How Much Does A Polar Bear Weigh?
Or, tell me something no one else knows.
As always, a refresher of wtf this is can be found here. Happy February, Friends. 🫶
Some things are worth the wait.
If there was a campaign for the host incumbent, no one could even think to compete with my best friend. Maybe it’s his plethora of mason jar branded serveware, or his kitchen island the size of a queen-sized bed. Or maybe it’s simply his love of having people over, his “my house is your house” philosophy, or his natural ability to be the life of a party consisting of just sitting on the couch—the man is the natural hostess with the mostess end of sentence full stop.
Every time he’s throwing a soiree—be it for the Super Bowl, a birthday, or just a good weather forecast—I will find an excuse to make deviled eggs. I’ve recently found myself falling under the belief that being an adult means you can make a deviled egg any time you want, but making twenty for just yourself is indisputably a little excessive. However at a party? Fewer things make people happier than a platter of mayo-y, mustard-y, dilly (yes I put dill on them, don’t knock it till you try it) little eggs.
I have it down to a science. Bring water to a boil, add ten to twelve eggs, let boil for 12 minutes, immediately into an ice bath. Despite this scientific method, every time, without fail, my best friend will remind me with a side eye that he “has an egg cooker.” And I, without fail, will respond back that I don’t need one.
I am not always a person who savors. I eat faster than anyone I know. I have never gone into a restaurant blind—I study the menu right when I know I might be going so I can order the second the waitress comes to my table with a carafe of water. I read almost every book I crack in one sitting. I get audibly frustrated when I can’t fully binge a series and have to wait for the next episode. The only thing that has quelled my compulsion to look for a text back is learning to live in Do Not Disturb.
But something about being in the kitchen makes me want to take my time. I won’t ever get a toaster because the broiler is perfectly sufficient. I know people love Rao’s (although the recipe is gonna change so fangirls beware!) but I genuinely think making your own sauce is superior. I don’t believe in store bought pie crust—you can always double the recipe and chill little discs for later. And whether a six minute jammy or a fully hard boiled, I will always boil my own eggs.
This is all to say, there are some things that are quite frankly worth the wait. Taking the ferry, finishing the last chapter of a book, the necessary two to three hour burn of a good candle, getting your nails done, multi-hour catch ups with your closest friends, handmade bags, shopping at a farmer’s market (not worth it is the line at a Trader Joe’s, I’m sorry), a well-done bolognese, Chuckanut Drive, a really, really, good first kiss, writing an inarguably well-crafted paragraph, clafoutis. And I would also personally put perfectly done, manually boiled and ice-bathed eggs on that list. Maybe even near the top.Sometimes homework is good.
I said to my therapist two weeks ago that I have been feeling unmotivated in a way that I can only articulate as “wanting to rot.” Turning on my brain feels heavy. Speaking out loud exhausts me. Making decisions is somewhat out of the question. All I have felt like I have capacity for lately is playing Stardew Valley, reading, and being horizontal.
So naturally, my therapist gave me homework in the form of reading this book. And I have to say, she maybe had a point. I don’t have a ton to offer about it (yet, there’s time) on account of wanting to, well, rot, but this quote is pretty spot on:
“‘Wasting time’ is a basic human need. Once we accept that, we can stop fearing our inner ‘laziness’ and begin to build healthy, happy, well-balanced lives.”
I wouldn’t say I’m necessarily afraid of being perceived as lazy, but of not being able to control the perception of myself at all. And when I’ve been feeling…less than like myself the anxiety around that lack of perception control is absolutely heightened.
I think something I need to recognize (and maybe you do too) is that there really is no such thing as “doing nothing.” After ~five months of barely being able to sleep in more than two-hour stretches, I’m actually resting again. After dealing with being in a constant state of stress for probably a year, I’m re-regulating my nervous system. After as my therapist has routinely pointed out a lifetime of taking care of everyone else, I’m, dare I say, trying to take care of myself.
Anyway I’ll leave you with one more quote. Here’s to intentional rotting.
“The laziness we’ve all been taught to fear does not exist. There is no morally corrupt, slothful force inside us, driving us to be unproductive for no reason. It’s not evil to have limitations and to need breaks. Feeling tired or unmotivated is not a threat to our self-worth. In fact, the feelings we write off as ‘laziness’ are some of humanity’s most important instincts, a core part of how we stay alive and thrive in the long term.”Alexa, play “How to Save a Life” by The Fray.
One of my plants is being so fucking moody and it genuinely ruins my mornings sometimes. That’s all.“Touch grass!!!”
And some other stupid insults, in no particular order:
* Calling anyone chronically online
* The phrase “at your big age”
* Accusing someone who is simply having an opinion of being “obsessed”
* “gO oUtSiDe”
* Any and all what aboutisms
* But especially what aboutisms that are about male celebrities
* The same goes for weaponizing therapeutic terms to try to drive home your point
* Basically anything you learned from TikTokHow much does a polar bear weigh?
I’ve written ad nauseam about how I believe “hating small talk” actually just means you’re either A) boring or B) a bad conversationalist. This is hyperbole, for sure. But it is rooted somewhat in the truth. Most talk is small. Most people aren’t going out and offering up the deepest, darkest, twistiest corners of their mind up to anyone who might have a listening ear.
I am a person who was born with the gift of gab. I could talk to a light post, could flirt with a crack in the sidewalk, could probably charm a snapping turtle. And I often us this gift of gab to be the conversationalist in any scenario I find myself in.
Back when I was still all over The Apps™ a go to opening line for me was:
“How much does a polar bear weigh?”
[beat]
“Enough to break the ice!”
I love that moment when you can feel a conversation going from “awkward and out of necessity” to “actually interesting.” When you can feel the other party easing and leaning in and getting ready to offer a nugget that will probably stick with you until well after. There is nothing I love more than finding out something truly random about someone. Like fuck your favorite color—tell me why you always buy that specific brand of olive oil, or why you chose that shade of goldenrod for your accent wall, or why you always take pictures of the sky.
Learning little facts is a love language.
So without further ado, some random facts about me:
As previously alluded to, I think jarred pasta sauce is disgusting and a scam. The only person who I care what they think about me is my best friend. I won’t wear heels anymore because a) I like being short and b) frankly I don’t think anyone has made any that are cute since about 2012. I never drink water, it is a problem. I think most lettuce is stupid because it is crunchy water. I am scared of driving, heights (see loving being short), and my dog dying. I have chronic nightmares. I have a birthmark on my right hand. I have only said I love you to three people I’ve dated. “Let It Go” used to be my karaoke song, I’m searching for a new one. The best thing someone has ever said to me is that I could never be boring. I’m still a little salty about not getting cast as Eponine in Les Mis. I don’t think enough people are comfortable just saying, “That hurt my feelings.” One of the best things I’ve ever done for myself was break my nail biting habit. I miss Montana but I’d never move back. I think the world would be a better place if you were legally required to work a service job for a month at some point in young adulthood. I hate wearing socks but I’m trying to get over it. I’m also trying to get over the fact that people forming incorrect opinions is out of my control—I will never get over this.
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Like I said, learning little facts is a love language. Finding the comfort to share something no one else might assume about you is a gift. Figuring out the idiosyncrasies and various puzzle pieces that make someone into a fully formed someone is magic.
It’s anything but small, really.
