coffeebarconfessions

Last week a woman came into my store freaking out because she needed something to even out the tan lines on her shoulders. She's a swimmer, and was wearing a strapless dress to a wedding that weekend. When five different employees explained she could either use makeup or self-tanner, but we couldn't guarantee they wouldn't rub off on her pale-blue dress, this woman descended into a full-on meltdown tantrum and left the store in a fit of rage. While this wasn't the first display of utter ridiculousness I've encountered at my job, it left an impression because I later found out she'd been coming into the store for two months trying to fix her tan-line problem. For two months my co-workers had been telling her to get a spray tan or go sit in the sun. For two months she ignored reality, then went ballistic (in public, mind you) when the cosmetics department couldn't fix her very important problem. For reals, yo? I'm a firm believer in taking responsibility f

I'm desperately searching for some control in my life. While I've mostly recovered from the insomnia-induced regression my health took over the last few months, ultimately the management of my fibromyalgia has slid down a notch. I'm growing increasingly dissatisfied with my part-time job, due in large part to spending more of my days in a viral-flare anger fit. And my book-- my raison d'etre, my heart and soul, the culmination of four years of tireless work I'm done writing, but am taking forever to finish editing, seems to be floating further and further away. The list goes on; my house is a mess, dogs need to be groomed, laundry is out of control...need I drone on? All the aforementioned has me so stressed out, I can't even quiet my rattled brain enough to compose a blog with any substance, which makes me feel even more desperate and searching than I was before. Being back to work has made me realize how much I've changed in the four years it took to reco

I'm trying desperately to talk myself into going to the gym. Considering I woke up with a headache and a bit of that "hit by a truck" feeling, the later it gets the less I want to. I mean I want to, of course, who wouldn't rather spend the day wrapped in a strong and powerful endorphin afterglow instead of feeling like roadkill? But really, all my dwindling ambition does is remind me how far I've backslid since August. That's when I got the first cold, followed by another, followed by such intense insomnia that left me so immune zapped, I got the second-worst flu of my life. Yes, the last two months changed my life a lot. It certainly reminded me how vulnerable I am, and how sometimes despite my best efforts, fibromyalgia is stronger than anything I can do to thwart its never-ending misery. But that's old news. What I find quite a bit more interesting is how willing I am to change to keep my grasp on my health and therefore, my life. I've made all sort

Somehow those three innocuous little words have become one of the most dreaded questions in my existence. One would think "How old are you?" would rub me much wronger, given the youth-obsessed culture we feed off of like vampires here in good ol' America. Strangely enough, given all I've survived in my younger years, I'm actually quite proud to confess to my thirty-nine years of existence. "How much do you weigh?" should hit me as pretty offensive too, but considering I'm down about 100 lbs. from my all-time prednisone/Lyrica high, and pump so much iron I can easily stuff my folds of remaining elephant skin into a svelte size six, I'll gladly tell the world I still weigh in at a walloping 148 lbs.  But "How are you?" is a different matter entirely, because I'm seldom fine. Yet this little pleasantry is how every single encounter starts, with every single person I cross paths with, every single day of my life, forcing me to either li