Topic + topic = philosophy
I asked my friends on Facebook to give me one-word topics. Of course I was expecting a diverse response, and I got it. To make things even more fun, I decided to combine some of the answers (as one of the respondees suggested). I have quitting cheese, just iceland, trembling orchid, parents and unicorns, knitting and motivation, sex and bathtubs, and that left weasels and toilets, which I might still do separately. Anyway, I'm just thinking onto the page, on with the blogging.
Quitting Cheese
As a vegetarian, cheese has in many ways become the "meat" of my diet. A meal wasn't complete without cheese in it. How could people not eat cheese? I'm not the type who necessarily loves all cheese, but gimme your extra sharp, your aged dry cheeses, your creamy spreadables. Like with people, there have been very few cheeses I've met and disliked.
But as I've gotten older, and felt the effects of time and diet on my body, I've had to make my tastebuds sacrifice their insatiable desire for cheese. Cheese, as with anything else really, has to be enjoyed in moderation. It's delicious, but it's fatty, and too much of it, I've heard, will back you up--though I never have this problem. So I try to limit how much cheese I eat, and sometimes I over-indulge, but usually I succeed in controlling that desire.
In What the Bleep Do We Know, one of the scientists talks about how anything can become habit because what we become addicted to is the response something creates in our own heads. The chemicals released in response to a stimulus. I wonder if the things that become our favorites do so because they're associated with a positive experience. I'm trying to get back to the idea of desire. Desire exists whether we want ti to or not; it is not a controlled emotion. As with other abstract things, it's only once desire manifests as action that it becomes subject to reason. In other words, it's how we handle our desires that determines how they end up affecting anything beyond our minds.
There is nothing wrong with my affinity for cheese, unless I eat so much of it that it's working against my health. This is funny because I smoke cigarettes. Yet another bad habit. But the older I get, again, the more I feel the effects of over a decade of smoking. The frustrating thing about smoking is that the psychological aspect of quitting is really more difficult than the physical, since the nicotine the body takes in from cigs is gone within a few days, depending on how quickly a body can flush it out. Since the only time I really enjoy a cigarette is alone, you would think my brain could limit myself to having a few during my Kiki-time over the course of the week, but my social interactions still often include smoking, whether because my brain is excited from the conversation or because I'm looking for an excuse to step away from things. Granted, I have more and more friends who are quitting, but again, that won't matter because I can still enjoy a cigarette on my own time. I don't have a cigarette right after I work out--that's just silly to me. And I don't usually feel compelled to smoke one after sex either, but sometimes it's nice to have to avoid any post-coitus awkwardness that might exist in certain circumstances.
So I didn't quit cheese--I found a way to enjoy it without being too unhealthy about it.
With cigarettes, I try to also limit my intake. I know I will quit, but just like I'll never go vegan, I know even when I do stop buying them on a regular basis, I'll be the type who enjoys a cigarette now and again. Especially when I can smoke a good one. Especially when I can enjoy a good one. So I guess the thing about quitting cheese is that if you don't, it's okay, as long as you don't let it become a bad habit. The more time between enjoying things, the more we can appreciate when we do have the privilege of enjoying it. Which leads me right into sex and bathtubs.
Sex and Bathtubs
The more time between enjoying things, the more we can appreciate when we have the privilege of enjoying them. This applies to my current sex-life, and I'm okay with that. I figure by the time I'm in the position to get laid on a regular basis, it'll be with someone who's going to stick around for a while, and I'll enjoy the sex more. I'm in touch with my sexuality, and I'm proud of that, just as anyone should be. I'm not a slave to my libido, but I know how much sexual activity I need to feel content, and I know the type of partner I'd need to compliment my drive.
