Beastly

Remember that movie adaptation of Beauty and the Beast called Beastly with Alex Pettyfer and Vanessa Hudgens and it was set in High School and Mary-Kate Olsen was the witch who cursed the spoiled rich boy?

Well, this isn't about that film. Though, if I was forced to admit it, I actually kind of liked the movie. It is what it is - teenage tripe. But like Gossip Girl and Vampire Diaries, there's something to be enjoyed in the shallow depths of the shiny, pretty things. Even if you don't want to say it aloud, for fear it will be the one fact everyone remembers, it's entertaining.

But, like I said. This isn't about Beastly - the movie. It's about Beastly - the state of mind.

Don't you hate it when you wake up and feel beastly. The beast of all beasts. As if the only fitting task would be to tear apart your west wing, smash all the mirrors and sit there brooding over the fact that no one will ever truly love a beast. Of course it's melodramatic and completely unsubstantiated, but in the moment, you want to just lock up your castle and never see anyone ever again. And, on the off chance someone does stumble upon your dwelling, you will toss them in the dungeon. Ha! That will teach them to sell Girl Guide cookies door-to-door. Give me all the thin mints and get in your cell!

This actually sparks a very questionable query. Why was it okay for the Beast to lock Belle's father in the dungeon? Isn't that some sort of form of kidnapping? Or, at the very least, false imprisonment? I mean, he knocked. He called out. Twice, in fact. Still, down to the dungeons with you, old man! And, if anything, shouldn't the enchanted servants take some of the blame? If not all of them, then at least Lumiere!

I regress.

The beastly days are the hardest. They come without warning, or sometimes with warning because you ate a pound of candy the night before, and they set your day off on the wrong foot. On these days, it is the hardest to look presentable. If you have a job that you work from home or at an office where you don't have to interact with the general public, you can squeak by in comfy pants and a hat, and silently wish for the day to end swiftly. This isn't the case when you engage with others and on the off chance you are SUPPOSED to look at the very least decent, it can be a daunting task. Like putting lipstick on a pig.

It gets even worse too. No matter what I wear, I am uncomfortable. It isn't my clothes, either. It's my skin. I am uncomfortable in my body. So, I try to put a little more effort in on the days I wake up in a self conscious puddle of raw emotions and unrealistic expectations of myself. Honestly, that effort tends not to pay off. I only end up feeling as if my time and energy are wasted. That I am foolish for even trying. That I would have been better off cutting holes in a burlap sack and wearing a Halloween mask.

Yes, I know this seems harsh. And, sure, it probably has something to do with the hormones. I hear estrogen is a wicked bitch. Still, once in a blue moon, these days come along. Like yesterday and, if I am being honest, which I so often insist on doing, I am still feeling residual affects today. Here's the truth of the matter:

No amount of pretty dresses, hair combing or makeup can change a Beastly day into a Belle one.  

Those are the facts. In the end, I just try to fake it until I make it through. Or make it to the weekend so I can wear oversized sweaters and no pants. Whichever comes sooner. Something funny did come of this. I told my Sidekick that I felt beastly and he told me I was, "The most beautiful beast of them all." Yeah, I cry laughed over that. It's hilarious, but still cut me a bit.

Crap, I have to add something I am grateful for on here. Ugh. Well, I am happy I can step back and know my beastly feelings are irrational, to a degree. And that I probably don't look as bad as I think I do.

Restlessness

Every once in awhile I get this this nagging feel of uneasiness. Restlessness. Not being sure if I want to sit, stand, dance, walk, laugh, cry or sit like a blob and do nothing. Chances are, I'll do the later. Mostly because it's almost eleven at night and the town went to bed four hours ago. It isn't safe to go for a walk. A bear might eat me. Or a cougar. These aren't real fears. Just excuses.

These bouts of restlessness bring with it the ability to make me uncomfortable in my own skin. This happens once in awhile. I look in the mirror and am not too sure I'm pro the girl looking back at me. All I see are cons.

Don't get me wrong, I love myself, I'm relatively happy, life is fine, I'm okay and blah, blah, blah. Do not jump to any 'oh, she must be depressed' conclusions. Not everything is so dramatic. Actually, most things aren't.

Hormones. Can I blame them? It feels like a cop out.

Whenever these moods creep up on me, I end up disenchanted. With life, myself, writing, where I'm going to be in five years. The last year was a roller coaster ride, and not in the good way. The valleys out numbered the peaks about two to one. Some days, three to one. Then again, it's all perspective, isn't it? Through it all, I kept myself together. I reasoned. I kept a smile in place.

For the most part, I remain positive, looking to the bright side, being thankful, and walking around with the knowing smirk of a person who has most of it, if not it all, figured out. For the most part, see, that's the key. We cannot be positive, upbeat, happy, go-lucky, things are coming up roses people every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every...you get the point. It's just not humanly possible. Not without drugs, at least. And, frankly, it's annoying.

