Today's one of those days where I'm two places at once, and things are flying by for Luva(a), while Luva(b) is on a really crappy treadmill stuck in reverse. My head seems to think it's accomplishing things, but forgets that it's fettered by my body, so my thoughts rush ahead of my physical actions and I do things like fall out of my shoe into the corner of the metal filing cabinet while talking to the director of development.

Luckily, my head is still so far ahead of my body by the time I gather myself up from the floor that my body never catches up in time to feel any pain. Generally, I think that's how I've managed to survive this terminal klutziness.

When I was three, I waged war against gravity. The battle still continues, and I'm still getting my ass kicked. Just call me Tibet. Ha. No, but according my mother, one day when I was a toddler, Mom found me in a sobbing heap at the bottom of the stairs about 6 inches behind my pair of denim sneakers. When she asked what happened, my alleged reply was "I wanted to see if I could beat my sneakers down the stairs." Yeah, well, I couldn't, and I still can't. Thus began my ongoing war with gravity. But SOMEDAY, friends, I prevail. If not by beating my shoes down the stairs, then by mastering my telekinetic skills. They're pretty paltry as of now, and I usually (read: always) pass out before I manage to telekinetically jostle a hair on my head, but someday... TELEKENETIC RENEGADES, UNITE!

I've found that non-violent methods fare best in my war against gravity. Again, I am Tibet, and gravity is the eeeville, eeeville Chinese oppressor. This winter I was headed to an audition on Diversey. It was February, I think, and the stairs heading down from the El platform were shellacked with a generous layer of Chicago winter shit. I took one step, and down I went. It happened so quickly that it didn't occur to me that I had fallen until my feet appeared over my head and I felt the railing wind itself impossibly around my arm. When reality hit, I decided, "Well, if I'm gonna go down, I'm gonna go down-diggity-down." I took a few deep breaths and somersaulted peacefully down the flight of stairs. "It's OK. I'm fine. You can all laugh," I said to concerned onlookers, and I went to my audition with nothing but a gash on my hand. If I had resisted physically, I seriously could have broken something. Let's hear it for non-violent dissent.

Aside from then having to perform my Shakespearian monologue with a wad of toilet paper spooled around my bleeding hand, (yeah ... I didn't get a call-back for that one,) I left unscathed.

Gravity, I shall overcome.

"Klutz" is such a great word. Klutz, klutz, klutz. It just feels nice in the mouth, reminiscent of when I'd make clopping horse-hoof noises when I was little, riding around my neighborhood and pretending my bike was a unicorn. (Of course, I have since matured, and now I when I bike, I sing the entire score of "Jesus Christ Superstar." It is fraught with nuance, you see, from the beginning strains of "dayr-nayr-nayr-nayyyyrrr" to the concluding "aahhoooooaaahhhahhhhh." A proper challenge for a proper, grown lady like myself.)

I fear, however, that my non-violent stance against gravity has resulted in my becoming somewhat detached from my body. Take today's feeling of being pulled in two directions at once.

Something cool about this semi-bi-polarity is that it's accompanied by acute sensory reactions. Must say, I'm usually rather unfazed by things normally deemed as grody. I'm not squeamish, and if something that I need, say, falls in the toilet, I'll fish it out, wash it off, wash my hands, and tra-la-la. But I can't count the number of times today that I've been squeamed by something I've seen, heard, sniffed, or tasted.

I was listening to the radio at the gym this morning, and the DJ was joking about how Enrique Iglesias should auction off his recently-removed mole for charity. "That's, like, an actual piece of a celebrity," they kept saying. GAH! I almost hurled all over my elliptical trainer.

Every smell I encounter is like a wall I have to scale. People in my office have a penchant for salt-and-spice concentrated munchies like burritos and microwave popcorn, and everytime I venture into the hallway I have to brace myself for whatever near-grope-able aroma I may have to wade through.

Liz came in to my office to ask me for something, and was chawing on a fistful of red licorice. FUCKing GNAWing on the FUCKing shit, as if every beat of her FUCKing heart depended on it. Lub-dub, chaw-chaw. Lub-dub, chaw-chaw. I have a huge problem with audible chewing, and with attempting to talk with food in your mouth. Due to social necessity, I had somewhat managed to get it under control, but since I was apparently abducted and probed last night by aliens from the planet Woozy, today Liz's cud-chewing made me I want to pound her damn face in. I was saying anything I could think of to get her out of my office ... "I'll get it to you later! I promise! I'll bring you ten of whatever you want! Please! I'll throw my first-born and my right arm into the bargain if you'll just take your Twizzlers and leave!" But I couldn't understand her responses through the wad of juicy licorice in her mouth, so I kept having to ask her to repeat herself, further aggrandizing my very tragic annoyance. A positive of my super-hearing, of course, is that music is perfect. Nina Simone (may she rest in peace) never sounded like such a goddess.

And, as for taste? Taste? I can't eat anything processed without feeling like my mouth, esophagus, and trachea have all been coated by 30 layers of spray-paint. I ate a peanut M&M, and all I could taste was the mysterious green on the candy coating. I put lite dressing on my salad, and the salt nearly killed me. Forget about the non-dairy creamer and Equal. This is quite the conundrum for a woman like myself who has toiled for years to desensitize her tastebuds to impurities and extremes in flavor, and whose diet now largely consists of things like Diet Coke and Fat-free Cool Whip. I'm further challenged by the fact that this sensitivity is making me insatiably hungry, but the thought of eating office cup-o-soup right now makes me implode like a raisin. On the plus side, water tastes like a dreamy milkshake to my newly enlightened tastebuds.

All in all, my hypersensitivity is quite the fun little trip, especially in regards to touch. I'm terribly tingly, and it's terribly wonderful. The faux-breeze from the fan makes me want to spread my arms and whoop and dance like a crazy lady. Crossing my legs, not to be provocative, is like sliding two velvetty oven-mitts together. (Oven-mitts? Kelly, why the hell would oven-mitts be provacative?) Well, you know, the quilted kind of oven-mitts, still warm from removing a tray of cookies from the heat. Not that I've ever pressed them against my thighs, but ... hmmm ... there's an idea. See you Monday!

No, just kidding.

So things are either totally grody or totally gnarly, dude. And I don't know what fairy godmother turned me into a surfer chick on ecstasy, but I'd like to shake her hand.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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