Ommmmm

It’s been a few days since I meditated, thought I to myself yesterday, and I’ve been feeling good so I’ll prolong the endorphins and give it a few minutes.

I can’t always meditate alone and after a week of tearing my hair out in the new job where you have to F3 this, hit space bar twice for that,  hold Control and F2 for that (seriously, what TWAT designed their system) I pulled out the laptop so I could YouTube a guided meditation for 30 mins and feel refreshed and raring to go.

Firstly, the computer took four days to load up.  No idea why.  I hit it, re-started, and went online.  My internet connection suddenly died.  Several deep breaths (handy for meditation preparation) and we re-started AGAIN.  Great, computer warms up instantly, I am online, seeking guided meditations for…happiness?  Confidence?  Abundance?  Select, lie back…great, there is no sound.  Uninstall sound.  Re-start.  Twelve days later I am so frustrated I am YELLING at the laptop, and cursing its existence.  I go and wash the dishes.  By the time I finish I am very warm and tired.  Look for guided meditations on post-laptop destruction, find none.  See that there is one for calmness, but there is no point.  Find something in the end and sit there for 30 minutes finding the guide’s Australian voice really annoying, and feel itchy.

 

Handle With (Extra) Care

Left counselling this morning, with an awful rumbling in my belly.  Obviously went to buy scones (I ate cous cous and no bread yesterday) but was concerned as I always time my eating around my social commitments.  My session had run over by about 35 minutes!  Noted that we had spent a few minutes chatting about Honeymonster, who saw fit to call me at 7.30 am YES I SAID AM for ‘a chat’.  Clearly I hadn’t gotten over having to speak so early in the day, at a time when minimal grunting should do.

Anyway, I then thought back to a few weeks ago when my counsellor saw me on a bank holiday Monday.  Do counsellors normally do this?  I thought they worked mainly office days, if outside office hours occasionally.

Am now thinking counsellor either finds me completely hilarious, witty and fabulous, or I need to be seen on public holidays and for 35 extra minutes due to my extreme madness/hopelessness.

In order to enjoy a quiet sleep tonight, will assume the former.

Four Tubs of Butter and an Idea

Whilst in therapy today, I came up with an idea for a sitcom.  Is this good or bad?  My counsellor says it’s a good idea, but it’s not the idea, it’s the location of the springing up of the idea that concerns me.

Another good thing about therapy is its location is across the road from the discount supermarket where I get my butter (I got four today, buy in bulk Mammy says when it’s cheap) and even more importantly, a really nice Thai takeaway (hard to find in Dublin, in my humble opinion).  I came home ready to butter up my veggie spring rolls and wok fried chicken.  Bliss!

Bruce Willis Fixes My Head, Dons Drag

I only just remembered why I felt so tired when I woke up this morning, despite an early night last night to read the Sunday Times magazines (I unfortunately have to buy English [and Murdoch] to get value for money in my Sunday paper – fear not, I rarely read the news sections, as I have stopped reading and watching the news [I will occasionally listen to radio bulletins as they are short and to the point – radio media being permanently terrified that their listeners will tune away from their repeats of early 90’s hits] and opt instead for the many feature sections and magazines instead).

There I was in one of my dreams during sleep last night, seeing Bruce Willis as a therapist.  I cannot for the life of me remember why, but being as I am seeing a therapist in real life and have an appointment next week, would this be the connection?  My real therapist is female, from Dublin, with a full head of hair and decidedly not a Hollywood actor.  This could be the reason that in my dream, my second session with Bruce involved him turning up in a dress and blonde wig, and discussing my mental health as if he couldn’t feel my envy of his tiny shoulders and slender arms, bare in his little white dress.  I don’t know why, but I kept thinking of Kim Bassinger.  She was blonde and whiteclad in LA Confidential.  He didn’t look like her, and his hair had clearly been backcombed into bigness, not like Kim’s lovely curly waves in the film.  But there you have it.