Concussion!

One of my favourite things about the arrival of decent weather is sports. I'm no professional athlete or anything, but I do love to give 'er when I am participating, whether it be hitting some baseballs in a cage, slammin' it on the tennis court or playing volleyball. I guess you could say that I am hardcore, and it is not unusual on any given June day to witness me taking my sports persona to the max. Case in point: I totally got a concussion playing recreational volleyball last week. Yeah, I'm on a team in a beach volleyball league. I know what you're thinking: that's hot, and it totally is, too. But before your mind wanders to visions of rock-hard bodies spiking balls at rocket speed while sweat glistens on their half-clad asses, I should (in all fairness) note that our team is so not there yet--perhaps we will be in 2009. Our division of the league, the "recreational" division is not overly competitive. Last week however, I got too complacent with the "rec" designation of our team, and started to get sloppy: I let my guard down, guy! I chatted when I should have had my eyes on the ball, I made designs in the sand with my feet between plays instead of launching into the stuff, head-first, in an effort to make a save!

Long story short: I got hit in the head and was later diagnosed with a concussion. I've never had one before, and as a fully-fledged hypochondriac, I was at once gripped with the fear of developing life-threatening (or at the very least), life-altering complications as a result of my nonchalance on the court. Oh woe, how I questioned! Would I feel blood ooze out of my ear? Could I die? Would I remember how to make spicy penne? And what the heck did I do with my star sapphire ring? I wanted to wear it last weekend. (As you can imagine, my anxiety only mounted...)

I was thankfully somewhat assuaged after an appointment with my trusty (and every so patient) G.P. She assured me that the bruises in my brain would eventually subside if I let rest and the healing hands of time do its thing.

In the meantime, this totally freakin' wierd list of stuff my body/mind does when concussed:

1) Me So Sleepy: Eleven-hour evening sleeps, peppered with two-hour daytime naps
2) Me So Moody a la: “I love you, I hate you! Can you buy me a latte?”
3) Unmitigated Anger/Personality “blips”: bitching about/at everyone/anyone
4) Apathy, when not moody or angry, to the nth degree.
5) Nausea! Dizziness! Hot Flashes?


So, like, what lessons have I taken away from my sports injury? First off, one must be A-lert when playing sports: especially those that involve balls flying at your face. Also, don't think about dinner or the fact that your tonenails are unpainted. Second: I think a small, fitted helmet is in order if I want to continue being so hardcore. Third: totally never, ever put the star sapphire in any place but the right one. To every gem, its home—that’s what I always say.

Expectations: I'm Sick of 'Em!

How do we really get to know anyone else? Is it the time we spend with a person, the pointed questions we ask, how we’ve seen them in times of joy or revelry? What about stress and/or grief? Think you know someone? Think you know yourself?

The ubiquitous “they” of the psychology world tell us that personality is basically set in our early twenties, making allowances for behavioral changes that may be a result of maturation and/or life experience thereafter. So does this mean if you knew someone when he or she was 23 and then meet them again once they turn 32, you can expect them to react in similar ways to like situations? Can you ever expect to be surprised, and if you are, what does the surprise say about you? Of course, this is a vague psychological/philosophical quandary that has led me down that dangerous path of thinking recently. Not only have I been pondering the expectations I have regarding certain folks I think I know, it has had me wondering about what certain folks expect of me. Who knows whom?

Expectations, man. I’m sick of ‘em—of having them and being bound to them. As a quasi-religious person, I’m more apt to embrace hope, wonder and surprise if it comes fruitfully, authentically, sincerely. Who doesn’t appreciate sincerity?

And so until further notice, I shall not be the following, despite your expectations:

‘Characteristically’ enthusiastic
Ditto: interested in what you are saying, unless I am genuinely so
Malleable: it just buries anger, prolongs stress, denies the self

I do promise however, to be:

Sincere
Productive
Pensive
Kind and
Aggressively authentic

Bad, Blogger!

I know, I know. I don’t post enough, but trust me—its not for lack of things to say. Ask any one of my boyfriends: they will tell you I talk almost non-stop. And I have no facility for use of the segue. As a rambler, I can be discussing sock-darning (uselessness of) and three-legged dogs within two sentences of each other. But I digress. Apparently I’m not blogging enough. (Evinced by the fact that I have been dropped from the list several friends’ links). I blame it on starting a blog before I was officially done school. But none of that matters now.

To correct my wrongs, friends, I have decided to post the mother of all recap posts, in which I give teasers about all the things I meant to write about in the past, but never got the chance. As fabulously put in one of the best feel-good movies of all time, these are “the things [I thought] but did not say…”

1) When whining’s a crime: OCAP protesters march through Rosedale in Toronto
2) Squalor, racism and mediocre food I experienced during a recent trip to Montreal
3) How to tell if you’re shrink’s just in it for the money
4) Match Point: matching Scarlett Johansson with Jonathan Rhys Myers equals one point for Woody Allen
5) Tiramisu or “truth serum?” The dessert that brought the party to its knees
6) Under Pressure: (Wherein I go stalking’… after midnight…)

I am happy to let y’all wonder about the gems that may have been unearthed in any of the aforementioned posts, but I will also happily expand on any that my dear readers are interested in…right after I finish my last paper.