Going Against the Grain (Blog #225)

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Today I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, which is apparently the left one. For whatever reason, my body has hurt in a number of places, and I simply haven’t felt well. This means normal, simple things, like making breakfast and deciding whether to wear a black or grey v-neck shirt have been a challenge. You know how it is when your body is off–nothing tastes good, none of your clothes fit right, and combing your hair is so difficult it feels like it should be an olympic sport. Well, that’s how today was for me, and I don’t mind saying my attitude has sucked too. I seriously considered canceling all my plans and going back to bed until the first day of spring. But now it’s four in the morning, which means I decided to not only keep my plans, but also make more of them.

As my dad would say, I’m a glutton for punishment.

Other than my sour mood, the day itself has been delightful. (Too bad I couldn’t have enjoyed it more.) Mom had chemotherapy today, and I met her, my dad, and my two aunts for barbecue afterwards. Of course, eating out like this can be a challenge when you’re on a diet, but–whatever–I did my best, ordering a brisket sandwich with no bread (BORING!) and a sweet potato. The lady taking my order said, “So let me get this straight–you just want a plain sweet potato–no butter or sugar or butter or nothin’?”

“That’s correct,” I said.

Then my dad (ever the comedian) added, “He’s always been like this.”

So that felt supportive.

It’s hard enough to hang out with a bunch of Southern Baptists when you’re in the closet…

It’s funny how a little thing like eating differently than everyone else at the table can make you feel isolated. I remember when I stopped eating pork in high school, and all of a sudden I was that guy who wouldn’t eat pepperoni pizza. I have this distinct memory of being at a holiday party in Mississippi where I only knew a couple people. Everyone was chowing down and having a good time, but when I surveyed the food, everything was either sausage, ham, or bacon. I swear, it was like all five piggies had gone to market (and never returned home). Anyway, it’s hard enough to hang out with a bunch of Southern Baptists when you’re in the closet, but it’s even harder when they all think you’re a Jew.

In terms of how people have responded to my dietary prohibitions over the years, I seriously can’t tell you how much shit I’ve gotten, mostly from people who claim to be my friends. Not to be graphic, but I’ve received more ribbing, teasing, and harassment for things I won’t put in my mouth than for the things I will. Just eat it. It won’t hurt you. Oh, Marcus is weird–he doesn’t eat that. First it was pork, then dairy, breads, sugar, and alcohol whenever I’ve been on a diet. I honestly don’t know why people give a shit, but having watched others exercise self-restraint and walk away from a chocolate cake (a chocolate cake!) at the same time I went back for seconds, I assume it has something to do with personal guilt. But the point I’m making is that you never realize how communal and bond-forming food can be until you stop eating like the masses. Even sitting at a table with your own family and not eating bread with everyone can make you feel like the odd man out.

One of the things that sucks about having a bad mood is that you take it everywhere you go. Tonight I went to see some friends in a local production of Footloose, and every time someone asked me what I’ve been doing lately, I said, “Not much, just reading and writing,” as if I were apologizing and my life were something to be ashamed about. Maybe that’s how it feels because it doesn’t currently have a paycheck attached to it. But come on, Marcus. You’re writing a thousand words a day at four in the frickin’ morning. Not much, my ass! One friend, a full-time artist, said, “I’m jealous,” which did remind me that my position is enviable to certain people, and I’m planning on enjoying that reminder once I get to feeling better. For now it feels–eh.

After the musical I met my friend Bonnie for Latin dancing, which again, is something I’m planning to enjoy retroactively. Oh yeah, those people really were nice–those dances really were fun. Now all I can think about is how it felt like everyone else knew each other and I only knew Bonnie. Maybe if everyone there had a blog, I’d find out differently. Someone looking at me might have thought I didn’t have a care in the world. Maybe we all put on a good front.

Bonnie and I left before the dance ended to get something to eat at Village Inn. Thankfully, Bonnie’s also on a diet, different than mine, but similar enough so that it made saying no to pancakes and pie much easier. Nope, you heard correct! No one at this table wants anything tasty OR fun. Referencing all the tacos, beer, and doughnuts we inhaled on road trips this last summer, Bonnie said, “Who are we, and what has happened to us?”

I’m still wondering.

While we were not eating pancakes and pie, a couple sat down in a booth across the room. At least I assume they were a couple. Either way, the guy had a coat on, and on the back in big, orange letters it said, “LEAVE ME ALONE.” Naturally, all I could think about was going over to talk to him, asking him twenty questions. Bonnie suggested poking him with one finger. We seriously considered these options for at least five minutes, but ultimately respected the man’s wishes. Still, I can’t stop thinking about his jacket, since I guess we all feel that way at times. Like, Jack–Get back. More often than not, I think this is a defense mechanism, since it’s natural to want to be included, whether we’re on a dance floor or at a dining room table.

