Zen and the Art of Emotional Maintenance

The leaves are finally changing colors and beginning to fall off the trees. I've been waiting for this, the explosion of reds, oranges and yellows (my favorites, easily). The colors are consolation for the impending cold. "Yes, you'll be freezing your asses off soon -- but look! Red!" And like a sucker, I take it. Even stevens. My heavy coat, your insistence that my entire world be orange.

And the weather, hot damn! This afternoon, I drove through town with the windows down, AC on. This evening, windows down, heat on. The hot humid breezes of the summer have given way to real breezes, to something cool that snakes across my skin. The air smells smoky, delicious, full-bodied, more substantial. Promising.

***

I spent last fall unhappy at work. "The Autumn of My Discontent," I may have said once or twice, or twenty times. I wasn't at all happy with the second lab I'd been saddled with; as it became more apparently how much I was a member of that lab, I became even grumpier. I spend months being nothing but grumpy at work.

I spent my time outside of work getting suh-massshed. Every weekend, stumbling in and out of bars, taking drags on clove cigarettes as we weaved our ways home, stopping to take pictures. My initials carved into tables in bars. Hopping back and forth, and then back again to the first bar, hours later. Guinness. Shock Top. Yuengling. Soco and Diet Coke. My consoling solutions to my discontent.

I don't regret those evenings spent drinking, not at all. From what I remember, they were all a blast (until I inevitably puked). I don't pretend that my life now is even more reasonable (believe me, it's not). I'll still get trashed at holiday parties. I will most likely puke on New Year's. But the in-betweens are still much calmer. I crave cloves, but don't acquiesce because I know I'll regret it later when I run -- I've traded one dopamine high for another. The same with the booze -- it doesn't make sense when I have to run the next day. I've done it once or twice. And felt so dumb later. I'm not the best at learning my lesson, but I'm trying. I've tried.

***

Self-medicating. We all do it, right? With food, with booze or pot. With sex or sleep or exercise. There's always a tipping scale, a balance that is most difficult to hold. All of these things, in balance, are fine, good, beautiful. A good dark beer, a good crisp crust on a creme brulee. An afternoon nap, a good long run.

But in excess, they leave you heavy or nauseous. I'm not saying I can always tell the difference. I've spent my time vomiting off porches or unbuttoning my jeans, icing knees that could have taken another day of rest, sitting sluggish for an evening because I've slept too damn long. Dopamine can be a cruel mistress. Ask your average crackhead; they'll tell you.

Small doses, my dear, my self. Baby sips. Function over form. Quality over quantity. If no other rule, then this.

***

There is zen here. Underneath electric blankets, riding the about-to-be-cut tags of new clothing. In cardigans and boots, in the coffee I've been drinking way too much of. Each white tablet, double what I was taking last year at this time -- zen. The beat of my feet against the sidewalk, a music player full of songs that make me want to move. A life that makes me want to move.

For now, a balance. For now.