Trying to Maintain some Dignity

I ran. It's supposed to be good for me, no? I ran. I ran knowing it would be horrible. I ran thinking it would be worse -- in ways; not expecting it to be quite so bad, in others. I ran.

I'm experimenting. I'm trying different things. What will this take, this friendship? How much will I have to invest? In time? In money? In emotion? Today it was emotion.

I ran. I got dressed, like I get dressed, which is never fun. I'm not a runner. I feel like an idiot. I'm not going to go out and buy a nice little running outfit. I'm not that person. But I look like an idiot just the same.

My sweats are too short. My sneakers too white. My hips too wide. My ass too flat (somehow it has taken on the shape of its new land). My body's an amorphous mess.

I ran. It didn't start out quite so bad, despite the ridiculousness I felt. I didn't suffer the embarrassment I thought I might at having to stop after one short block. I continued. As in all things, if you can make it past the worst, you can go on forever. I forced myself. My body kept saying, "I can't. I can't." And my mind plugged on. Ok. That's a lie. It was the other way round. My mind kept getting in the way: "I can't. I can't." But my body plugged on. I hate my body, but my body should really hate my mind.

I kept on. I kept running. And when I finally came around to about the one-mile mark, when I finally came close to achieving my goal, it all fell apart. Some call it self-sabotage. I say it's just the way it is.

I could feel every extra pound on my body. I could feel this newly acquired layer of fat hanging from my bones. I could feel it move with every clumsy step. I could feel the impact on my ankles every time the were so brutally forced to bear the weight. I could feel the blobbishness, the misshapenness, the amorphous mess. I could feel it all. And perhaps it was the endorphins, but I started to cry.

Must I take this humiliation!?! How much must I bear? Will it keep getting worse, before it gets better? I've never had this happen before. Not like this. Is it just a sign of how bad things have gotten, how far away I am from this beast that is my body, this beast that is my mind?

It's bad enough I have to suffer the discomfort. It's bad enough I can't seem to get any pleasure from this effort, from this "doing" for myself. Must I also cry? Must I cry like a pathetic mess of hormones gone bad?

The icing on the cake.

I continue crying for a while. I can't stop. I continue walking, walking and crying, trying to hide my face from any passers-by, walking and crying, crying and walking and hiding. And I come home.

Eventually, you have to laugh.
And if you would have seen my blotchy face inside the elevator mirror, you might have done so. I sure did. This is supposed to make me more attractive? This is supposed to make me feel better about myself? My hair is standing on end, sticking out to every side, and my face looks like a bad allergic reaction -- speckled in red and white blotches resembling hives. Sweet. I break out in a fit of laughter at my own image. I mean, vanity aside, I sure don't look very healthy.

all in due time

House of Mirrors

I've been told that I see myself as if in a house of mirrors. What do you call those things -- the bizarre distorted mirror mazes at carnivals and fairs? Am I to believe that what I see in the mirror is not real? That's insane. But then, really, who the heck has perspective when it comes to themselves? I concede that I see myself differently from one moment to the next. Which is more real? Can a person really retain that much water? Can what I'm wearing have that strong an effect? More likely what I'm feeling, how I'm feeling, how I am. Today, I am fat. Today, I want to crawl outside of my skin. Today, I cannot stand to be trapped inside this meaty, mushy body -- this gravity-stricken, stretched out, dull ball -- this cramped up knot of grinding bones. Not today. But maybe tomorrow I'll feel sexy. Maybe only for a minute. I think I still remember what it felt like. I moved differently then.

So.. what are the problems? What are the steps? What are the solutions? Let's see where we have to start. And let's start simple.

My skin is dry. My skin is old. It doesn't fit me anymore. It hangs on my bones. But I'm still fat. That's utterly disgusting.

More water. First and foremost, more water. I can do that. I can ACTUALLY do that. Now that I've quit smoking, I can actually do that. What's the goal? Eight bottles a day. Today, I've had none. It's 2:14 p.m., and I've had none. And don't think that I jumped up to run for the kitchen just as I wrote that. Nope, I haven't moved. But, I still feel I can do it. ;-)
See, I'm optimistic.

My stomach is a disaster! I love in constant flux between constipation and diarrhea, with a ton of acid reflux in the middle. It's quite painful, actually.

