Why can't I handle stress by working out obsessively like Henry Rollins does? I mean, if his abs are any indicator, he's pretty stressed. Or maybe the gym is his idea of fun. Me, I'm sitting here in yoga pants (not doing yoga), valiently trying to resist the siren call of the chocolate bread pudding lurking in my refrigerator. Must not eat (or drink) my feelings.
I know I should meditate—I even have an app for that. Or go take a brisk walk. Or something. But I can't. I just sit and obsess. Driving myself mental.
Part of my stress comes from not working enough. I have copywriting gigs, but not too much creative stuff happening right now. Here's a piece I wrote about wishing I could go back to dressing like a lunatic. Oh, and this one about being the worst exerciser in my boot camp. And another rehashing of the bed pooper piece. Does that ever get old?
A bigger part of my stress comes from my housing situation, which is a long, boring tall that I'll spare you. We've all heard this story a million times anyway: move into a neighborhood where nobody from Manhattan wants to live, a billionaire mayor rezones the place so it's safe for the giant glass towers that the rich seem to favor, thousands of wealthy brokers and models move in, and out you go, but to where? Where will all the regular people go? Certainly they can't stay in Brooklyn where your average human can't buy a house because they'll be outbid by speculators who are snapping them all up to rent out at exorbitant rates. (Read the story if you want to open a vein.) Will the new mayor shut these rapacious developers down? Or will it be more of the same?