There was this one photo-compilation about ballet I read over and over again when I was a kid (late elementary...early middle?) and the photographer/author was the sister of the photographic subject. She interviewed her sister at length about many different things and it was drenched in black-and-white photos of her sister at the barre, in pointe shoes, stretching, applying makeup, taking off makeup. I have one memory of a photo of the sister soaking in the bath, but surely that's a step too far even for The Period? But what I vividly remember is reading, and then immediately needing to look up, the word: sybaritic. The ballerina sister went to great lengths to define her winding-down process after a hard night of ballet. This included cold cream, self-massage, and soaking in a bath. She said that some would criticize her as being sybaritic. I would not. That all sounds amazing and like the patriarchy trying to get on a sister for treating herself, y'know?
Myself, I'm dabbling in the sybaritic. Dry sauna for five minutes! Steam room for five minutes! A bath! Ten minutes in the hot tub! Thinking about the tanning bed/scheduling a facial. I thank my cortisol for its service and wish it well and away from me at whatever current level it's at. Which is...something they don't test for in routine hormone panels? I don't think? I will totally look at my My Chart again, though, I can't remember shit let alone my own percentages and numbers of hormones and CBCs and things unless they're dreadfully abnormal.
Meeting Tuesday night with a psychiatric nurse practitioner about...meds, I guess? Escitalopram was not doing what I needed it to so I Need To Talk About That with someone Specialized I guess because my PA was a little uncertain about My Deal. Me too, girl. So - idk. That's good I guess!
Had a dream last night that T was helping out with getting ready for Easter. There was some tension about Getting Things Right, and I had hella guilt in the dream (and hella guilt in real life) about Not Being Good at Emotional Labor. L had a dream last night about the Easter Bunny knocking on her door and having a party in Homer, which sounds amazing. Love that for her. Easter on the brain, I guess. Ahem. How was your Easter?
I'm trying to wind down because The Thing That I Left Behind in Homer this weekend was (drumroll) melatonin. *sigh* I suppose I could have technically picked some more up on the way back into town but I...didn't want to. So now: tea and hopefulness. Because I used caffeine, audiobooks, and playlists from 2022-til'-now to get me through the four-hour drive home.
Backing it up in case I didn't (I probably didn't) explain: we drove to Homer this weekend, which is a beautiful seaside town where the ocean is a shade of aquamarine such that photos just don't do justice. You know what I mean! ...probably? There's a beach and a spit and driftwood, you're expected to eat your body weight in fish and spend scandalous amounts of money on charter fishing and meals and ferries to Seldovia and wherever else off the coast. But it was sunny while we were there and we stayed in an amazing house and the road to Homer is an idyllic wind through snow-capped mountains, forested faux-alps, landscape that looks pretty cool but was also devastated by wildfires recently so YMMV, and coastal tableaux reminiscent of Skyrim x1 million. So I can't be too mad at it. B.D. Wong narrates a mean The Mouse and the Motorcycle which was one of my favorite Beverly Cleary books growing up, so that was fun, and highly recommend. The most recent time I tried to explain what it was about, the person I was talking to said, "Oh, like Stuart Little?" and...no. Just because there's a mouse...why not, just like Despereaux? Or, just like Redwall? I see how it is!
I was also consumed by this thought on the way home that there must be a protocol somewhere of what ladies with Nerves did in the 1700s to 1800s. And, if there is, can I get in on that? The answer, from the most cursory research ever, seems to be: staring at the wall, drinking milk, and eating meat. And idk about that. Seems sketchy. I would much rather do sybaritic stuff, get my terminal degree, exercise, and make elaborate plans to get trick myself into drinking enough water and tea and eating more than two food groups. I think I was hoping for more like: Onn Day 1 goe to the Seaside, partake inn thee fresh aire; Onn Day 2 paint a watercolour daguerrotype haha you cannot as those twain are divers mediums; Onn Day 3 pratcise thee harpsichorde - but unfortunately, no.
Alright. Time to cuddle my cat and call it good.
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