don't knock it till you try it: the death drive

"You know how when you're on the freeway, and you suddenly have that overwhelming urge to just yank the steering wheel to the left and crash across the median into oncoming traffic?"

My classmate stared at me. "No, I don't," she said.

This was in high school, and we'd been discussing something innocuous like our after-school jobs. Mine was at a coffee shop in south Minneapolis, and I had to drive super fast on crosstown in order to get there in time for my daily 4 p.m. shift. It was during these often-reckless drives that I started to notice my death-and-destruction fantasies. The most common one had to do with "crashing through New Jersey barriers" (I swear the fantasy preceded that Magnetic Fields song). Other times, a tire would blow as I went through a turn, sending me spiraling into a ditch. Once in awhile I'd be victimized by an idiot in a pickup truck who would cut my off, screeching to a stop in front of me, and as my car slammed into his my steering column would magnificently crash through my ribcage. (My Ford Probe didn't have an airbag.)

Maybe "fantasy" isn't the right word for these daydreams. But whatever you want to call them, they didn't seem so unusual to me. I certainly didn't think they might point to "deeper issues" (Was I secretly suicidal? Did I have a martyr complex?). On the contrary, they seemed relatively normal to me, and were oddly sort of comforting.

And as the years have passed, the fantasies have only become richer. For example, I was recently biking home in the dark on a busy street. The city had just laid down a bunch of loose gravel, so the route was a little treacherous. I could see it so clearly: my tires catching unfortunately on the gravel, sending me tipping over into traffic. My shoulder bashing into the street. A cell phone-talking blond driving her Malibu right over my neck...

Or this: I am on my lunch hour at my job, walking around a suburban lake (which of course has a highway running alongside it). As I trudge along, obsessing about the life choices (or lack thereof) that have brought me here, a passing Cadillac Escalade goes out of control, flying off the road and right into me, knocking me out of my shoes.

After all, we're all going to die someday, right?

No matter how emotionally stable I think I am at any given time, all it takes is a few moments of "mindfulness" about my thought patterns to make me realize that, more often than not, I'm actually plotting out my next horrific accident (hot tar burns and a severed Achilles tendon probably not being enough for one life). What I've been trying to figure out is--is that so bad?

The reaction of my high school classmate would indicate that it probably is. So for years I have largely kept these thoughts to myself. Then I read Foreskin's Lament by Shalom Auslander, and he described a very similar thing. The death fantasies I remember from his book primarily revolved around other people, but were very similar in tone. For example, he described being stuck in traffic when an ambulance went racing past him, off into the distance. Suddenly he was overcome with the knowledge that the ambulance was for his pregnant wife, who had just been involved in a horrible accident just up around the corner--the good life he thought he had, suddenly shattered for all time...

Reading this made me feel much better about things. After all, Shalom Auslander wrote a really great and funny book about self-loathing and death obsession--that girl from high school is probably assistant-managing a temp agency or something right now, totally feeling at ease with herself.

don't knock it till you try it: drinking obligations

Today's installment is from the archives, originally appearing to great acclaim in the Whittier Globe, sometime in 2006, I think. It's one of my favorites from the early "don't knock it" days. (In other words, I tried to write something new and original but it sucked, so this will have to do for now.)

don't knock it till you try it: keeping up with your drinking obligations

Today I woke up hungover for what I think was the 532nd time in my life. I first opened my eyes around 11:30 a.m.—way too early to be getting out of bed. I was super dehydrated, but the idea of staggering the seven feet from my mattress on the floor to the sink was overwhelming. I closed my eyes and passed out for another couple hours.

Like many other aimless young women with misdirected energy, I find myself, week after week, desperately attempting to keep up with my drinking obligations. If it’s not a happy hour for the latest person who quit their job, it’s a drinking dinner to discuss someone’s imminent divorce, or a rock show that requires the consumption of at least seven beers—because that time between bands is so tedious otherwise.

But recently, I seem to have lost the “drive” to keep up with my drinking obligations. In fact, in many cases, I am simply letting them slide. As a result, my social life has all but disappeared—which is really kind of depressing. So, in order to save my friendships and have something to write about here, I decided to once again devote myself to my drinking obligations. What follows is a review of a week spent “on the ball” (and off the wagon).

