on being embarrassed (blog #31)

1 Comment April 30, 2017 CoCo

Today I woke up at two in the afternoon. I should really start doing that more often. It felt glorious. Alternatively, I guess I could start going to bed earlier, but I really think God intended things like blogging and eating tacos to only be done after midnight, under the cover of darkness. (Isn’t that one of the commandments?)

When my aunt woke me up this afternoon, she told me that she’d come into my room earlier to make sure I was still breathing. She’d read last night’s blog about my talking to Jesus and taking a Hydrocodone, and wanted to make sure I hadn’t overdosed on either one. (I’m currently picturing one of those witty church signs saying something like: Prescription—Jesus, Side Effects may include heaven.)

Once I got around, my aunt took me to lunch with my cousin. At one point, they were talking about a flower arrangement my cousin had given my aunt, and when she realized that he’d made the arrangement himself, she said, “You did good!” And then my cousin, totally deadpan, looked at her and said, “Mom, I did WELL. Superman does good.”

Isn’t that amazing? Superman does good. I nearly spit out my third cup of coffee. (And I wonder why I have trouble falling asleep at night.)

After breakfast (that’s lunch to you), I walked to Utica Square to do some shopping. Well, even though it was cold, I wore shorts because they fit better than my jeans. It’s like this little mind-game I play with myself. The tighter my pants are, the fatter I feel, so if my pants aren’t tight, that must mean I’m not fat. Well, that logic works for a while, at least until it’s fifty degrees outside and the only pants that fit you turn out to not actually be pants at all.

Even though I tried on six or eight items of clothing, I didn’t buy anything because everything was either too short, too tight around the shoulders, too not perfect. And whereas I actually do need a few more things to wear, it was nice not to spend the money and end up with something I wasn’t really gung-ho about. I’ve blogged about it before, but this is one of the perks of minimalist living—more money, fewer things I don’t adore.

Back at my aunt’s house, we spent the evening in her living room, just chatting. A few times her dog Benny climbed up on me, looking for some attention. This is what I love about animals. They just ask for what they want. (One time in therapy, my therapist suggested that anytime I wanted a hug, I could simply ask my friends for one, so sometimes I do that. So far, no one’s refused.)

My aunt pointed out that Benny has some benign lumps on his body, and the biggest one (about the size of a baseball) is in a rather personal area. And then my aunt joked, “If he knew any better, he’d be embarrassed.” So we both laughed, and then my writer brain went to work thinking about all the times I’ve been embarrassed and whether or not I could make a story out of any of it. And the only memory that came to mind was when I was in my early twenties and got hit on by a millionaire.

I’ll try to be brief.

When my dad was in prison, he met a millionaire (a guy in his sixties, maybe) who was in prison for something to do with taxes. So when they both got out of prison, the man invited our family to visit him. And I guess a lot of guys in prison brag about having big houses and a lot of cars and antiques, but it’s usually all bullshit. But this guy actually had all that stuff.

Why should anyone be embarrassed about the truth?

Well, we had a great time, but looking back, the guy hit on me a lot. I guess I knew it at the time, but I was pretty naïve back then, so I didn’t fully see it for what it was. At one point, he straight up told me that I had a nice ass, and I guess I blushed or started stuttering. I don’t remember what I said, but it must have been something like, “I’d be too embarrassed to say something like that.” And I just remember the guy saying, “Why would you be embarrassed to say you like something?”

I’ve thought about that a lot over the years. And although I’m not saying I think everything the guy said and did was socially appropriate, even now I’m struck by his confidence, his lack of shame. I used to think that his confidence had to do with his money or age. I’m sure it all helps. But in my experience, the more I accept myself, the less ashamed and less embarrassed I am. I’m still not where Benny is, but maybe one day I’ll be completely okay with a few extra pounds, or a pair of pants that fit too tight, or asking for what I want. I mean, why should anyone be embarrassed about something they can’t immediately change? What’s more, why should anyone be embarrassed about the truth?

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"The heart sings for its own reasons."

up on the desk (blog #30)

2 Comments April 29, 2017 CoCo

Wayne Dyer once said, “Refuse to let an old person move into your body.” Well, when I went to bed last night, my hips and back hurt so bad that I couldn’t roll from one side to the other without moaning. So I thought, Crap, a senior citizen has somehow sneaked in the back door. It’s official. We have a squatter. I seriously wondered if I’d be able to dance, or even walk today. So I did what any Christian would do. I prayed to Jesus and took a Hydrocodone.