More fiber. I can do that. Oats, bran, whole wheats, rye, barley, beans, peas, cabbage, carrots, cauliflower, citrus fruits, strawberries, apples. Yeah, I can do that. I eat plenty of oranges. I'll try more of the rest. What about nuts? Are nuts good? I eat plenty of nuts. But lately, they seem to hurt my stomach.

A better diet in general. I can do that too. No late night pizza. Hell, no pizza at all probably. The tomato does my no good, and the cheese just ain't much better. Oh, but it's so good.

What I can never get past is the short-vision quality of life. What's the point of all this stuff, if in the end, you can't enjoy every day because you're too busy depriving yourself. I know. It's not about that, but... I hate depriving myself. And I refuse to be one of those people that's constantly concocting little schemes to trick themselves. I don't want to have to rationalize how I am in no way depriving myself -- that in fact I would be depriving myself of a healthy, happy life if I did NOT do this. Oy! I'm just not that person!

I live in a house of mirrors, but I need to be honest with myself.

And then there's all that gravity and mushiness and parts now living in different places. This is not where my ass used to be. What's this here? Oh, my! "No, no, no, no, no," she says shaking her head and gesticulating wildly. "This is not me."

I must do exercise. It'd take a pretty powerful house of mirrors not to come to this conclusion.

Focus on the Body

I'm not comfortable focusing too much on my physical being. I am not comfortable being "one of those people" that thinks too much about physical appearances. I don't want to be a gym freak. In fact, I hate the idea of going to a gym. (Just the idea, mind you. Once I'm there, it's really not so bad.) I hate the idea of exercise for exercise sake, though I like to be fit. I like to think that an active lifestyle can get you all the exercise you need. But these days, I spend far too much time in front of a computer. And I no longer live three blocks from the beach. No, in fact there's no beach at all here, and outside sports are limited to a few months out of the year. How is one supposed to stay active? I can't cover myself up all year round. Hey, hey, gym, I guess I need you after all.

I don't think I come across as particularly uncomfortable or physically insecure. At least I've learned to hide that. But do I hate my body? Oh, of course. But I hate to be such a girl! I don't talk about it, of course. That would be pathetic. I refuse to go there. I won't complain, and I certainly won't seek reassurance with self-deprecation. That ceases to be sexy past the age of 22 (if that). Though in general I do love self-deprecation -- just not to this end. No, this whole process of befriending my body must go by as unperceived as possible, or not go on at all.

My physical insecurities are kept below the surface. I'm not an honest person, you see. If you knew how insecure I was, then that much more I'd be. I have to keep things in balance.

So, the truth.. what I hide from you stays more hidden to me.
The more I focus on my body, the more it hurts, the more I hate it.

I like to think I'm not a part of it. I like to thing I can surpass it. I like to think it doesn't matter. But it does. And the discomfort creeps in. The neglected body screams back at the abandonment. Cracks break out across its very foundation, screaming to be noticed. And I can't help but notice. I can't help but notice when I'm confined to my bed. I can't help but notice when I feel pain every time I place my foot on the floor. I can't help but notice when I find my parts are in all the wrong places.

So, I must learn how to focus. I must deal right through the discomfort until I no longer feel it. I must force myself to look it in the eye, stand up to it, defeat it. I must learn to love myself. How ridiculous is that? I must at least learn to tolerate myself. Am I focusing on my body to get over it, or to make it better? Neither, I suppose -- only to befriend it. But to be its friends, I must let go the hatred. To let go the hatred, I must first force myself to nurture that which I do not love. I suppose it's quite like an arranged marriage of sorts. Resent it as I might, I must feign love in order to create the circumstances needed to incite love.

This is not going to be easy, my friends.

Quality of Life

I'm trying to befriend my body again. We had a little falling out some years ago, and I've come to realize the mutual benefit of our being allies. Ours wasn't a definitive rupture; we simply slipped apart. One small betrayal after another piled on and spiraled into an all-out war.

Mind: Why should I suffer a respiratory illness when I quit smoking? That's just wrong. I might as well have a cigarette.

Body: Why would she burn all my cilia off when I just grew them back? Why would she feed me nicotine when I've just suffered through withdrawal? I might as well shut down.

I know. Most things aren't so simple. And you can't expect immediate results. I know. I know. But time and time again I've felt betrayed.