Honestly, it’s not difficult to eat chicken and vegetables every day. It’s mundane, but it’s not difficult. But it is difficult to feel alone and keep doing what you think is right, to willingly be different from the group, even if it’s just for a meal or two. And sure, it’s worse when your body feels bad. Still, even though it’s not easy, I think this is what growing up and authenticity require–the ability to go against the grain (the metaphorical grain, not just the bread kind), to make your own decisions regardless of what others do or say. But even when you’re feeling alone, I believe there will still be friends beside you, probably more than you realize. At the very least, you won’t be pretending to be someone you’re not in order to make somebody else happy, which means you’ll have yourself.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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No one is immune from life’s challenges.

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Gay Parties in 1981 (Blog #224)

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Introduction

Well, hell. It’s 3:36 in the morning, and I’m just sitting down to blog. This is nothing new, of course, but blogging at this hour always comes as a surprise, since I always mean to start earlier. But for over six months I’ve also been meaning to reread Practical Intuition by Laura Day, and I finally started that project tonight. For the last few hours I’ve had the book open, hunched over it like the monster of Notre Dame. But now the book is closed, and I’m sitting here at the kitchen table slightly more upright and eating pineapple chunks out of a can. It’s a glorious life, I know, but someone’s got to live it.

Earlier today I had the idea that tonight’s blog needed to be presented in vignettes. I suppose that’s often how my writing works, but today’s the first time I’ve thought, Just give the highlights, even if they don’t clearly tie together. And not that I always pay attention to every thought I have, but my relationship with this blog has taught me to trust my hunches more, so I’m going to pay attention to the thought about vignettes and see where it leads us. So far, my internal sense of “this is what I should write about today” hasn’t let me down. My internal sense of “this would be a good person to date,” however, is a different matter altogether.

Scene One

Today I got up at 2:30 in the afternoon and ate my first meal about an hour later. Considering the recent time change and the fact that I don’t see much daylight to begin with, I’ve started feeling like I’m living in Alaska. (I’ve wanted to use that line for five days now.) Anyway, Virgos tend to worry about their health, so I’ve been concerned that I won’t get enough Vitamin D this winter and will develop Seasonal Affective Disorder, a medical condition related to depressed moods with the best abbreviation ever–SAD. With all this in mind, I took myself for a walk today at 4:15, the same time senior citizens have dinner at The Golden Corral and only an hour before the frickin’ sun went down.

Scene Two

Recently I started listening to a podcast called A Mother of a Murder, which is about the murder of Ruie Ann Park that took place here in Van Buren in 1981. My friend Anita Paddock wrote a book, Blind Rage, about the murder and is featured in the podcast. Anyway, the podcast is delicious and takes under two hours to listen to, and I finished it while walking today. My favorite line from the whole thing, referring to some of the murder suspects and said by an older man in a deeply southern accent, was, “They were gay and they were having gay parties.” I didn’t get the impression the gentleman thought this was a good thing, like something to be celebrated or attended, but I certainly did.

Just think of all the glitter.

Scene Three

As the podcast was ending, I looked up and saw a boy, a toddler, running–absolutely running–toward me, his arms spread out as if he were an airplane. His mother was behind him, by their house, and she tried to stop him from “bothering me.” But he just continued his long journey across their big front yard–thump, thump, thump–until he made it to me and the street. His little red head no higher than my knee, he flung both his arms around my left leg as if it were his best friend and said, “Hi!” Wrapping one of my arms around his back, I said, “Hi! You are so cute!” then continued walking. When I turned a corner two houses down, he waved and screamed, “Bye!”

My heart is still melting.

Scene Four

This evening I attended improv class and afterwards went to Starbucks and finished reading Rising Strong, the book by Brene Brown I blogged about yesterday. While sitting at a table trying to concentrate on the book, I kept getting distracted by the conversation at the table next to me, where sat a nineteen- year-old in the reserves and–from what I could gather–a potential mentor who wanted to know the kid’s views on money and whether or not he had a five-year plan. I thought, I’m thirty-seven and I don’t even know what I’m going to do tomorrow. Anyway, while this whole thing was going on, a total stranger asked if he could sit at my table until his friends arrived. I said, “You bet” and returned to my book, but as he sat down he reminded me of that kid running across the yard with his arms spread out, someone unafraid of asking for what they want.