Ya’ll, Jesus and Hydrocodone is a great combination. (You should try it.)

When I woke up this morning, I was convinced that Jesus answers prayers because I could walk. I mean, it wasn’t perfect, but I’m sure he’s been busy with Easter and everything, so I was still grateful. I managed to get around without too many grunts and groans, and then my aunt and I went to an estate sale. When we walked in the front door, there were chocolate-covered donuts for free, which I figured Jesus sent to make up for any hard feelings regarding The Aching Back Half-Miracle of 2017.

After the sale, my aunt and I had brunch where my cousin works, and she told me stories that I’ve heard about my mom probably three or four dozen times but never get old. And I didn’t take a picture with my aunt, but she took a picture of our food (and my hand), so I’ll put that here. And don’t let the healthy-looking kale fool you. My cousin said it was deep-fried in butter, cream cheese, and pizza dough (or something like that).

I spent this afternoon with my friend Kara. Kara and I graduated high school together, and we were both voted most likely to succeed, so I think it’s neat that that prediction came true. I mean, she’s succeeding at home ownership and being an attorney, and I’m succeeding at eating frozen waffles and being a blogger.

Anyway, Kara and I get together to visit a lot, but today we got together to hang pictures and such on her bedroom walls. (She said that after three years, it was time.) Here are a couple of pictures of all our hard work. My two favorite things are the three-dimensional golden starburst that we put inside a frame above her gray chair (first photo) and the framed quote we put below her window (second photo). I always think each room needs something a little unexpected. It makes me think of that scene in Dead Poets Society when John Keating stands up on his desk and tells his students it’s because he wants to remind himself to always look at things in a different way.

I spent this evening swing dancing, effectively undoing the half-miracle Jesus and His Twelve Pain Killers performed. For the last few years, I’ve been working on following more, which not only helps me with developing new dance skills, but also helps me with courage and not being intimidated and asking other guys to dance. So at one point tonight, I danced with my friend Walt, another teacher. After our dance was over, a lady I didn’t know–a total stranger–jumped up out of her seat several feet away and kind of yelled in my direction, “NOW you know what it feels like to be a girl.” And my gut reaction was that she was being sarcastic, so I just smiled and said, “I think it feels great!” (Don’t rain on my parade, lady.)

After the dance, Gregg and Rita and I went out with some of the other dancers. This is what I loved about it–there was this big mix of talent in the room, and everyone was sitting eating pizza or burgers or whatever, and everyone was on equal ground. At one point my friend Hannah (top photo), who’s an absolute badass on the dance floor, said that she often compares herself to other dancers and has plenty of insecurities about her dancing. Then one by one, everyone around her, including me, started nodding his or her head, like, Me too, Me too. And although it was this simple thing, it reminded me that we all have so much in common.

Before the night was over, Gregg and Rita and I (along with their two sons, Mason and Cody), moved to a bar called Kilkenny’s. It’s one of favorite places on God’s Green Earth, as I have a lot of memories there–long conversations with wonderful friends. Well, Rita started telling stories about how we used to travel together, about who snored louder, Marcus or Mason. So we were all laughing, and someone said something about the extended family, and I knew that included me.

At some point today, my aunt made the comment about people who are “professional complainers.” I’m sure you the type. So all day I was thinking I could somehow work that into a blog, maybe find something to complain about, but it just hasn’t happened. Some days, like today, are just good days. There’s nothing really to process or working out, and you simply get to enjoy all the hard work you’ve put into life so far. You get to eat a good brunch, you get to dance with your friends, you get to spend time with the extended family.

So even though I just had to have another talk with Jesus about my lower back, I don’t think there’s anything to complain about. And as far at that old guy who seems to have moved into my body, well, I think I can get him to move out with the promise of a hot bath or two. And really, I think that comment Wayne made wasn’t about your body’s aches and pains; I think it was about your mind and your heart. Obviously, sometimes life can be a real bitch. And it’d be easy to stay down on the ground, complain, and find everything that’s wrong and everything that hurts. But I think the goal is to climb up on the desk, to look at things in a different way, even if it’s a simple thing like realizing we all fight the same emotional battles and that a lot of wonderful things can happen even though you’re in pain.

