Loneliness and Insecurity

There’s a weird feeling I have at the moment, and it’s called loneliness and insecurity.  It means I want to talk and make a friend, but I’m insecure/anxious about how the conversation would go and whether it would be a positive overall interaction or a negative one.

As an HSP, apparently I go out of my way to avoid uncomfortable situations, so you can guess where that leaves me.  I guess I’ve kind of forgotten about my HSP-ness, except today, I noticed one of my friends on Facebook, an acquaintance, rather, had changed her last name back to her maiden name.  That’s never a good sign when you know they are (were?) married.  It’s really disheartening and while one shouldn’t jump to conclusions, I thought back to the research I read a long time ago about how neuroticism is the number one personality predictor of an unhappy marriage, in so many words.  I think HSP-ness and neuroticism pretty much overlap quite a bit.  So I made my hubby take the HSP test.  He’s not an HSP (no surprise at all there).  I think when I make my hubby take tests like these and listen to his responses, I realize how much I assume everyone around me must think the way I think, or feel the way I feel in response to things, and how strange it is to find out that they don’t.  You mean loud noises don’t really bother you?!  You mean you’re not bothered by coarse fabrics?  You don’t get nervous when someone is watching you do something?  You must be an alien!  Except no, the alien, folks, is me.  Just kidding.  We are 20% of the population, so not so alien after all.  But the point is, something about us, oh, maybe the way we are so very moody, makes it difficult for people to live very very closely to us, which marriage is.  Anyhow, as you can probably guess, this doesn’t make me feel too good about myself.  So it’s been awhile since I’ve thought about these personality things.  Thankfully, it is the Lord who brought me to my husband, and my husband to me.  His ways really are higher than our ways.  My thoughts are kind of all over the place on this.  I guess I just feel bummed when things aren’t working out for people and of course I can’t have any way of knowing what is actually going on, so how can I say anything?  It’s all very confusing.  Years and years have passed and so much change, too.

I think that’s what ties all of these thoughts together.  Change.  I don’t like change.  Since I’m back home, I’ve realized a lot of folks are probably still around, but I don’t know if they would want to talk to me.  There’s always the past, the connections to this person or that person, and then there’s this huge gap of time, and by now, I have no clue what to think or what they think, or if they even think.  I want to connect with people, but I have no words.  Or maybe they’re busy.  Or maybe I’m busy.  I would be okay, except see the reason I’m writing this is that I spent too long scrolling through a NewsFeed, reading just that.  News.  News about people, when all I really want is to actually sit down and talk to them, except I also don’t want that as well.  Because what if they don’t open?  That feeling when you can’t seem to get through feels even lonelier, somehow.  Why do things change?  So we left our old community behind, but I am forming a new community here, and it will take time.

I feel there is a new stage of life ahead of me.  The leaves are growing a radiant reddish hue and life is morphing as well.  It seems as I grow older, family becomes more and more primary, and more of them actually need your care, or is it that I actually notice and care about someone other than myself.  I will be 29 in a few weeks.  Throughout most of my life, I haven’t felt my age.  I’ve always felt younger than I actually was.  Today though, my age feels very real to me.

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Immuno-Boost

Yesterday I was planning to eat ramen for dinner, but then the hubby said he was feeling like something light and healthy, which usually means he’s exhausted and needs an immune system boost!

So I made this, instant pot congee.  I think it turned out fairly good and I would make again.  I also made him a smoothie and put all kinds of stuff in it that the Internet says is good for you– spinach, lime, berries, ginger, cinnamon, turmeric, chia seeds, Greek yogurt.  Next time, more ginger, cause he couldn’t taste it this time.

The Past

Yesterday I was talking to Hubby about “the past”.  I was considering, some people say that the past is the past.  As in, it doesn’t matter, and we should focus on the present.  To which I raise my eyebrow and think, yes, that’s a good point.  But doesn’t the past affect who we are today?  But to what extent does it matter or doesn’t it matter?  Some people are those who “need to know”, and others are better at passing over those things and having new beginnings.

I’ve always been the kind of person who has trouble letting things go.  The imprints on my heart run quite deeply.  I’ve found out from conversations, that many people can’t remember too many things from their childhood.  But I remember random moments.  I remember preschool, the fake cake with the pandas on it, and being excited when it would finally be my turn to sit in front of the cute cake.  I remember getting in trouble for being awake during naptime during daycare.  I remember my first week of kindergarten.  I sat on the carpeted floor and found a book about Spot the dog, and I read it.  And I found out that the other kids were not reading the books, they were only looking at the pictures.  And that was one of my first realizations that I was ahead of other kids academically.  I remember sitting in a chair for my first piano recital, not quite knowing what was going on.  I remember getting shots with a happy face, but it seems my memory must have tricked me because how can you have shots in the shape of a happy face?  I remember my first friend who asked me if I wanted to be her best friend, but it would have to be second best friend, because someone else was her first best friend.  I remember that I didn’t know why she wanted to be my friend, but she did.  I remember watching my best friend run around the playground getting chased by boys, and wondering what was so fun about that.  I remember receiving an inflatable hammer bigger than me as a gift in Hong Kong, because somebody else was afraid of it, and feeling quite good about myself.

Being back in the city where I grew up conjures up a lot of memories from “the past”.  Watching my cousin go through being a teenager again reminds me of my wide-eyed days, when a group of us genuinely believed we could change the world.  When there were no bills, no homes, no jobs to think about.

The past is a strange place.  What is it about some events that place them so firmly in my memory?

More inspiration

There are so many lovely Christians who write online.  Every so often I run into one.