Monday: Although I managed not to drink anything the night before, I was pretty tired from restless sleep patterns due to the creeping dread that always overtakes me when the work week is about to begin. So I was already behind. I checked my messages mid-afternoon, and had one from my friend Jen. Monday is one of the few nights she has off, and she wanted to go out for dinner. Of course, I had to go—we’re usually on opposite schedules, and I hardly ever get to see her. I figured, since it’s a weeknight, I’d have “a couple glasses” of wine. Two bottles of wine, one Pernod, a beer, lots of expensive food and $120 later, I threw myself into bed, forgetting to set the alarm.

Tuesday: As if proofreading all day under fluorescent lights isn’t bad enough, this particular Tuesday I was under orders to “write copy” for a ShopNBC holiday postcard. I stuck it out until noon, at which point I lumbered out of the office to purchase something cheap and unhealthy for lunch. Poorly nourished, I came back to work and swallowed a Vicodin (left over from my Achilles tendon surgery). Painkillers are called that for a reason, you know. Did not venture out that evening.

Wednesday: Finally refreshed, I coolly and confidently accepted an invitation to a Whittier Globe “writers’ meeting” at the Red Dragon. I entered the establishment at 10:15 p.m., figuring we’d briefly discuss the upcoming issue, and I’d have “a drink or two.” Four vodka cranberrys later (cranberry has health benefits, I reasoned, and might negate some of the alcohol), I realized my contributions to the meeting were complete, and staggered back to my drafty studio apartment and the squirrels that live in my window.

Thursday: It had been awhile since I’d seen my childhood friend Katie (actually, since the night we went to Liquor Lyle’s when I had the flu, after which I couldn’t get out of bed for three days). We made plans to get together Thursday night for coffee or “maybe a drink.” We decided that coffee wouldn’t be wise (all that caffeine before bedtime is a no-no), so we arranged to meet at Café Barbette. We had lots of catching up to do, and stuck around for about four hours. I paced myself, however, and thus felt like a “together” young professional who deftly knows her limits. “Katie and I are totally growing up!” I thought to myself, with a mixture of pride and depression over behaving reasonably. This was a far cry from our college days, when we’d alienate each other’s male friends by starting fights with them at dorm parties. "Maybe I really can keep up with my drinking obligations," I thought to myself.

Friday: Though I was drained and exhausted all day Friday (despite keeping it together the night before, I didn't sleep at all, making all that temperance irrelevant), I knew there was no getting out of Friday night happy hour with Anne and Lindsay. Anne and I had both had recent birthdays, and this was to be our big celebration. I mean, I couldn’t skip my own party, right? We met at the downtown Grumpy’s for fried snack foods and beer. When a metal band started their soundcheck, we moved down the street to Maxwell’s. Eight hours later, after each of us had rebuked the drunken, smitten young man who separately proclaimed each of us “amazing” and “just what [he] was looking for,” I headed for home, confident that my friends still liked me.

Saturday: I think I told Jen I’d have breakfast with her, but I totally slept until one and didn’t hear my cell phone ringing. I should’ve called her back, but the effort was just too much for my swollen head. Then there were a couple rock shows that I’d been thinking of going to that night, but the idea of having to drink more Phillip’s vodka was enough to keep me away. And if you can’t tell, we have come full circle to the scene set at the beginning of this article.

So there you have it—a summary of a week of drinking obligations. Was it worth it? Uhh….well, the friends I saw have already called me about going out again this week! I’m doing way better at having friends now that I’ve re-resigned myself to bar life and stopped talking all that nonsense about “cutting down” and “working on my writing.” That stuff’s fine—if you want to go through life friendless and boring. My advice to all of you who have ambivalent feelings about your drinking obligations—suck it up, spend the $50 on the drinks and keep your friends happy. Or start hanging out with a group of pregnant ladies. It’s your choice.

don't knock it till you try it: office fashion

If there's one thing I hate about having a job, it's the clothes. Getting out of bed day after day to cobble together an uncomfortable, ill-fitting corporate costume is one of the mundane indignities that mars an otherwise-pretty-good life.

I just don't understand the point of it. As if seeing a bunch of thickening, middle-aged suburbanites dressed in suits instead of t-shirts will somehow distract from the brutal truth that we're all just self-serving, fearful animal-people, shuffling vacant-eyed through life.