Oh, about that conversation I had with Jesus. He said to take another Hydrocodone and go to bed, so I said, “Yes, Lord.”

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

Everything is progressing as it should.

wheel of fortune (going down) (blog #29)

7 Comments April 28, 2017 CoCo

Currently, I’m in Tulsa, Oklahoma, it’s one-thirty in the morning, and I feel fat. For the last week, I’ve been noticing how the skin around my stomach has given up the good fight, how it’s gotten so tired of holding itself together that it’s taken to resting on the top of my pants. When I lean sideways in my chair, I can feel the skin below my waist and the skin above my waist push together, and it feels like two lumps of Play Doh fighting each other for King of the Mountain. It’s not amusing.

I made the mistake last night of looking at this hot guy’s Instagram. By anyone’s standards (including his own, I’m sure), he’s ridiculously gorgeous. It should be against the law to look like that. It should definitely be against the law to post so many selfies when you look like that. And even though I sat at the breakfast table and scrolled through his entire account (while I ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and thought about the abs I used to have), I couldn’t find a single bad picture of this guy. (My therapist would call this good presentation.) So the more I looked at his muscles–his chest was for sure a solid b-cup–the fatter I felt. My only consolation was that he was probably stupid.

All I could think was, God I’m so glad I have this brownie.

So this afternoon I went to Panera Bread for comfort food, and there was this kid working the counter who had no more than a twenty-six inch waist. (He was also wearing makeup that was flawless, so good for him.) Anyway, he’d obviously put some thought into his appearance, and whenever I run into someone like that, it immediately makes me stand up straighter, suck in my gut, and think, God, I wish I weren’t wearing a t-shirt with a dinosaur on it. So when he asked me if I wanted a pastry for 99 cents, I was like, Fuck yes.

Well, the kid gave me my coffee cup, but then he walked away without giving me my pastry, so I had to stand there like a little girl on Halloween waiting for her candy. I honestly felt embarrassed, like, Hey man, I like brownies, okay? Don’t make me beg. It’s not my fault my metabolism slowed down.

So all this was going on in my head as the kid with the teeny-tiny waist and perfect eyelashes boxed up my brownie. And when he handed it to me, I said thank you, and then he said the worst possible thing he could have ever said. He said, “You’re welcome…SIR.”

SIR.

Now I’m fat AND old. What a great day.

But wait, it gets better.

While I was waiting on my food to arrive (yes, it involved bread), I opened my laptop, checked my email, and found out that I was not accepted for a writer’s colony in Massachusetts that I applied for last year. And even though I knew there over six hundred applicants and they were only taking eight, my hopes were high (just like my cholesterol). Of course, once I read the email, they went straight now. KER-SPLAT. And all I could think was, GOD I’M SO GLAD I HAVE THIS BROWNIE.

My immediate reaction to rejections like this is to give up on my dream, like, I suck at writing, and I should just get a job at a donut shop. Well, anytime I start to feel like shit, I try to keep myself from feeling like shit, so I started thinking, I hate the cold. I don’t want to spend the winter in Massachusetts anyway. I don’t need you and your writer’s colony and your–acceptance. But, of course, that didn’t really work. As my friend Bruce said when talking about dancing, “It doesn’t matter how nice a rejection is, it’s still a rejection.”

So I called my friend Marla and told her about the rejection and the brownie and the skinny kid with the good foundation. And when I told her that he called me sir, Marla said, “That little bitch.”

So that made me laugh.

This evening I drove to Tulsa to work on dance with my friends Matt, Anne, and Andy. I got to town a little early, so I went shopping for sweatpants because what better way to increase your self-esteem than to buy sweatpants? Well, the shopping didn’t help, since I couldn’t find what I wanted. I guess sweatpants are only in season during the winter. Geez, what do people do in the springtime when they need an elastic waistband? (I can’t believe I just said that.)

Well, thank God for Matt, Anne, and Andy. We spent over three hours dancing, and most of that was working on lift and aerials, which completely distracted me from the bad attitude I was enjoying before they came along. While we were working, Anne and I were the ones who were getting picked up, tossed about, and flipped over. I can’t tell you how much fun it was. I also can’t tell you how much my body is hurting even as I type this. I guess my hips are tight, or maybe I pinched something in my lower back, but every time I try to stand, it’s like I end up with a right angle at my waist, and even though I’m on my feet, I’m still looking at the floor. So I have to do this whole pep talk routine with my body–Come on, you can do it, just a few more inches and we’ll be vertical.