Recently, I’ve been having a hard time.  The move here has exposed that I want so much for my self.  I want my time, my ambitions, my desires.  Instead, I’ve been drafted into a job that I am woefully not good at.  Not drafted, I willingly decided to join.  In my naivete, I did not anticipate what others saw coming.  My mother is an accountant.  She passed her CPA exam with two kids in tow.  She worked and fed us fresh meals every, single, day.  I never wanted to be an accountant.  I majored in Economics in college.  To most people, that might seem like it’s close to Accounting.  Let me tell you, it’s not.  Economists and Accountants are like the Chemists and Biologists of the world.  We deal with similar things, but from a different worldview.  Economists are always asking the question “Why?”, which I am very, very, inclined towards.  And, which seems to drive certain practical minds crazy.  “What do you mean why?”  If I have no answer to “Why?” I feel that what I am doing is meaningless.  And within myself I feel that it must not be arbitrary; there must be some secret that I don’t know, a reason for this seeming madness.  There must be an answer to that question.  And I feel it is hidden, and I cannot bear secrets.  I myself am terrible at keeping secrets, but only my own.  I can keep others.  With myself, I feel this odd need to divulge, that if I didn’t, I would be counted dishonest.  I feel the need to tell my hubby that I had another bothersome dream.  Even though I don’t need to.  Hubby is the opposite in this regard, but that’s for another blog post.  Anyway, sometimes, there are no answers.  At least, none that anyone can verbalize to an inquisitive, exasperated learner without becoming exhausted doing so.  How did I end up here?

We felt it was of the Lord that we come.  I had this place in my heart before we got married, but because of school and a job, it was not the time.  Now we are here, and I feel I just want to be by myself, holed up in a house, maybe pursuing my music, my cooking, my designing, my becoming an ultimate perfect housewife slash musician slash chef slash walking encyclopedia slash polyglot slash greenthumber slash DIYer.  In life, this desire for the ideal has often paralyzed me, pulled me in many directions, fueled my disappointment and self-disparagement.  At this point, I would generally break out with one of my favorite songs from Wicked 🙂

“I’m limited……..”

Ok but seriously, this mom’s post about contentment?  Wow.  It’s like my dream of a perfect life just got slapped in the face, in a good way.

Pantry Fridge Leftover Experiments

Hubby is gone for the rest of the week, so somehow I feel a little more adventurous in making disgusting looking food for myself.

Today it is dumplings (for protein), over random pasta, plus zucchini (leftover and cooked in the remaining potsticker juice cause I’m lazy like that and why not), and this olive oil garlic sauce except without the anchovies ha ha which are probably a main ingredient, but whatevs!  Topped it off with panko, because I read the recipe wrong.  Whoops!   🙂  So we have an Italian-Asian fusion going on here.  Cause that’s what I meant to do….  😉  Bon appetit.

Verdict?  It doesn’t taste bad!  I overcooked the zucchini though.  I wouldn’t mind eating this again if I had random ingredients to get rid of.

The end.

21-day Sugar Detox

I’m not into detoxes.  I’m really not.  I lumped them into all the other fads that I heard about growing up.  Atkins, lemon-juice cleanses, the like.  But then the other day I got an email from the Instant Pot group (what?) about the 21-day Sugar Detox!  And it actually intrigued me.  Like, I actually considered doing it.  But first I had to do some research.  Most of what I’ve read so far seems reasonable, not too far-fetched or crazy.  The only thing that is weird is the no fruit thing.  I’m also considering how I want to do this, and maybe even just borrowing the book somehow and planning out my own recipe schedule.  I need a buddy though.  CC said she might do it with me, after the graduation hoopla is over, because you know, wedding coming up.  So I might have a buddy!  I would have asked my hubby, but I feel bad because he’s got a big sweet tooth!  But he might be down.  Mainly, I’m just super bloated lately, so I want to see if this kind of diet would help.  It doesn’t seem too extreme, which floats my boat, and seems logical enough.  Meanwhile, I’ve got sweet potatoes baking in the oven..

How to Peel an Orange

Wait, what?  Yes, there is actually a VIDEO about this.

…  Now I’m generally not one to be wow’d by how-to food videos, but this one, I was like, wait, really?  Is it a cultural thing?  Do most people really not know how to peel oranges?  Hm.

Mom peeled oranges for me and my brother all the time growing up.  The prize for finishing dinner was fruit for dessert.  Mom always peeled the fruit for us and placed it in our bowls, like the spoiled children we were.  It was a simple process, one I could copy easily.  She would make a few long cuts lengthwise around the orange and two crosswise cuts near the top and the bottom, just deep enough to get to the skin but not too deep that juice would start spilling out.  She’d peel the thick skin off the top and bottom, and then peel the slivers of skin from the sides. You’d end up with a nice round ball covered with remaining white, soft ridges of what my parents liked to called “fiber” or pith.  Sometimes they peeled it off, and sometimes, they left some of it on for our health.  Ugh, my favorite.  Then, the orange would get split in two and we would be able to peel off the slices of orange without any mess.

I wonder if it’s an Asian thing to prepare oranges like this?  In fact, I didn’t know how to cut an orange into pretty slices because we never did it that way.  I always felt that cut slices of oranges tasted slightly better though, and my theory is that’s probably because with the slice, the pith isn’t the first part that hits your tongue.

Speaking of Asian, the husband and I went to visit Colorado this weekend.  We noticed the food there is decidedly Boulder (bolder, ha ha .. !), and saltier.  So the rumors are true.  I wouldn’t mind living in the middle of America though.  The skies were actually a lovely blue, and you could still see the stars at night.  No smog or city lights to drown out their shine.