One day I was complaining to my friend "Josie" about how oppressive office attire is, and declared my desire to work from home full time so I never had to hoist myself into another pair of sensible work pants ever again.

"You just need some nicer clothes!" she told me. "Even when I work from home, I always get at least a little dressed up. It's good for morale!"

I couldn't disagree with this more. I guess some people think that professional attire is going to make workers more productive. I suppose the idea is that playing "grown up" is going to trick us into thinking we're busy little junior executives and that we'll finish the report just that much faster.

Personally, I find dress codes condescending. I've worked in a bunch of different offices over the years, and all of them have addressed work-appropriate attire in their own way. From a low-standards code I could get behind ("All employees are expected to arrive at work in clean clothes--underwear on") to more repressive guidelines ("business professional" complete with photos illustrating dos and don'ts), I have operated under various regimes.

But never before I arrived at my current workplace had I encountered such virulent skirt bias.

A few days after starting my new job, I arrived at the office in a sweater, a black skirt, tights and boots. I didn't think twice about the outfit--it was the kind of thing I'd worn all the time at my previous corporate job.

Later that day I ran into my boss, "Kathy", in the hallway. She looked me up and down. "Well!" she said, as if she'd caught me in my hot pants and stripper heels. " I wish I had the legs to pull THAT look off!"

Ever since that I encounter I have to mentally brace myself anytime I wear not-pants in the workplace. For example, just recently I came to work in a generic brown shirt dress. Kathy spotted me immediately. "Cute dress, Shannon!" she said, setting me up. I said thanks. "You know, I have a similar one--from Ann Taylor, one of their cheaper things. I would never wear it to work, though."

I realize that interactions like this are meant to put me in my place--to indicate in no uncertain terms that I am expected to return to the office the next day in a lady-politician pantsuit. But stuff like this just encourages me. I get a juvenile thrill when I see Kathy wince at the sight of my bare knees or when her face falls after I inform her that I found the sweater she admired draped over a parking meter in downtown Minneapolis and that it was "only a little dirty."

don't knock it till you try it: bike rage

Yesterday, while riding my bike to my parents' house, I got stuck behind two middle-aged female bikers. I was on the Minnehaha Creek bike path, which is, in theory, a two-way bike lane. Of course these slow-moving ladies were riding side-by-side, preventing me from easily passing them.

I realize I could have barked, "On your left!" and cut around them rudely, but I hate it when fake-pro bikers in their Clif Bar-branded bike shirts do that, so I decided to "do unto others" and just slow down and wait it out. It was only about half a block until my turn off--there was no urgent need for me to pass them.

I can't say that I was totally Zen about the wait. Their self-absorbtion was evident as they pedaled along slowly, oblivious to their surroundings, like the lumbering mothers in the grocery store who stand gazing vacantly in front of the pasta sauce, hands on hips as their cart blocks the aisle indefinitely.

I had plenty of time to listen to bits and pieces of the biking ladies' conversation ("Yes, so Alan works for 20 hours one week, scheduled, and then the other 20 hours are on his own time--evenings or weekends, if he wants, you know, flex time?") and to take in their Midwestern lady bike uniforms (the cautious bike helmets, the sensible mauve capris, the hiking sandals).

Finally we reached the intersection. Despite the fact that the traffic light was green, the women came to a halt, continuing to block the way. Since I wanted to turn right, I carefully edged around the women. I swear I wasn't a jerk about it. Then, when I'd ridden about 15 feet away from them, I hear one of them say, "Well, I think WE'RE just going to obey the rules over here."

Despite my naturally repressed nature, this "pushed a button," so to speak. Of course they would say something like that when I was far enough away to hear their snippy little comment, but probably too far away to bother confronting them about it. Typical midwestern passive-aggression.

I slowed down and looked back at them, rolling my eyes dramatically and making an ugly, sarcastic face that might have involved me sticking out my tongue. I considered turning around to go address their complaint in person (I've done this once before in response to a different condescending comment--it was strangely exhilerating), but I held back. It took all my resources not to flip them off or invite them to "blow me" (two knee-jerk responses that I suppressed).