Honestly, it feels like I’ve been slapped around a lot today. Like life didn’t have anyone else to pick on, so it was my turn. When I was walking out of Panera Bread earlier, I saw the cover of a local magazine that said BITTER on the front, and I thought, “Yes, I am.” Well, I’ve done a lot of blogging this last week about being patient, accepting myself as I am, and trusting that God is intelligent and wise enough to get me where I need to be. And in this moment, I kind of want to take it all back.

So if you ever get the idea to start a blog and say something stupid like, “You can find joy in every circumstance,” don’t. Because chances are whoever’s in charge up there is gonna say, “Wanna bet?” (If you don’t think that this is the way life works sometimes, read the Book of Job.)

Okay, breathe, Marcus.

Joseph Campbell, who was a scholar on myths and religions, tells the story of the Wheel of Fortune. He says that most people live on the outside of the wheel. The gods bless them, their fortunes go up, and they’re happy. But then the gods curse them, their fortunes go down, and they’re sad. But Joseph says the goal is to live your life in the center of the wheel, to find that spot inside yourself that is unmovable. Then you can look at the gods and say, “Give me your best shot. Whatever it is–good or bad–up or down–I’m not going anywhere. I plan to thrive no matter what.”

Personally, I’m reminded that that’s my goal, to meet life’s disappointments and aches and pains not only with Ibuprofen, but also with renewed resolve to hold my center. And sure, I might get knocked off-balance now and then. I might need a brownie and a few friends on days like today. But make no mistake, I’m not going anywhere. Give me your best shot. I plan to thrive no matter what.

[Thanks to Anne for the first picture. It was taken just before I was flipped backwards. I decided not to show you the picture that was taken mid-flip because I think my butt looks big and the shorts I’m wearing make me look naked.]

UPDATE: My friend Marlene dared me to post this, so I am. Also by Anne.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

If you want to find a problem, you will.

really good news (blog #28)

2 Comments April 27, 2017 CoCo

A couple of days ago, I got the most lovely text message from my friend Sara. Sara and I met each other twenty years ago when we both worked at a summer camp in Mississippi called Camp of the Rising Son (CRS). (If it’s not obvious, CRS is a Christian Camp.) If you ever want to see my heart melt, ask me about the people at CRS. Ask me about the kids. It’s truly a magical place, and I guess as long as I live I’ll remember all the silly songs we used to sing, and all the ridiculous costumes we used to wear to entertain the children, and that one kid named Charles who threw up his chicken strips on my white shorts because he was homesick. (Thanks a lot, kid.)

(The above photo is of Sara and me, at camp. Funny how I thought I was in the closet back then, I know.)

Even now, I think of people like Sara and think, Family. And actually, for several years, I used to drive to Kansas City to see Sara and her brother Zach and her sister Joanna and their friend Liz, all of whom worked at camp. I’d spend holidays with them. I was there when Sara married my dear friend Mark (also from camp), and I was there for Sara’s mom’s funeral. Like I said, Family.

But for all the years I spent at summer camp and all the nights I stayed up late with my friends after the kids had gone to bed and all the soul-searching conversations, I never talked about my sexuality. Not that it wasn’t there, I just didn’t talk about it. I guess that was during the (really long) phase when I hoped it would change. (It never did.) I mean, I knew the camp’s policy. It was a sin. That was the line I used, even believed, when I went through my job interview when I was sixteen. So it was never discussed.

And it’s not like CRS was the only Christian institution where I’d heard that line. Hell, I grew up in the Bible Belt. I went to a Baptist Church on Sundays. I attended a Christian High School. And whether it was explicitly said or not, the message I internalized was, “This is wrong and I’m wrong. This is something to be ashamed of. It’s certainly nothing to brag (or blog) about.”

So that sucks.

As the years have gone by, I don’t believe that stuff anymore, and I can’t tell you how good that feels. But the residue of it all has been that anytime I get around Christians I grew up around or worked at camp with, I automatically assume that I would be judged or not accepted if I were to be completely honest and vulnerable about who I am (and whom I like to do). God, Marcus, you don’t have to type every thought that pops into your brain.