I'm the type of person who develops crushes frequently. I'm rarely in a relationship, but my imagination has flings with guys who I never expect to actually sleep with. I find people who really appeal to my sense of "what I'm looking for" and if I'm attracted to them at all, the combination of mental and physical desire for engagement is inevitable. It isn't often that I meet people with whom I feel an automatic kinship. Though I can relate to people pretty well, and talk to just about anyone, the people who I'm really drawn to get to know better are few and far between. I like that I still make new friends, and I am grateful to the community I've become a part of for offering me so many wonderful people. But it is hard, living in a college town, to meet guys my age who are available--and I mean that in all the ways that "available" could mean. Either they're taken, or there is something else that makes them an impossibility. Gone are the days of easily discovered friends with benefits. One of the last times someone sent me a message on a dating site, the dude asked why it had been so long since I'd had sex. (It had only been a couple months, but I guess to some people, that's a long time.) I told him it wasn't that important to me. And that's true--but it doesn't mean that I don't enjoy sex, or that I prefer to live without it. It just means that my standards are higher than they used to be, because I need something more than casual. The times I've given in to my urges, like that nooner I had a few months ago, I usually end up dissatisfied. Because neither of our goals was to please the other person, just to get off ourselves, which means if someone takes longer and more effort, she ain't gonna get off.
How am I going to connect this to bathtubs?
Well, a bathtub is the first place I discovered how to masturbate. Bet you didn't expect that. Aside from that random connection, it's also been a while since I've enjoyed a good bath. The last three places I've lived have not had a bathtub, just a standing shower. Some people think it's gross to soak in your own dead skin cells and dirt, but others recognize the therapeutic nature of soaking in a tub. The bathtub we had in the house I grew up in was older. A cast iron beast big enough for a small child to slide around in and play with her toys in long past the point of pruny fingers and toes. My mom had gotten an even older claw-footed tub that we never managed to install in the house, so it sat outside in the backyard for years. I wonder why we didn't just make a flower bed out of it. The house my mom moved into in Slippery Rock after she divorced had a tub, but it was more modern, smaller, and the drain had been installed at the wrong end, so there was often a puddle of water left from the last person who showered. It was functional, but not as nice as the tub at the old house. I fantasize sometimes about the bathtub(s) I'd have in my dream home. Even if I don't ever get one of my dream-tubs, I know the house I commit to own will have a decent tub. Deep and rounded enough to cradle my bones while they absorb the heat of the water, hot around my skin.
Showers are efficient. And the feel of the water coming from the showerhead, like my own personal waterfall, like a thousand tiny little fists massaging my skin--it has its perks. I'm happy to be living in a place that already had a decent shower-head and decent water-pressure. The stall is stained with rust from the abundance of iron in the well-water, but at least it's pleasant.
A good tub, like good sex, is something I don't mind waiting for, as long as what I have in the meantime satisfies my needs.
Quitting Cheese
As a vegetarian, cheese has in many ways become the "meat" of my diet. A meal wasn't complete without cheese in it. How could people not eat cheese? I'm not the type who necessarily loves all cheese, but gimme your extra sharp, your aged dry cheeses, your creamy spreadables. Like with people, there have been very few cheeses I've met and disliked.
But as I've gotten older, and felt the effects of time and diet on my body, I've had to make my tastebuds sacrifice their insatiable desire for cheese. Cheese, as with anything else really, has to be enjoyed in moderation. It's delicious, but it's fatty, and too much of it, I've heard, will back you up--though I never have this problem. So I try to limit how much cheese I eat, and sometimes I over-indulge, but usually I succeed in controlling that desire.
In What the Bleep Do We Know, one of the scientists talks about how anything can become habit because what we become addicted to is the response something creates in our own heads. The chemicals released in response to a stimulus. I wonder if the things that become our favorites do so because they're associated with a positive experience. I'm trying to get back to the idea of desire. Desire exists whether we want ti to or not; it is not a controlled emotion. As with other abstract things, it's only once desire manifests as action that it becomes subject to reason. In other words, it's how we handle our desires that determines how they end up affecting anything beyond our minds.
There is nothing wrong with my affinity for cheese, unless I eat so much of it that it's working against my health. This is funny because I smoke cigarettes. Yet another bad habit. But the older I get, again, the more I feel the effects of over a decade of smoking. The frustrating thing about smoking is that the psychological aspect of quitting is really more difficult than the physical, since the nicotine the body takes in from cigs is gone within a few days, depending on how quickly a body can flush it out. Since the only time I really enjoy a cigarette is alone, you would think my brain could limit myself to having a few during my Kiki-time over the course of the week, but my social interactions still often include smoking, whether because my brain is excited from the conversation or because I'm looking for an excuse to step away from things. Granted, I have more and more friends who are quitting, but again, that won't matter because I can still enjoy a cigarette on my own time. I don't have a cigarette right after I work out--that's just silly to me. And I don't usually feel compelled to smoke one after sex either, but sometimes it's nice to have to avoid any post-coitus awkwardness that might exist in certain circumstances.