You know what I mean. It's the seemingly faulty logic. It's the irony. What are we up against? Most of us are overly concerned about losing weight. How do we do this? Eating less. Eating healthier. Doing exercise. In order to lose weight, you need to exercise. We all know that. But exercise makes you hungry. Of course, it does. And you need the food to burn for energy, so... how the heck are you supposed to lose weight. I know. I know. It's all about balance. But, must it be so hard? It hardly seems fair.

My body and I are not friends. We have not treated each other well. We are trying to change that. But change is never easy. And I've never been comfortable spending too much energy on myself. Perhaps that's part of the problem. Perhaps my mind and I are not friends either. But then who am I if not my mind and body -- and why so much self-hatred?

I have come to realize that the only way we can make it through this world -- my body and I -- is as allies. The grace period is up, and though we may have taken each other for granted all these years, we can no longer afford to do so.

Call it quality of life.

just waiting for the ax to fall...

Double Axe by James Stanley Daugherty

I'm good. I feel good. All is well. This is unusual.

So I keep waiting for the ax to fall. I can't help it. It's in my nature. Just as when something terribly "wrong" happens, I brace myself for the storm. Life has taught me so. I'm seldom wrong... about this.

I am an avid proponent of the self-fulfilling prophecy. There's not a doubt in my mind that we somehow carve our own paths, make our own beds... in a most underhanded manner... betraying ourselves at every step.

Paris Hilton is a dope. No doubt about that. But she lives by the rule of self-importance. It's all attitude. Act like a queen and you will be one. Yes, it helps to have millions or billions of benjamins in the account, but... she speaks the truth. We see it all around us every day — that plump little number parading her handles across the beach like a goddess. Tell me men don't want to tap that ass? Tell me women don't envy — or wish to get some, too. What do you think all the cattiness is about? Why should a little bit of excess body flow oozing out of a bikini bother us so? Envy, I tell you. Envy. It's not injustice. What do we care about injustice? We prove that every day.

I've gone astray. So... walk in the shoes of a goddess and ye shall be one. Walk in the shoes of a fart and ye shall stink.

Me, I walk in shoes that hurt my little toes.

(whatever that means...)

whip me, baby. whip me good...

"freely given" by William Russell Walker

I feel a disconnect. My mind and body are at odds. I'm OK. Emotionally, I'm OK. But my body is far away.

I can't seem to connect to it — don't want to. My body has betrayed me. Fuck the fucker. Fuck it. My body has betrayed me.

And that's that.

Don't get me wrong; I'm not holding a grudge or anything. I'm not sitting around dwelling on the baggage, tormenting myself, self-flagellating. I've simply ceased to care.

You have betrayed me. Fine. I understand things better now. I now know more.

And meanwhile, I've ceased to care.

Eventually, I suppose, I'll simply cease to care... altogether... about anything.

And then, I suppose... I'll die.


(if only it were that easy. it sounds so peacefully, really.)

'cause it's important to say something positive...

I realize I complain a lot. Perhaps most of us do...
But I DO have a few positive things to say. (Perhaps they're not that important...)

OK. I listened to Regina Spektor for the first time this week. FABULOUS! I was honestly blown away — first time in a long long time I've been blown away by a piece (or two) of music.


Oh, and if you missed Natalie Portman on SNL. Check it out. She's just too beautiful — inside and out — for words.

carrying the weight

myanmar woman

I've been working since before I was of legal working age.

When I was only 10, my girlfriend Danielle and I went to a nearby Chinese-Cuban restaurant in Newkirk Plaza (I lived in Brooklyn then) and started bussing tables. We didn't ask for a job. We just started doing it. (They were very kind to us, humoring us and slipping us a couple bucks at the end of the day for us to load up on bubblegum.)

That's not the point.

When I was 15 I lied about my age and got a job at a local Davanni's. I spent my first real paycheck on dinner theater tickets for my mother and stepdad. They still brag about it, but damn... it felt great.

I like to spend on people. I like to spoil people. I like to give.

I'm not buying love here. It's just who I am.

It's not about money. It's about sharing with other, giving to others, and all that sappy kindergarten shit. (I went to a seriously hippyesque love-fest day care. It must have profoundly impacted me.)

I give. So what?

Is it that women are more programmed to give, in general? Do we give more? I know some do, but... I sure know plenty that don't give shit!

Here's the deal... FINALLY!

Why is it that the scales always lean so heavily to one side?