Scene Five

The book I started rereading tonight is about how to use your intuition. The idea is that our inner wisdom is willing and able to communicate with us on all subjects if we would just slow down enough to listen, so each time you go through the book you get to ask three questions. Will I get married in the next year? What stocks should I invest in? Could I pick up extra cash as a drag queen? Whatever you’re curious about–sky’s the limit. When I worked through the exercises in the book five years ago, I wanted to know what profession I’d enter into after dancing. I dug out my answers from an old notebook tonight, and my intuition was obviously spot on and getting me ready, since the pages were littered with words like writer, author, and communication.

As I understand it, your intuition can answer questions about your past, present, and future (and anyone else’s) because a part of you is connected to everyone and everything else. As the mystics say, “We are one,” and, “There is no time and space.” Of course, it’s hard to wrap my head around these ideas, but I’m inclined to believe they’re true. One of the warm-up questions in the book tonight was, “Without thinking, what do you need most?” and my answer was, “A hug.” Later it asked, “Upon reflection, what do you need most?” and I answered, “Authentic connection.”

Conclusion

Only later while reviewing my answers about needing a hug and authentic connection did I remember about the little boy and the hug he gave me this afternoon. And whereas my first thought was, I guess I need more hugs, I later realized my inner wisdom was telling me that all my needs are met before I even ask for them. Now I realize I’ve spent so much time thinking about what could go wrong–what could happen if I don’t wake up in time to get enough sunlight–that I’ve often missed what is going right, including the sleeping in and worrying about Vitamin D that were necessary to get me walking by that boy’s front yard at just the right moment. So in the same way that he wrapped his arms around my leg, I’m starting to wrap my arms around this glorious life, this life that connects me vignette by vignette to toddlers running freely across front yards, strangers sitting down at tables in coffee shops, and even gay parties in 1981.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Rest gives us time to dream. One day, for certain, you’ll wake up. And you’ll be grateful for the time you rested, and you’ll be just as grateful that you’re different, far from the person who fell asleep.

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Ready to Rumble (Blog #223)

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It’s 2:26 in the morning, and I’d rather be reading, which is what I’ve been doing all day. My friend Elisabeth recently told me I “had to read” Rising Strong by Brene Brown, and since Elisabeth was the one who told me about The Artist’s Way, the creativity workbook I wouldn’t shut up about for twelve weeks earlier this year, I bumped Brene’s book to the top of my reading list. Plus, it didn’t hurt that Elisabeth apologized for being bossy (without prompting) when she told me what to do. Anyway, I started Rising Strong today, and I’m currently about two-thirds of the way through it, which I guess means that I’m “reading strong.”

See what I did there?

If you’re familiar with Brene’s work, you know that she talks a lot about shame, vulnerability, authenticity, and boundaries. Well, in this book, she emphasizes the importance of being able to sit with and dig into your uncomfortable feelings and difficult circumstances, which (apparently), does not look like eating chocolate cake and watching pornography until you feel better or things improve. Rather, it involves something she calls “the rumble,” which she compares to the middle of a story or the second act in a three-act play. It’s the point at which the hero has already identified a problem but has yet to identify a solution, the period of time when things get worse before they get better, the dark before the dawn. In other words, the rumble is when the shit hits the fan. The rumble, of course, sucks. In order to avoid it, we’ll shut down, shut off, go out, light up, and overeat. But as I understand it, the rumble is absolutely necessary if a person wants to rise strong.

Think about it this way–you can’t get back up if you don’t get knocked down first.

Personally, I hate this. Having been emotionally knocked down on more than one occasion, I can say that a person’s “time on the ground” can last a while. When I started therapy three and a half years ago, I was in a terrible (horrible, no good, very bad) relationship and wouldn’t have known a boundary if it’d slapped me in the face. I hadn’t heard of the rumble back then, but I honestly thought I’d be back on my feet after six to eight therapy sessions.

Uh, try a hundred, Marcus.

Don’t bother–go bowling instead.

Actually, my therapist says that I’ve been “out of the woods” for a while now. Most of the major issues have been dealt with, or as she says, “done and dusted.” But for anyone really considering living an authentic lifestyle consisting of vulnerability, honesty, boundaries, and healthy relationships, I’d say, “Don’t bother–go bowling instead.” (Just kidding.) What I mean by this is that those things look really good on paper, but I’d be lying if I told you they were easy. (If it were easy, everyone would do it.) Rather, they’re a lot of hard work, work that takes time, makes you bleed, and turns your world upside down.