So I didn't quit cheese--I found a way to enjoy it without being too unhealthy about it.
With cigarettes, I try to also limit my intake. I know I will quit, but just like I'll never go vegan, I know even when I do stop buying them on a regular basis, I'll be the type who enjoys a cigarette now and again. Especially when I can smoke a good one. Especially when I can enjoy a good one. So I guess the thing about quitting cheese is that if you don't, it's okay, as long as you don't let it become a bad habit. The more time between enjoying things, the more we can appreciate when we do have the privilege of enjoying it. Which leads me right into sex and bathtubs.
Sex and Bathtubs
The more time between enjoying things, the more we can appreciate when we have the privilege of enjoying them. This applies to my current sex-life, and I'm okay with that. I figure by the time I'm in the position to get laid on a regular basis, it'll be with someone who's going to stick around for a while, and I'll enjoy the sex more. I'm in touch with my sexuality, and I'm proud of that, just as anyone should be. I'm not a slave to my libido, but I know how much sexual activity I need to feel content, and I know the type of partner I'd need to compliment my drive.
I'm the type of person who develops crushes frequently. I'm rarely in a relationship, but my imagination has flings with guys who I never expect to actually sleep with. I find people who really appeal to my sense of "what I'm looking for" and if I'm attracted to them at all, the combination of mental and physical desire for engagement is inevitable. It isn't often that I meet people with whom I feel an automatic kinship. Though I can relate to people pretty well, and talk to just about anyone, the people who I'm really drawn to get to know better are few and far between. I like that I still make new friends, and I am grateful to the community I've become a part of for offering me so many wonderful people. But it is hard, living in a college town, to meet guys my age who are available--and I mean that in all the ways that "available" could mean. Either they're taken, or there is something else that makes them an impossibility. Gone are the days of easily discovered friends with benefits. One of the last times someone sent me a message on a dating site, the dude asked why it had been so long since I'd had sex. (It had only been a couple months, but I guess to some people, that's a long time.) I told him it wasn't that important to me. And that's true--but it doesn't mean that I don't enjoy sex, or that I prefer to live without it. It just means that my standards are higher than they used to be, because I need something more than casual. The times I've given in to my urges, like that nooner I had a few months ago, I usually end up dissatisfied. Because neither of our goals was to please the other person, just to get off ourselves, which means if someone takes longer and more effort, she ain't gonna get off.
How am I going to connect this to bathtubs?
Well, a bathtub is the first place I discovered how to masturbate. Bet you didn't expect that. Aside from that random connection, it's also been a while since I've enjoyed a good bath. The last three places I've lived have not had a bathtub, just a standing shower. Some people think it's gross to soak in your own dead skin cells and dirt, but others recognize the therapeutic nature of soaking in a tub. The bathtub we had in the house I grew up in was older. A cast iron beast big enough for a small child to slide around in and play with her toys in long past the point of pruny fingers and toes. My mom had gotten an even older claw-footed tub that we never managed to install in the house, so it sat outside in the backyard for years. I wonder why we didn't just make a flower bed out of it. The house my mom moved into in Slippery Rock after she divorced had a tub, but it was more modern, smaller, and the drain had been installed at the wrong end, so there was often a puddle of water left from the last person who showered. It was functional, but not as nice as the tub at the old house. I fantasize sometimes about the bathtub(s) I'd have in my dream home. Even if I don't ever get one of my dream-tubs, I know the house I commit to own will have a decent tub. Deep and rounded enough to cradle my bones while they absorb the heat of the water, hot around my skin.
Showers are efficient. And the feel of the water coming from the showerhead, like my own personal waterfall, like a thousand tiny little fists massaging my skin--it has its perks. I'm happy to be living in a place that already had a decent shower-head and decent water-pressure. The stall is stained with rust from the abundance of iron in the well-water, but at least it's pleasant.
A good tub, like good sex, is something I don't mind waiting for, as long as what I have in the meantime satisfies my needs.
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