Tonight I had dinner with my friend Jim and his wife Sue. I met Jim years ago when I worked out at a gym he owned, and we ended up being working partners. There for a while (before I rediscovered my love for carbohydrates), we were working out all the time. And we pretty much talked about everything, but again, nothing that touched on my personal life. Well, when I broke up with my ex, I was a wreck. At first, Jim didn’t ask questions, even when he helped me move out. But I clearly wasn’t myself, and eventually I stopped working out so I could spend more time crying and eating pancakes.

One day I got this text message from Jim that said something like, “What the hell is going on with you? Whatever it is, it’s okay. NO JUDGMENT. We can talk about it.”

So I told Jim that guy wasn’t just my friend. He was my boyfriend. And my heart was broken.

And guess what? Jim cared about me, but he didn’t care about that other stuff. It didn’t change a thing.

(Here’s a picture of a really cool piece of art from Jim’s house, just because.)

One of my favorite spiritual teachers is a guy named Eknath Easwaran. (He’s dead.) He teaches a type of meditation that I really like called Passage Meditation where you repeat a spiritual passage (like the Lord’s Prayer or the Prayer of St. Francis) over and over again. Anyway, he wrote a book called Original Goodness, and in it he explains that whereas some faiths teach that man is inherently sinful or evil or bad, many faiths teach that man in inherently good, that at the core of each of us resides a spark of the divine.

I can’t tell you how much I like this idea.

There’s another spiritual teacher whom I like named Byron Katie, and if you’ve been around me much, you’ve probably heard me talk about her. Now I just say, “My therapist says,” but I used to say, “Byron Katie says.” Well anyway, Byron Katie says something similar. She says that our nature is good, kind, and loving. She says that she knows this is true because anytime we act differently, it feels like stress.

In my personal experience, I find this idea to be true. It never feels good to be angry or unkind or un-compassionate for very long. I always feel more “at home” when I’m patient or generous or giving.

What’s more, I find this idea to be true in my experience with others. It’s not that people don’t do or say shitty things. But overwhelmingly, I find people to be more good than I do sinful or evil or wrong. When Sara sent me that text message, she said she’d spent part of the day with my blog, that she’d read every word, that she saw my insides and my guts. And it was a really long text message, so I kept scrolling, just waiting for some judgment, any judgment, somewhere. But then I got to the end and didn’t find any. Sara’s exact words were, “Please know I love you—FOR ALWAYS.”

We were made to love without conditions. That’s the packaging we were sent with.

And I guess when I think about those messages from Jim and Sara, I’m reminded that people are good. (I wish I could tell you about all the wonderful folks who have, without even knowing it, shown me that my fears of judgment have been unfounded. I mean, it’s really good news to find out that the world isn’t as scary as you thought it was.) Sure, we all have our moments, we all forget our true nature at times, but we were made to love without conditions. That’s the packaging we were sent with. That’s what we are capable of.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

The truth doesn’t suck.

some boundaries, please (blog #27)

2 Comments April 26, 2017 CoCo

My therapist says that when I first showed up in her office, I was a “fucking mess.” (How’s that for honesty?) I remember coming home after that first appointment and my ex asking me what she said, to which I replied, “She said we have zero boundaries.” We both agreed that was true, but looking back, I’m sure neither one of us knew what a boundary even was. Well, my next therapy appointment was two weeks later, in the morning. That afternoon, I moved out of my ex’s house. I’d finally had enough of the lying, cheating, manipulating, and fighting. I’d finally gotten a boundary.

(The above photo was taken about the time I started therapy, after I broke up with my ex and dyed my hair blonde. It’s included so that you’ll know what a “fucking mess” looks like.)

For the last three years, my therapist and I have continued to talk about boundaries—what they are, why they’re important, how to get some (it’s not as simple as you’d think). The subject comes up so often, it could easily turn into a drinking game. Like, if you sat on the other end of the couch and took a shot for every time one of us used the word “boundaries” during a one-hour session, you’d probably have to crawl out the door and call an Uber to get home.

