The Dumpling Party

As the common denominator I felt like it had to mean something, but I wasn’t sure what. I tallied up the similarities:

• Meticulously groomed
• Bought way too much food that I now had to eat alone
• Really, really excited about something I was no longer invited to due to a potential exposure

Sure, the first time around I’d forfeited Thanksgiving, and now I was no longer allowed to attend the dumpling party. And tonight I’d bought too much tofu instead of too much steak, as this date was vegan(ish). But the parallels were striking.

I sat alone in my room and picked away at a lifetime supply of tofu stir fry. Because my grocery store self thinks two can consume exponentially larger portions than one. The dish was drowning in soy sauce, because my non-dumpling-party-going self thinks that sodium is the cure for isolation.

I scoured my brain about what it could mean and wondered what I was doing wrong. Was I not supposed to shave? Or buy so much food? Or get that excited?

When we were kids we used to play this computer game called Myst, where you had to solve a puzzle to reach the next level, but first you had to figure out what you were supposed to solve. So you’re just standing in this room trying to find out why you’re even there in the first place. Very formative for a seven year old.

In hindsight I acknowledge that the dumpling party incident probably meant something to the effect of I should stop being a dickhead and putting myself in high risk situations in the middle of a pandemic. But that kind of awareness can be hard to come by while bathing in self pity.

My brain was so quick to convince itself that I would probably spend the rest of my life picking away in solitude at meals meant for more. But if I stopped to actually look at the facts, the reason this situation felt so weird was that it’s an outlier. Most of the time invitations don’t get reneged, and the food I make for others gets eaten. And sometimes, there’s not even leftovers.

My brain, it turns out, is kind of a dick.

Other things my brain enjoys doing is telling me that nothing I do matters because at the end of each month my bank account will always equal zero, and I’ll still be two chins shy of a six-pack. No matter how hard I work, or how much jicama I eat.

I used to believe this, because it felt very true.

But more and more I’m learning that my brain isn’t actually right all, or even most, of the time. A realization that completely blew my mind.

An ex of mine used to say that he would never own a dog he could kick further than a football field. This is a horrible metaphor, but I think of my brain most days as one of those yappy little dogs. The kind that humps your ankles when you’re at someone else’s house, and you have to pretend not to notice.

Although I know it’s actually a lizard I get to thank for this brain. Millions of years worth of prehistoric instincts all ready to fuck shit up.

The thing is, the same brain that shrinks my life with harm OCD, and has a sweet tooth for self sabotage. It’s also the brain that’s responsible for my wildest, craziest dreams. It’s the same one that wrote this sentence, and that’s pretty good at remembering my friend’s birthdays (about 80 percent of the time, give or take).

If my lizard brain is responsible for fight or flight, it makes me wonder what the something deeper is that always seems to know the trail (whether or not I choose to listen is an entirely different story). It’s guttural, and reassuring, and not unlike the parent who carries the sleeping child to bed.

When I try to dissect it, I’m not sure whose hands those are that tuck me in.

And how even though I’m acutely aware of this depth and guidance that is an open bar of wisdom inside of me. I choose the hotel room mini fridge pretty much every time. The one with the overpriced nuts and extortionate bottled water.

Because it’s convenient. Because I’m thirsty. Sometimes I’m not even thirsty. Sometimes it’s just because it’s there.

I opt for my clunky, archaic, lizard brain and my overthinking, irrational, prefrontal cortex. The one that science says should be fully developed by now, even though I’d like to differ.

And as I talk with my life coach, arguing so adamantly against myself. Again, and again, and again. I wonder why. She sits across the laptop screen holding space for my possible, and all my brain can do is come up with shitty excuses for why I haven’t, and why I can’t, and why I never will.

I once went to a therapist who taught me “heart math.” She told me to close my eyes and visualize my heart beating in my chest.

“Now,” she said. “Imagine the color purple pumping through it.”

“Purple is flowing calmly into your heart, and swirling around, and rippling out of it. What does it say?” She wanted to know.

I called bullshit.

Well, on the inside at least. I always feel bad making people feel bad, so I usually just let therapists think they’ve cured me (fully aware of how that’s probably a large part of why I’m in therapy in the first place).

So it looked something like, “Ahhh, yes, heart math, why hadn’t I thought of that before?! Brilliant! Well, I guess I’m all better now. No need to come in for therapy anymore!”

But lately, I’ve been thinking that there just might be something to heart math after all. Especially when my lizard brain is driving the bus.

During the beginning of quarantine while other people were baking bread, weaving macrame, and learning French. I spent my months on the family commune photographing lizards.

I began naming them and started saying things like, “Who needs a boyfriend, when I have 12 lizard boyfriends?!” Which, in hindsight, is a little unsettling.

Needless to say, I’ve spent a lot of time with lizards, and the thought of one calling my shots is kind of scary.

The concept of having a brain that’s simultaneously trying to protect and cripple you is as fascinating as it is terrifying.

While it’s unnerving not being able to trust my brain, I think that’s where the heart math comes in. The something deeper.

And while he’s not my first pick, I’ve been trying to coerce lizard brain into joining my team. Because I can foresee various scenarios — most of them involving jungle predators or being shipwrecked on a remote island — where he’d come in handy.

Though we may be on speaking terms, I’m trying not to indulge lizard brain. Like a toddler having a grocery store meltdown, I’m getting used to stepping over him, unimpressed. I let him know I’ll be waiting outside in the parking lot when he’s ready to join me.

Which I don’t think is exactly what you’re supposed to do with toddlers, but it’s probably a good thing I’m not a parent yet.

And even with the awareness that it’s lizard brain doing the thinking, sometimes I get caught off guard and can’t help but watch in slow motion. Mesmerized by the train wreck of his scaly little thought process.

I was talking with a friend about how I have all of these deep set core beliefs that I hold to be true, but when I try to bridge that gap between knowing them, and living them, lizard brain gets me every time.

“Duh,” he responded. “You’re human. The game is how many times you can remember.”

So here’s to being human, and likely very competent indeed if you find yourself on the tundra picking up a quick mammoth for dinner.

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