People are allowed to have bad days. Hell, people are allowed to have bad weeks. We are allowed to be in bad moods. Just don't let it take control and consume your whole being and smash apart your common sense or rationalization because...well, because that's bad. But it's almost as though, on my path to finding love and light and happiness, I forgot that there are downs. Oops.

In the end, the simple truth is, I feel sloth-like. And there is nothing wrong with a sloth. Actually, on any normal day, I'd embrace being sloth-like. I mean, those guys get to eat and sleep a lot, like up to twenty hours a day. Not to mention they only have three toes and are the slowest moving creatures on earth, so slow and sedentary algae actually grows on their fur. I mean, come on. How cool are these mammals.

Now I feel bad for comparing myself to these beings in a negative fashion.

The anxiousness is worse than thinking I look terrible or being agitated with everything I come in contact with. Sitting, bouncing my knee, and trying to think of a way to bring myself out of this state is most frustrating. Nothing really helps. Except, sleep. (See, sloth-like) And maybe cake. It's touch and go in these scenarios because I might end up feel like an even chubbier bunny after divulging in a cakey goodness with icing and some sort of jammy filling.

That said, I haven't had cake in like two months.

Oh, I think I just figured out what the problem is.

And here's a baby sloth, just because:

 

A Good Cry

The term 'having a good cry' is confounding to me.

I mean, to put it in the simplest way possible, crying simply isn't good for me.

Okay, I understand some people cry when they are overcome with happiness, but I'm not one of those people. Even when I cry at weddings, it usually isn't because I am so thrilled for the people involved. Most likely it's because I think the person is making a huge mistake. Of course, I probably shouldn't have admitted that. I mean, now if you see me crying at your wedding you're going to think I'm not supportive, like you're making the most unwise decision of your life. Please, if you invite me to your wedding, and you see me bawling my eyes out, just assume you are the exception, not the rule.

Now that I've covered myself, let me delve a little deeper into this whole 'good cry' thing.

Crying, like from-the-gut-sobbing-can't-control-the-tears-bawling, is a very bad thing. I get that people think it is cleansing and a wonderful way to release pent up emotions. But I'd rather sweat out the toxic sadness with exercise or vent it in the form of a good string of curse words. It totally sucks to be reduced to a bag of tears and isn't in any way refreshing.

You know what's refreshing? A bubble bath or eucalyptus steam.

Not only does crying make me look like hell, but I feel like hell - but hell on a bad day, not a lukewarm afternoon when Lucifer isn't in such a damning mood.

While I am sitting here thinking about the act of being reduced to weeping mess, all that keeps playing in my head are the horrible, terrible, awful things. And yes, I did need three words to describe the same thing there. Let's look at the outcome of these so called 'good' cries. Sore Eyes. Runny Nose. Puffy Face. Snotty sleeves. Pounding temples. Feeling like an utter moron if people are around to bear witness to the spectacle, and feeling turdish if I'm alone. (Turdish is totally a new word for us all to enjoy) Let's face it, blubbering is ugly. Not even babies or supermodels can make it attractive.

Have you ever cried and there isn't a tissue around? Snot trails down your nose, mixes with the saltiness of your tears, gets in your mouth because crying close mouthed is next to impossible. So, you wipe it on your sleeve, trying desperately to pretend you have everything in control while silently thinking how disgusting it is that your nose is dripping and you are powerless to stop the hideous scene. All you can do is roll with it and try to act like it isn't happening. Yeah. We've all been there.

And apparently women are known for crying. We are identified as criers. Some people even say we can't even control it. Our hormones are to blame. Damn those hormones!

The thing is, I don't cry all that much. Not at cute commercials, or sad movies. I don't spend a lot of time snivelling over burnt toast, my job (or ex-job), or weight gain. My period rarely has me in tears. That said, I know a lot of ladies who do participate in sob-fests fairly often and, to tell you the truth, I admire them. I admire anyone who can own their feelings like that and shove them out there for all to witness.

The whole thing makes me feel far too vulnerable. I mean, it does happen. But since I dislike it so much, when I finally cave into the melancholy monster it is business. And it is messy.

With all this said, I almost cried on the way home from my friends' house last night. It's been hanging out for awhile. I felt it coming, the shudder in my chest, the tension pull behind my eyes, the pain down my throat. But I managed to suppress it. Detour around it for a couple more...hours? Days? Weeks? Who knows?

I mean, it's there, lurking about, waiting patiently for me to let it out. And it's going to happen. I mean, it's all part of human nature and not being an emotionless psychopath. But rest assured, it isn't going to be a 'good cry'. I won't walk away from it feeling rejuvenated and sighing like I've just had a demon exorcised out of me. No, I'll be annoyed and exhausted. I'll want to sleep.

There is, of course, an exception. And that's laughing until you cry. That's just awesome.