If you don’t know me, I have this problem with having an “all or nothing” mentality. It’s like I either eat super healthy every meal of every day—no bread, no corn, no sugar, no alcohol (and also no fun)—or I eat cake for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Well, I don’t recommend living in this manner, and I’m working on it. But that way of thinking is always playing in the background. Like, in therapy I tend to think of myself as having “zero boundaries” or “perfect boundaries,” even though my therapist points out that all of us are somewhere in between. Boundaries are something we’re always working on—good boundaries here, not-so-good boundaries over there.

In my experience, my not-so-good boundaries are usually a result of my desire to please other people. Like, I’ll do whatever you ask—you don’t even have to pay me—if you just like me. And please don’t yell. Or write my name on the board. And whereas there have been plenty of experiences over the years that I knew were wrong or inappropriate or just not okay with me, I ignored a lot of those things in favor or making someone else happy or, at the very least, not rocking the boat.

This morning my Dad and I went to Waffle House. There were two middle-aged guys next to us, and they started talking to the waitress. Well, I guess it was her birthday, since she said something about being twenty-one. Then one of the guys said, “Has anyone given you your spankings? Come over here and I’ll give you your spankings.” Personally, I was disgusted because the guy clearly didn’t have boundaries. And I can only assume the girl didn’t say anything (like, “Watch it, asshole) because she didn’t have any either, or, more likely, she wanted to keep her job.

Several years ago, I had a student who would touch or pat me inappropriately. For the longest time, I ignored it. I told myself it wasn’t a big deal and that I needed the money more than I needed to draw a line in the sand. Well, I finally had enough, so one day I said, “Keep your hands off my ass.” When that didn’t fix the problem, I told her she wasn’t welcome anymore. Sure, I felt a hit in my wallet, but I haven’t regretted it once. Apparently, self-respect feels better than money. (Who knew?)

After some time had passed, I ran into that same student in a parking lot, and she wanted to come over and give me a hug. Well, I didn’t want to, so I put myself behind the door of my car and said, “I’d rather not.” So she stood several feet away, and I stood behind my door, and we talked, and it was a decent conversation.

When I told my therapist about the incident, she said, “How did it feel when you stood behind your door and told her no?” And I said, “It felt great, like a rush, empowering.” And I thought my therapist was going to jump out of her chair. I actually think her arms flew up in the air, like her favorite roller derby team had just scored a point. She said, “THAT’S what a healthy boundary feels like!”

This last weekend, I had a similar experience, although on a smaller scale. I was at a dance, and a grown woman (who was very pleasant), came over and told me that her friend wanted to dance with me but was too shy to ask. Well, I understand being intimidated by other dancers. It can be REALLY hard to ask someone else to dance. That being said, I don’t recommend getting one of your friends to ask for you because, well, we’re not in junior high anymore. Maybe in the past I would have asked the lady’s friend to dance, but this time I decided to be a boundary setter instead of a people pleaser. So I said, “She’s welcome to ask me. I promise I’ll say, ‘Yes.’” Unfortunately, the lady’s friend never came over.

It’s never a minor thing to take better care of yourself.

This evening, I taught a dance lesson to a couple who’s only been once before. They messaged an hour before the lesson and asked if I could meet half an hour earlier. Well, I hadn’t cleaned up yet, but I figured I could make it fifteen minutes early, so that’s what I said. As I was getting ready, the people pleaser in me wanted to rush around and get there faster. But I forced myself to slow down—to shave, to clip my fingernails, to actually get ready and to stick to my boundary. And we were all earlier than originally planned, and no one was upset, and everything was fine.

As I think about these two incidents, there’s part of me that considers them pretty minor. But they were good practice in setting boundaries, and it felt good to have them. What’s more, I didn’t walk away from either situation feeling like I’d compromised a part of myself in order to make someone else happy, and that means I didn’t walk away with any resentments. I know that in the past, I’ve often been resentful—or angry or bitter—when someone else was doing something I didn’t like. And while it’s easy to blame the other person when something like that happens, the truth is that I was the one who was putting up with it.

My therapist says that boundaries are the Holy Grail in therapy—they’re that important to good relationships and mental health. So with that reminder, I guess it’s never a minor thing to work on boundaries. It’s never a minor thing to teach people how to treat you. It’s never a minor thing to take better care of yourself.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

There’s no such thing as a small action. There’s no such thing as small progress.