In my experience, it’s not just that rumbles–especially big rumbles like the one I went through–are difficult because you feel lonely, sad, or confused. They’re difficult because if you truly hang out with those emotions, you realize they’ve been around for a while and show up in a lot of different situations. Then what are you gonna do? When I broke up with my ex, I got that I didn’t have good boundaries with him, but what I didn’t get was that I didn’t have good boundaries with most people. What’s more, I didn’t get why, that the issue of boundaries ultimately had to do with my sense of self-worth, and that self-worth is a big truck to turn around.

Of course, when your self-esteem and self-confidence change, your entire world changes too. Think about it–it has to. If you let one person walk on you, you let all people walk on you. Likewise, if you decide you’re worth more in one relationship, you automatically have to be worth more in all relationships. This is the big truck I’m talking about. In my case, three and a half years after starting therapy, there’s not a relationship in my life that hasn’t been affected, changed, or even “deleted” as a result of my increase in self-worth and, therefore, desire for healthy boundaries. Ultimately, this is why I think we’re afraid of listening to our emotions–not just because they’re uncomfortable–but also because they have the power to uproot everything familiar in our lives when genuinely responded to.

Does anyone want an Oreo yet?

If you’re not living a fully authentic life, a part of you will never be satisfied.

I realize this may not sound like an encouragement, and I’m not saying that every difficult emotion or circumstance calls for completely remodeling your interior and exterior worlds. Sometimes all you need to do is change the curtains. (Of course, even this is a big deal–trust a gay man.) But either way, I do believe that if you’re not living a fully authentic life, a part of you will never be satisfied, and your emotions will continually let you know there’s a problem. And that’s the encouraging part. Being in the rumble may suck, but it’s more than worth it because that’s the place where you discover who you actually are. I can’t stand being alone–I’m terrified I’m not good enough–I deserve better than this. Whatever. After all the weeping and gnashing of teeth, there you are on the ground–naked, not faking it for once, finally real, and ready to stand up again.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Boundaries aren’t something you knock out of the park every time.

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We Follow the Mystery (Blog #222)

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Once again, I have no idea where to begin, or for that matter, where to end. I’ve spent the evening reading and reading some more, and I’ve gone through my nightly routine–flossed and brushed my teeth, washed my face, prepared my bed for sleeping. I’ve looked everywhere for inspiration, something to write about, but nothing has seemed remarkable. Sometimes blogging is like watching paint dry. Would something–anything– happen already? For the last twenty-four hours, I’ve been reading a book about writing called Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg, and Natalie says that if you don’t know where to start, talk about food, so I’ll try that.

Also, do we like Natalie or what?

After one full week of clean eating, I can officially say that it sucks. It’s nice to fit in my jeans and all, but tonight I went grocery shopping for my parents and kept putting item after item into the basket and thinking, Can’t eat that–can’t eat that. Oh, butter bread! Definitely can’t eat that. This afternoon I had salmon and vegetables for breakfast, and tonight I had hamburger patties and vegetables for dinner. Every meal is essentially like the last. This is the part that sucks–no variety. Well, wait. I did have a pickle tonight–that was exciting. Of course, since I’m speaking about a literal pickle and not a euphemistic one, what I actually mean is that it wasn’t exciting at all.

Whenever I eat well for a week (or God forbid two), I always think that should be enough time to reach my ideal weight and feel like Liza Minnelli in Cabaret. Fabulous! My friend George refers to this kind of thinking as “wanting a parade” for making good decisions. (Bring on the band!) Obviously, my expectations are too high. Every day I wake up wanting instant results, but my body always says exactly what the button on my cashier at the grocery store tonight said–Nope! Not today. This is almost enough to make me want to go back to eating chocolate cake for breakfast. Almost.

Somehow you arrive, always astonished when you do.

On nights like tonight, writing feels like the diet–ho, hum–routine–is it really worth it? Words that work show up about as often as winning lottery numbers. Whenever the last word does show up, I think, God, I’m glad THAT’S over. Other nights I sit down at the laptop, and it’s like a miracle. I can’t type the words fast enough. I get to the end of the post and think, Brilliant.  Rarely is there an indication beforehand of what kind of night it’s going to be, so I’ve decided that creativity is a lot like that asshole friend who says, “Follow me to the party,” but never uses his damn turn signal along the way. So you just take the trip and try to keep up. Feeling mostly lost and out of control the entire time, somehow you arrive, always astonished when you do.