Then I biked on to my parents house. I didn't mention the incident to them. (If it's even a little negative, then we don't talk about it.) My mom and I had plans to get dinner at a local Mexican restaurant. While we waited for our server, a vaguely familiar-looking guy came over to the table. "Susan? Shannon? Hi, it's 'Dave Semmler'!" It was the father of this guy I went to Catholic grade school with, whose parents I had known fairly well, back then.

We made idle chit chat for a few minutes. "I'm sure 'Mindy' will come over to say hi when she gets here--she's biking with a friend."

A few minutes later Mindy arrived, who I supposedly hadn't seen in 15 years. "Hi, Susan! Oh...Shannon. Hi." She looked at me, and I looked at her. It was a classic woman-to-woman disdain festival. A Curb Your Enthusiasm moment. There she was in her mauve capri pants and hiking sandals, her helmet in hand, her law-abiding friend behind her. "It's SO good to SEE you," she said in that totally dishonest manner that only women employ. I felt a rush of adrenaline. I could do it--I could make reference to the bitchy biking encounter! I could alienate everyone gathered around our table in faux-fellowship! But I lost my nerve. I agreed it was GREAT to see her, too. I'm not proud of giving in.

don't knock it till you try it: no alcohol, no raw foods

Every now and then I remember the dietary advice I received from my acupuncture practitioner, and guiltily try to follow it in the days leading up to an appointment. This is what I've been doing for the last week or so.

The guidelines don't really promote a hedonistic approach to life. The list of "things to avoid" includes the following:

• Coffee
• Alcohol
• Sugar
• Dairy products
• Salty foods
• Spicy foods
• Raw foods
• Iced beverages
• Nicotine and other stimulants

"This isn't going to be so bad," I told myself. I went out and bought cabbage, broccoli and beets, and sipped room-temperature water while Nick drank the wine I had purchased only two days before deciding to commit to the project of deprivation.

I already knew that most of friends were booze-crazed, but the point was driven home when the daily invitations to "go out for drinks" started pouring in. "I don't need to drink to have fun," I said to myself.

I met a few friends at Joe's Garage during "gay pride" to prove my point. They ordered drink after drink, without a care in the world. "This is great," I thought. I'm totally not going to have to pay a big tab at the end of the night."

But the evening wore on. "What am I doing here?" I started to wonder after a couple hours. My friends seemed to be having fun. But without the task of drinking to distract me, I noticed that my thoughts were getting increasingly existential. "Is this all there is?" I asked myself as a girl in a sequined miniskirt, stripper heels and a clown wig walked by.

Not-drinking-at-bars wasn't working out too well for me, so the next time a friend suggested drinks, I countered with an offer to meet for lunch. We met at an Italian restaurant in the suburbs, near our corporate offices. "Do you want to share the caprese salad?" she asked.

"Um, no..." I said. I explained that I was following some Chinese medicine dietary advice, and that I was probably going to order something really bland that no one would want to share. "Karen" asked why I wouldn't have the salad. "Well, I'm trying to avoid dairy products, and raw foods.."

"You're avoiding raw foods?" she looked at me like I was crazy. Everyone knows raw foods are like the healthiest thing ever! I felt like I'd just told her that I'd joined a cult. "Don't share any more details," I told myself.

Conclusion: When I eat healthier food and avoid alcohol, I feel better physically. But without the cloud-like effects of booze it's so much easier to notice all the horror in the mudane details of daily life. Also, don't try to explain why raw foods are "bad" according to Chinese medicine; it's just not worth the scorn.

don't knock it till you try it: google-stalking your ex-boyfriends

Maybe it was the crushing boredom, or the sleep deprivation, or just my essentially pathetic existence, but today I decided it might be "fun" to google stalk my ex-boyfriends.

I started with my first boyfriend, the gamer I dated when I was 15. At the time, I didn't realize he was a gamer--I thought he was cool, and that I was lucky and privileged that he thought I was worthy of accompanying him to the Perkins in Maplewood for three-hour games of Monopoly with his best friend, that guy in the black jeans who worked at Circuit City.

Anyway, this first boyfriend of mine was super into computers, so I assumed he would be all over the Internet. "What does he look like now?" I thought to myself, all excited. "Is he devastatingly attractive, or has he devolved into hideousness?" So I googled his name, but nothing. Evidently, someone with the same name is an "American criminal" who killed his girlfriend and her lover, and who "was captured three days later outside a liquor store in Shreveport, Louisiana where he was using a pay phone while intoxicated." This was interesting, but told me nothing about my first boyfriend and whether or not he regrets the way he left for college and just totally stopped calling me.

