary of the process is this: you choose some place of woundedness that you want to give attention. Maybe it’s a specific area of body shame, or old trauma, or emotional pain. Whatever it is, you choose to spend 30 days actively addressing this area of hurt every day. You also promise to do this in community, sharing your experiences, insights, and observations along the way.

Now, it feels a little scary to be so vulnerable and honest with people, but one thing that has been so meaningful to see during my first two weekends of Mastery is the healing, transformational impact of us bearing witness to one another. And so, even though it feels like an edge for shy/isolationist little old me, I absolutely get why the RUHCUS structure is built around being in community, and I am on board to push my edges in this valuable way.

So here we go.

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The Body is Not an Apology by Sonya Renee Taylor

We had one main project for the holiday weekend, but we were able to wrap it up so quickly yesterday that I’ve had some extra-luxurious reading time on my Saturday and Sunday. Which means that after a long dry spell, I’ve finished yet another book—this one, the latest choice from my fat activist/HAES/body love reading list.

Sonya Renee Taylor and her radical self-love/liberationist platform, The Body is Not an Apology, has been on my radar for some years now. I think it was my friend Alice who first brought Sonya into my awareness. Even if I’m misremembering this detail, I am going to stand by this poetic retelling for the rest of my days. There is something so just and sacred and fitting in a poet of Alice’s caliber bringing me to learn about a poet of Sonya’s caliber.

So as soon as Sonya’s book was released last year, I bought myself a copy. And then I let it sit on my bookshelves with all the other body love/goddess power books I’ve been ignoring in my quest to be super smart and fulfill all these reading challenges.

My decision to abandon reading challenge perfection in 2019 to make more room for actively self-nurturing titles put Sonya’s book back on the priority list, and then a guest teacher call with Sonya as part of the Mastery curriculum put this at the very top of that list.

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Taking Responsibility

Full disclosure: I’m a little bit crabby tonight. I have beefs with last night’s GOT, I’m having my customary inadequacy/packing crisis in advance of an immersion weekend(1), and the endless rainy season we’re having up here in Boston is pissing me off.

So I expect I’m going to be a bit ranty.

Which, I’ll admit, is somewhat richly hypocritical, insofar as the topic that has me feeling most pissed off and ranty tonight is the topic of emotional responsibility.

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Am I Blue?

I know why I didn’t post on Tuesday night: I had a fairly long Zoom call with some friends, and then I had some crucial prep-work to do for a Wednesday morning meeting.

I’m less sure about why I didn’t post last night. I stopped watching TV at 7 PM, I came into my “Goddess room,” I sat down at my computer, opened up WordPress, and then. . . . nothing much happened.

It’s not like it was the first night where I didn’t have an easy topic: no fresh books or movies, no yoga class, no introspective insights. But I’ve had other nights without an obvious topic, and I’ve still shown up to the page and written something. Heck, that’s what the whole “From the Hat” category is about!

When all is said and done, I just couldn’t summon up the energy, the will, last night to write anything.

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These Two Feet

Well, I made good progress in the “goddess room” today. It’s still not together enough for me to take a photo to show off my accomplishment. I’d say the job is about halfway done. I also spent slices of time doing some organizational work elsewhere in the house.

Including cleaning out my sock drawer.

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Under My Wig

It may seem odd to learn that I am building myself quite the collection of wigs.

Or maybe that doesn’t seem odd at all, given my theatrical pursuits. It’s almost inevitable, when you contemplate the number of B’way musicals that take place in various historical times and places. Cross-reference that against my stubborn insistence that I don’t feel like myself without a super-short pixie cut, and wigs become de riguer for faking my way into the settings of most musicals. 1920s, 1860s, 1890s…they all require wigs.

Luckily enough, I’m able to recycle some of these for different shows: the top record thus far is 1 wig that has been used for 3 different shows set in the 19th century. I haven’t even bothered to take it out of its snood between productions. Still, new roles and new concepts mean I keep adding to the collection here and there.

So maybe this growing wig collection of mine strikes you as odd, dear reader, or maybe it doesn’t. What I know for damn sure is that this growing wig collection strikes me as somewhat ridiculous.

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Taming the Paper Dragon: Again

I’ve written before about the challenges of dealing with paper clutter in the house. Well, the last several weeks of gloomy-time meant that I’d been letting all the mail pile up again in a big way — aside from those few essential bills I’d pull out and handle as soon as they arrived. So a big project for me this past weekend and the last couple of evenings has been to once again try to tame the paper dragon.

In addition to handling the most immediate paper accumulation from the last couple months, I also emptied out a couple boxes of longer-term paper accumulation. You know, the kinds of paper piles that built up in other busy times during the last year, but then got shoved into a box in some last-minute cleaning frenzy before an anticipated visitor’s arrival.*

And, after this accomplishment, I am now turning my analytic attention to the other main source of paper influx, aside from catalogs.

My overabundance of magazine subscriptions.

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A Momentary Regression

Last night I was still working to finish my first Emma Watson post (and mentally beginning to compose my second for typing and pre-scheduling), when Mr. Mezzo told me he was about to head off to bed. And I remembered: I still needed to take my laundry out of the washer and hang it out to dry.

That task had occurred to me at least two or three times earlier in the evening. I think once before dinner, and definitely right before sitting down to write, and then again in the midst when I was walking to the kitchen to refill my water glass. During the last of those three moments, I even calculated to myself how I was probably about 10 minutes from concluding my post, so I could knock that out and then turn my attention to laundry before writing post #2.

But then gathering and writing my concluding thoughts became a longer and trickier process than I’d expected, and Mr. Mezzo’s schedule update summoned up this incredible sense of (internally-generated) pressure about how I needed to quickly shift attention and get the laundry hung out ASAP so’s not to disturb his chances of falling asleep. (The drying racks live in our bedroom, you see. Usually that’s a very good thing — but all good things have their down sides.)

That pressure, cascading on top of the frustrations over another wasted weekend, the awareness of how much more writing there was left to do, and the general dread over going back into a work environment that’s been kinda ugly for the last couple of weeks. All of it hit me like a ton of bricks. And then I said it.

I hate my life.

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