What the fuck should I do with my life? Part Two

Part Two: Becoming A Princess and/or Having Children 
I could become a princess or a duchess and give birth to my prince and walk out to the world with an uncontracted uterus. 
 
When you ask them what they want to be when they grow up, all the little girls I work with have princess wrapped into some part of their desired occupation.

I want to be a princess chef.

A princess busdriver.
 
A princess policeman.

A doctor and a princess.

 

Little girls see these princesses on their diapers and their wallpaper, and they want to be them

Little girls see these princesses on their diapers and their wallpaper, and they want to be them

This is old news, but over the last couple of weeks, everyone was talking about Kate Middleton's uncontracted uterus. About the nerve she was sporting her "baby belly" to the whole world. Some people judged. Other marvelled at how brave she was. As though the scariest thing in the world is to reveal your uncontracted uterus.

Kate and her princes

I can relate. I fear the uncontracted uterus.
 
From a young age, my deepest fears included getting a double chin and having my stomach stick out more than my boobs. My boobs have always been tiny and so it wouldn't take much for my stomach to extend beyond them. To prevent the double chin, I used to read books and do my homework with my chin propped a pillow. To prevent the protruding abdomen, I was constantly doing crunches and sit-ups.
 
My stomach got hard and and chiselled. It's not that sad a story except once an osteopath told me that if I got pregnant, I would probably have a hard time. My abdominals would split in half and sag forever.
 
I'm ashamed that this terrifies me so much.

I'm ashamed that this is one of the main reasons I am terrified of having children.

One of the other reasons is that someone told me that since having kids, she can't use tampons anymore. They just slide out. As for the diva cup, alas, it leaks.

Apparently this is not that common.

Usually the vag recovers quite well.
 
If not, we all have high vaginas that will never ever desert us.

My High Vagina. Me and Keira Knightley both have one.

Once I wrote that birth was a Hideous Annihilation for someone else.
 
At the time, I think I was drinking too much.

Now I am thinking, What the fuck should I do with my life?

Despite my sit-up frenzies and pillow facelifts, I used to think that I would grow up and become a wonderful mother. I babysat like crazy and imagined that I would be like all my favourite moms, making whole grain banana bread, reading to my children, and having a job that allowed me to be around when they came home from school for lunch.
 
Now I am afraid of a saggy belly?

The saggy stomach, the tamponless vagina, probably these are terrible reasons not to have children. What are the good reasons?

Overpopulation. Climate change. Having children during a tornado or during the end of the world is impractical.
 
A couple of weeks ago I sent myself the following email:

Don't ever have children. No children for you. You are hysterical. Chill the fuck out.

I had just had a mammoth tantrum over whether or not to have a smoothie for breakfast, or oatmeal, or both. It was pathetic. 

27-year-old tantrums may be a good reason not to have children.
 
The other reason is, the kid may end up being just like you.

Fuck.

My friend Fern likes animals signficantly more than people, and children.

I was with her when she learned that someone who she didn't particularly like had given birth.

"Why the fuck did she have a kid? She barely has her shit together herself. What is it that makes people arrogant enough to believe that they are worthy of reproduction?"
 
She went on a rant about people passing on shitty genes and suffering and babies being bad for the environment. Her rant left me somewhat offended and taken aback. At the time, I had just begun to reconcile myself to contaminating the gene pool with my own hideous annihilation. This was before I got my job at the Montessori school.
 
Children are delightful for varying amounts of time. I might never be able to forgive my child if my stomach expanded and then never came back down to the same flat, hard formation ever again. What a horrible burden for the child to bear. It would have to spend its whole life making up for my sad saggy stomach. I tell myself that I would also resent a child if it wrecked my yoga practice, and that probably it would. But then I think, what is a better thing to do, to press into your hands and lift yourself off the ground with one leg behind your head and the other up your ass, or to make a real live person who in twenty years will probably be better at everything you’ve ever tried in your life?

Hard to say.

I guess we'll see how effective the withdrawal method turns out to be and then we'll find out, or we won't.  

The End.

What the fuck should I do with my life? Part One

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Family Visits and Narcissistic Personality Disorder

Family visits destroy my creativity, and exacerbate my Narcissistic Personality Disorder.

Here are some Narcissistic photos of me, my sister and my mother.  The Boatman and the Big Black Dog also make appearances.  How could I leave them out?  Especially the Big Black Dog.  He is an incredibly talented narcissist. 



Me and my narcissistic dog.



Me, Sister, Mother

Same as above. Sister and Mother have more creative faces than I do. Recall that they destroyed my creativity during their visit. I forgive them.



At the Beach. Sister displays impressive pipes. The day before this photo was taken, she attended my Core Strength Yoga Class. The core strength radiated to her biceps. I must be an extremely effective yoga teacher.



Take Two, At the Beach. Sister throws her head back and the result is quite flattering.
 

Sister and Boatman were the first ones in the water. They celebrate their victories with Humility and Gratitude.


Mother and I did not win. We are baffled with Defeat.

The Icy Water's Aftermath. 

 Mother. Quite good-looking.

 Boatman plays the Cozy Hero.

Sister and I pose gracefully by a boat.

Sister graces the grocery store parking lot with her Salmon on Salmon attire.  Note the salmon knapsack as well.  And the toe point.

(Doesn't this remind you of the Boatman's Friend "Salmon Pants."  His name used to be Radislov, and he always wore salmon pants.  Then he went to an art show where the walls were  salmon and alas, his legs disappeared.  Learn all about  Mr. Salmon Pants and more at the Boatman's website www.verysatisfied.com.)

Now, back to being narcissistic.