God: sloppy or not? (blog #26)

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

It’s okay to ask for help.

one hand in the light (blog #25)

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

There’s no such thing as a small action. There’s no such thing as small progress.

two-beer Marcus (blog #24)

1 Comment April 23, 2017 CoCo

All other things being equal, I like Two-Beer Marcus better than I like Sober Marcus. Two-Beer Marcus is more authentic–more relaxed, more friendly, and more confident. And, at least in his opinion, he’s pretty damn funny. Sober Marcus, on the other hand, is often uptight, shy, and hesitant. I guess this is because he tends to take himself pretty seriously and is often concerned about what other people think, particularly at dance events. But Two-Beer Marcus doesn’t give a fuck. (T.B.M.D.G.A.F.)

Before we go any further–and in the spirit of honesty–One-Beer Marcus is typing now. (He’s not so bad.)

My intention with this post is not to discuss the benefits (and obvious drawbacks) of drinking. Rather, what I’d like to point out is that I think sometimes a couple of beers can let you know what’s lurking just below the surface. To quote my therapist, “Alcohol reveals what sobriety conceals.” (She typically uses this line if I’ve told her about someone who got drunk and hit on me, or someone else who got drunk and acted like a real tool bag, but I think it can be applied positively.) What I like about this theory is that, apparently, just below the surface is a guy I really like, a guy who’s more honest with himself and everyone else, a guy who’s not such a stick-in-the-mud. And whereas there’s part of me that wishes I could just drink a couple of beers every day in order to calm all my social anxieties, there’s an even bigger part of me that knows that could turn into a real problem. I mean, beer has a lot of calories, and I’d eventually have to buy new pants, and that’s something I, my wallet, and my pride are NOT okay with.

Speaking of needing to buy new pants, I just sat down on the floor–and it wasn’t easy. As I sit here, the final dance at Sunflower Swing is in progress. It’s at a place called Care to Dance, and it’s maybe my favorite dance venue so far–mostly because there are mirrors in the room. (I’m pretty famous for looking at myself in the mirror when I dance, so I’m in heaven now.) And whereas I’ve been accused of being vain–and I am–what I like about the mirrors is that they offer me immediate feedback on my dancing, and I almost always come away feeling better than I do without mirrors. If the point hasn’t already been made and belabored this weekend, I’m usually running a low level of “beating myself up” or “feeling insecure.” But when I look in the mirror, I actually like what I see. It’s better than the me that’s in my head.

I think that as a general rule, I blow a lot of smoke up my own ass. Like, I gan five pounds, and I think I’m SO FAT or SO UNATTRACTIVE and I’M SO SORRY you have to even look at me. Or I mess up a dance move or don’t dance like THAT GUY, so I think that the person I’m dancing with is probably bored, really inconvenienced by having to hold my hand for three minutes. Well, just a couple of beers (and two easy payments of $4.99), and that voice in my head gets a lot quieter. Or just a quick look in the mirror and (most the time), I get closer to the truth–I haven’t completely let myself go, and my dancing is more polished than I give myself credit for.

I once had a friend–who’s older than I am–ask me if I thought she was pretty. (There’s only one socially acceptable answer to this awkward question, right?) When I told my therapist about the situation, I think she rolled her eyes. She said, “By this point in my life, I know what I got, and I know what I don’t got.” So when it comes to things like how I look or how I dance, she says the goal is to take an honest, accurate assessment, to not make myself more than I am, but not make myself less than I am either.

Ultimately, I think the closer a person gets to his or her authentic self, the labels of more than or less than seriously start to fall away. When you’re authentic, your authenticity is enough. You don’t need to compare. And that’s what I think the value of Two-Beer Marcus is. (He doesn’t G.A.F., remember?) More specifically, he lets me know that I’m capable of being more relaxed, friendly, and confident. I mean, those qualities have always been there, or they couldn’t come out after a couple of drinks. And honestly, especially since starting therapy three years ago, I’m more of all those things than I used to be, even without the beer. And whereas it may not be perfection (whatever that is), it’s certainly progress.

[P.S. One-beer Marcus may have started this article, but Sober Marcus finished it, and he resents being called a stick-in-the-mud.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

None of us is ever really lost. At least we're never really alone. For always there is someone to help point your ship in the right direction, someone who sees you when you can't see yourself.