I'm highly disciplined, but it takes so darned little to knock me off the truck if the mood is condusive. I am a whore for the fun road and a catalyst is usually involved. Sometimes, his name is Jewels.

It does seem to be a week fraught with certain aggravations, which I have referred to in my usual chimp-like fashion as "weird." Hollaback Girl reminded me today that I have categorized the last few weeks, nay, months, as weird. Continuously weird. Perhaps life is just weird. I felt terrible that I had burdened her with the notion that I was wallowing in perpetual misery, because God knows I'm not--I'm quite a happy person, 99.3% of the time. I'm not going all Sylvia Plath or anything. However, the past few weeks have felt burdensome. The same tedious cast of characters and their quirks, the need to infuse additional discipline into my non-work hours (all 12 of them), the lack of outright excitement all feed "The Weird." God dammit, it's very simple. I need some excitement.

I take my job seriously and I think I work hard. Only my late father would be proud of the fact that I have not taken a sick day since April 1997 (and I can squarely blame my Dad's work ethic which was clear: "Do not call in sick unless you're coughing up a lung"). But some days, like today, I had that old 1980's song "Break Out" by Swing Out Sister running on a continuous feed through my head. There were salespeople charging into my office, talking a mile a minute when I was clearly involved in a telephone call. I was trapped on three freaking conference calls, two involving the very same people, which really could have been in Cantonese by the time the last one ended. And of course, I was interrupted twice while I was in the middle of those. You know you're in trouble when you're posting sardonic comments on the message boards of a favored website while simultaneously discussing detailed particulars of sales incentive plans for 2007. Jesus, it's practically a cry for help.

The last conference call, a vigorous, can't-get-a-word-in-anyway-exchange with Missy Delight and The Pilgrim, left me spent. I had to gather my gear and race out of the office if I was to make my grappling class on time. But goddammit, I felt peevish. Schlepping slowly toward the gym, who should I run into but Jewels, making his way slowly towards the subway. And at that moment, I questioned my vigilance and fortitude. I went into the gym, told the pert blond behind the counter that I couldn't grapple that evening (and indeed, the prospect of a 90 pound girl beating the shit out of me was, let's be honest, the last fucking thing I needed today) and well, I'll add in an additional boxing class next week instead. (For the record, the sensei said I had a "killer upper cut" in class on Tuesday so I think I'd rather box than grapple anyway).

Now free of obligation, I wandered out of the gym and found Jewels and we made for the subway ride home. But you must know, Jewels and I together are a recipe for trouble. Before I knew it, we'd delayed the descent for the subway for the dark confines of Elmo's on 7th Avenue. I have to say this about gay bars--they do lighting just right. Blanche DuBois would love this place. We had a cocktail and just shot the shit and you know, that was just what I needed. We then got on the subway and resumed our responsible, tempered lives. The digression was good, not because alcohol and a well lit room were involved, but because the routine was broken. It felt like that's exactly what should happen. There's your excitement, you weird girl (she says to herself). Who knew? Make it happen more often.

It's at times like this that I always come back to a poem that for me, simply defines life. It's a poem I can never seem to memorize, but I read it often...if only to remind me that the only person who entraps me in this discipline and routine is me and that we humans will always be full of self doubting and self loathing. And frankly, it's still perfect bullshit.
From my dear Mr. Elliot:

For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

I couldn't have said it better.