 

 

 

Me and Big Black Dog, following a Mysterious Space. Like me, the Big Black Dog misses mother and sister now that they are gone.  Unlike me, this morning the Big Black Dog had hemorrhoids and diarrhea.  Both of those words are very difficult to spell.  They contain more r's than you might think.

Curious, isn't it?

I think this is the end of my prolific display of narcissism.

I hope that my creativity returns soon.

The End.

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Five Days of Creative Recovery
The Erica Museum
Keira Knightley's High Vagina

Me and Big Black Dog, following a Mysterious Space.

Like me, the Big Black Dog misses mother and sister now that they are gone.  Unlike me, this morning the Big Black Dog had hemorrhoids and diarrhea.  Both of those words are very difficult to spell.  They contain more r's than you might think.

Keira Knightley's High Vagina

My friend “Cassandra”was lying topless on a beach on one of those tropical, paradise kind of islands somewhere in the Caribbean.  Although Cassandra looks excellent topless, she was having horrible suicidal, I-hate-myself-and-want-to-die thoughts.  Million-dollar luxury sailing yachts were drifting past her.  On each yacht there was a 22-year-old topless woman whose boyfriend had bought her the yacht.  Each 22-year-old woman looked excellent topless.  They looked excellent, and they owned a yacht and they got to keep it.

Cassandra was thirty and she didn’t have a yacht that she got to keep.  She started to cry because she felt like a failure.   Big, sad, suicidal tears.

“I will never ever be a twenty-two year old with a yacht,” she wailed.  “Ever.”  It was true.  She was right.  It would never happen. There was nothing she could do.  

“I will never ever be a twenty-two year old with a yacht.”

At first glance, this seems like the sorriest excuse for a human tragedy in the whole world.  Probably it is, but I can relate.  I have been on that beach, topless and sad.  I have spent hours, if not days, staring at topless women on yachts.  I was staring at the women and the yachts last night at 11 P.M.

The Boatman and I had just finished watching a movie called “A Dangerous Method.”  It was about Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung in their early days.  One of Carl Jung’s first patients was a woman named Sabina, played by Keira Knightley.  Keira Knightley put on a brilliant performance.  When she had her shirt on, and when she didn’t. 

After the movie was finished the Boatman and I googled Kiera Knightley to see what other movies she had been in.  There were dozens.  Atonement, Pride and Prejudice, Bend it Like Beckham, Never Let Me Go.  All this was fine with me until I saw Kiera Knightley’s birthdate:  March 26, 1985.  1985.  Same year I was born.  Kiera Knightley was 27 years old and already she had been in more movies than I will ever be in in my whole life.  What a useful thing to think about. Then I did something even more useful.  I looked up Kiera Knightley’s height and weight.  Kiera Knightley is 5 foot 7 and 100-110 pounds.  I am five foot eight and I haven’t been 100 or 110 pounds since I was in grade five.

Alas. 

No being a movie star for me.

No 100 or 110 pounds for me. 

Plus Kiera Knightley does charity work and I do not.

Keira Knightley. So thin and so talented and so charitable.

I grumpily went on Facebook where I saw I’d received a message from a lovely friend of mine who I hadn’t heard from in a long time.  Like me and Keira Knightley, she was born in 1985.  At just 26 years old, my friend has a great job in an awesome city and she just bought a new condo by herself, and she’s practicing part of the third series of Ashtanga Yoga.  I looked up her last posture.  Urdhva Kukkutasana C.  It’s like the 11^th posture of third series. 
 

Urdhva Kukkutasana C, the 11th posture of Ashtanga Yoga's third impossible series. The Yoga Sutras recommend that we cultivate friendliness towards this man's success. This man's and my friend's and all the Third Series People's.

I have never been able to do more than four postures of third series for much more than four weeks.  After four weeks, my pelvis starts to disjoint and complain.  But my friend could do it.  She could rock it.  And her pelvis never complained.  I was jealous of her pelvis.  I am still jealous. My friend has had to deal with anorexia for over a decade, and still, I am jealous of her and her job and her pelvis and her yoga postures.

Last night with tears in my eyes, I announced to the Boatman that I felt upset and unworthy because Kiera Knightley had been in way more movies than me, and my anorexic friend had a better pelvis.

He turned off the television  for two seconds.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.  Then he turned the television back on.

I think that he felt about the same way Cassandra’s husband felt while she was mourning her twenty-two year old yachtless topless self.  Moderately to severely disgusted. 

Yoga Sutra 1.33 recommends that we cultivate friendliness towards success.  This is wonderful advice, but last night I was pouty and miserable instead.  I made the Boatman turn the TV off again.  I waited for him to feel sorry for me.   He didn’t. 

I sat on the couch and I pressed the flesh around my navel together.  The space between the flesh made a crease and the crease looked like a High Vagina.  Although I am not one of those gluten free people, and sometimes I even eat corn chips, I do not have a Big Fat Wheat Belly.  There is hardly any flesh around my navel. 

And yet, I am capable of making a High Vagina. 

As I stared at my High Vagina, I realized that my goals were strange and perverse and dumb.  Wanting to be Keira Knightley or my anorexic friend with the awesome pelvis or a topless twenty-two year old on a yacht was dumb.  As dumb as aspiring to eradicate your High Vagina.

The whole world has a High Vagina.  Even the gluten-free people.  Even Kiera Knightley.

Keira Knightley has a High Vagina, and it is almost as ugly as mine.

The End.
 

My High Vagina. Thanks to the Boatman for the photo.

The Keira Knightley Charitable Foundation encourages you to please cultivate Friendliness towards:
 

My High Vagina (see above), 

My Very first Self-help e-book, I Let Go,

My Twitter Account:  @mypelvicfloor.

And my Facebook Fan Page:  Ecstatic Adventures

Forever on the Lips

Peanut Butter, Pubic Hair

Not That Kind of Girl