So my first attempt was disappointing, but I was undeterred. I looked up the juvenile delinquent who worked with me at the bagel shop and whom I briefly "dated" during the summer when I was 16 and rollerbladed into hot tar. Those results were fruitless, as well. But in this case I didn't much care, because I was pretty ambivalent about that dude and wasn't even fazed when he quit the bagel shop, moved out of his foster home and completely disappeared.

I decided to change my focus to college. I stared at the screen and felt embarassed. Could anything that happened in college be interpreted as "dating"? Is it a sign that things are getting serious when a dude you've been drinking with makes out with your roommate and then tries to insult you by labeling you a "modernist"?

I looked up this guy, feeling hopeful that image results would provide evidence of alcoholic bloating and general decay. A tiny thumbnail of a totally pretentious-looking picture from Facebook came up--that must be him!--but when I clicked on it my workplace filters informed me that I was not allowed to look at something that had to do with "Dating/Relationships".

I started to feel stupid. Why am I bothering with this? I wondered. None of these guys would even think of google-stalking you, I scolded myself. And most girls probably have way more people to stalk! I lamented, feeling old and unpopular.

Conclusion: Google-stalking is largely unsatisfying, and has the added benefit of reminding you of your many mistakes, your lost youth and your inevitable death.

don't knock it till you try it: sweating in public

Tonight I attended my first Bikram yoga class at a studio in Minneapolis on Lyndale and 28th. I was a little on the fence about "hot yoga." I met someone recently who had taken a class, and she was turned off by what she described as the "boot camp" atmosphere and the constant urgings to "lock your knees!" which she interpreted to be an order to hyperextend--and everyone knows hyperextension is bad, right???

Anyway, there was also the issue of the heat. Various people told me they'd gone to a Bikram class and thought for sure they were going to vomit, pass out or weep uncontrollably, but these were not my chief concerns. Even the prospect of sweating profusely in front of others sounded reasonably okay. My main concern was with the almost-necessity of wearing shorts.

I like my legs fine until they are sticking out of a pair of sporty shorts or encased in tights and little else, a la ballet class. At these times I develop a serious case of body dysmorphic disorder (similar to the eating disorder I develop in crowded cafeterias that drives me to cower in the farthest corner, obsessing about the horrors of eating in public). Would I be able to get over my leg phobia enough to stare into a mirror while balancing on my toes and then squatting obscenely, dripping sweat from my stricken, bright-red face? It turned out the answer was yes.

At first, the level of heat seemed okay. And then suddenly, it was oppressive. I looked around the room, and virtually everyone was dripping just as much sweat as me. Were their faces quite as beet red? Perhaps not. However, virtually everyone was dressed up in little more than underwear. I congratulated myself for squelching my neurotic tendencies and wearing the damn shorts. Anything more covered up would have been excruciating.

I must say, however, that Bikram yoga is not for the scent-sensitive. If you thought the crowd at the 9/11 conspiracy documentary smelled bad, just wait until you shut yourself in a room full of 20 people sweating profusely. You know that embarrassing moment in the conference room at your job when you realize that the scent of last night's gin gimlets or garlic-marinated whatever is filling the entire room? Well, it's like that at a Bikram class, times twenty.

But overall, the class was good! It was definitely super hard. There was a lot of bending backwards, which was tough on my arthritic, 80-year-old neck. But other poses were just the right kind of challenging.

After the class, the instructor loudly congratulated me, and only me, on my "way to hang in there!" performance (I was the only person taking the class for the first time). This was a little embarrassing--I really hate being the center of attention. But it was okay, and a nice, super buff young woman bought me a popsicle and chatted with me for awhile after class.

I also confronted the instructor about the joint "locking" business. "Is the idea that we're supposed to hyperextend?" I asked, suspicious. He insisted that no, of course not, hyperextension can cause injury, etc. "Locking" really means "straightening."

So there you have it: Bikram yoga. Try it if you like intense physical experiences involving heat. Get over yourself and wear shorts. And straighten your knees, don't hyperextend them.