Hey, if I were being taken to Fugaise for muscles and champaigne on a regular basis, I might not mind always having to scrub the toilet. If I were carried off to island paradises and exotic adventures, I might not mind taking full responsibility for the laundry. If I had the perfect stainless steel kitchen with a large center island and a fireplace, I might not mind doing the dishes every night (or at least the nights when I'm not taken out to La Belle Vie). If I were living in the lap of luxury, I might not mind handling all the bills.

But as it stands, I always seem to do all these things, with little reward.

I am woman; hear me roar. And I will keep roaring as I hold the doors open for the men behind me and continue to wash their dirty underwear.

I work. I work hard. I play, so that others can play with me. I give every ounce of support I can, in order to help people be who they long to be. And I continue to scrub the shit from the toilet.

And to top it off, I won't even let you buy me dinner.

silenced

"I'll Be Love's Suicide" by Tiny Dancer — Flickr


I'm fine. Really. I'm fine. I just have nothing to say. Nothing to say anymore. I talk and it drops down into the void. Seems pointless.

I talk about nothing now. Nothing important. So I have nothing to write. Nothing worth recording. Nothing worth putting out there. I'm not putting out.

There's really little more loathsome than people writing about their inability to write. Well... maybe complaining about it. That's more loathsome.

I'm living. I'm doing. I'm here. That's about it. Nothing more. I'm not filled with anything. Not even rage. Oh, rage might do me well right now. Something at least.

I simply am. There is nothing exciting about that.

I don't want to go into a teenage spiral caving beneath the unbearable burden of insignificance. But...

What the fuck?

We work. We play. We eat. We work. We eat. We sleep. We wake. We live. We die. Fuck man!

Are we really supposed to watch this much tv?

Tired of talking. Tired of walking.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/juventina_s/53319652/in/set-1221524/

Perhaps I simply don't like people. I don't really know. I like them in theory.

But I find myself not wanting to call anyone... not having anyone to call... and dwelling in my loneliness.

This isn't self-pity. I can always pick up the phone. I know that.

But... I don't.

I care about people. I care. I'm there. I'm here. Do you need me? Here I am.

But I don't call.

I pull the covers up.

And I'm fucking lonely, man.

Loneliness is not something I share. Sorry. And it's boring as hell to hear you talk about it. It's boring as hell to talk about it. It's boring as hell to talk about the human condition.

I'm just tired of talking.

We all know what's there. And hey, if you don't.. then do I really want to talk to you?

I'm tired of talking. I'm tired of hearing.

The same old thing.

It's always the same old thing. Or then some other. Always the same old thing. How excruciatingly boring!

I don't get off on repeating the same old insights with someone new. I don't get off on regurgitation. I don't get off on impressing someone new with my fabulous insight. It's not fabulous. It just is. Why should you be impressed. I know, you're not. And I'm not off. Not on.

I can listen to you. I can listen. I can pretend to be impressed. I'm not impressed. I'm not even engaged. I don't feel some deep connection over a shared conclusion, a shared delusion. I feel nothing. Tired of talking. Tired of walking.

Just goes to show you...

Maybe it's my new singledom, or sheer boredom, but I have been watching more bad television and getting up to date on the lastest celebrity gossip. I've never cared about this shit before.

Actually, I'm not sure that I do now, but I'm finding it vaguely amusing.

More of that later. Let me get to the point.

I've recently seen a few bits and pieces of "Beauty and the Geek." I'm sure this can't be a positive thing in my life; but alas, it just is.

So... tonight I turn the channel and there are about ten guys painting a naked woman while she rattles on about herself. I'm not sure if it was "Beauty and the Geek" or some other similar type of show (I'm not quite that savvy yet), but here's what happened:

The guys finished their paintings, expecting to be judged on their artistic (or not-so-artistic) renditions. But... as always... the judges threw a twist into the mix. "Remember how I told you that you have to listen to women." They were being judged on how well they listened to the rambling model. Let the games begin.

It took two questions to determine the winner.

1. What was her name.

Four of the ten answered it correctly.

2. What movie was she up watching last night. (This was all she spoke about.)

Only one.

The rest of the men had done everything they could to tune her out. And of course, there was the added distraction of her titties...

These men aren't geeks at all. They're just men... not hoping to get laid.

A friend of mine (probably an ex) once told me that a man only listens to a women when he stands something to gain.

I always hope that anyone talking to me might have something to gain.

...if only a bit of good conversation...