Natalie says this is normal. Some days your writing soars, some days it sinks–never mind–keep writing. This reminds me of a principle taught in The Bhagavad Gita, one of the Hindu scriptures–take action, but let go of the results. In other words, eat better, but don’t expect to gain anything from it. Sit down to write every night, but don’t expect it to go anywhere. This, of course, is a tough pill to swallow. Personally, my inner control freak thinks it’s a bunch of shit. (Is it any wonder I don’t have a dot in the middle of my forehead?) That being said, I don’t remember the last time a day, a diet, or even a simple blog post ended like I thought it was going to. So how much control does my inner control freak really have?

Not a lot, that’s how much.

I find this idea of not having much control both terrifying and exciting. It’s like, I didn’t make the sun rise this morning or hang the stars in the sky, but I’d like to think I could get through the day on my own, thank you very much. But take today, for example. I had it all planned out. First I’d go to the chiropractor, then I’d go to the library to read Natalie, then I’d come home, eat, and go shopping. Well, I got to the chiropractor, but before I could point my car in the direction of the library, my body said coffee, so I ended up at a coffee shop. That’d be normal enough, I suppose, but I ran into one of my old friends, someone who said they’d uncharacteristically had a couple dreams about me lately, so maybe it wasn’t an accident that we ran into each other. Who’s to say why anything happens the way it does?

We follow the mystery, never knowing what’s next.

As I understand it, this is how the mystery of life works. You wake up every day, and even if you have a plan, you try to be open to whatever happens. You do your best to let go of the idea that you’re leading the way. You think, “I want coffee,” then your ego takes credit for it when you’re holding a cup of joe in your hands. But where did that thought come from? That’s the mystery. Tonight at the grocery store I kept noticing a booklet called The Science of Emotions, so I bought it and started reading it. Now it sits on a stack of several other books, some of which are mine, some of which belong to the library. (I eventually ended up there this evening.) I can’t tell you what I’m going to do with all that information anymore than the man in the moon can, just like I can’t tell what the results of my boring diet will be. Still, I’m learning that not knowing is the exciting part, just like arriving anywhere is the astonishing part. (Look, we got to the last paragraph!) Also, I’m beginning to believe that each new moment is not only a starting point full of possibilities, but is also a destination that looks like right here, right now. In this sense and without turn signals, we follow the mystery, constantly arriving, never knowing what’s next.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Whatever needs to happen, happens.

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Taking My Mind Back (Blog #221)

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Today I’ve been all over the emotional map–North, South, East, and West–in anything but a straight line. I saw my therapist this afternoon, and that’s almost always a shot in the arm. I mean, she’s hilarious and insightful. As per usual, we tackled “the list” of all the thoughts, problems, and curiosities I couldn’t stop thinking about this last week. Probably half our time was spent on dreams I’ve had lately, which included a hot sex dream and a dream about Hillary Clinton. (To be absolutely perfectly clear, those were two distinct, separate dreams.) I’ll spare you the lengthy analysis, but when it was over, my therapist said, “You really have the best dreams.” Well, not once in my life have I ever thought my subconscious would get such a glowing review, but now that it has, I sort of want to put it on my resume. Marcus Coker–can get shit done even in his sleep.

Feel free to roll your eyes.

In case it needs to be restated–my therapist detests social media. If you’ve looked at what people are posting lately, I’m sure you can figure out way. Anyway, today she had a whole slew of new anti-social-media stickers on her laptop, the biggest of which said, “Social Media Personality Disorder.” I said, “Oh, like, I’m neurotic because someone didn’t like my post or said something negative?”

She said, “Exactly.”

Beneath that sticker was one that said, “Take your mind back.” Tying the two sentiments together, my therapist said, “Don’t hand your mind over to other people. You know who you are.” To me this means that I can’t let a news feed filled with cats and political arguments tell me how to feel every day. What’s more, if I spend the day scrolling, comparing myself to others and looking for outside validation, I’m only going to end up feeling worse about myself. So ultimately, unless I want to be neurotic, I have to be responsible for my thoughts and feelings. This, of course, is the very essence of authenticity.

A couple months ago I started a small remodel project–replacing a door threshold–for my friend Ray. Well, it’s dragged on and on because the threshold had to be special ordered, and I guess the shipping department kept sending the product to a different store location. Not knowing this, the store I was working with kept ordering new ones–a total of three of them, in fact. Anyway, shit happens. I finally picked up the threshold today, was immediately deflated because I realized I didn’t have the proper tools to remove the excess length, then got excited when I went to Ray’s because I discovered it was exactly the right size.

Sometimes life throws you a bone.

I guess technically–in this case–I threw myself a bone, since I’m the one who would have specified the length of the threshold when I ordered it. That being said, I’m willing to share the credit with life. Very magnanimous of me, I know.

The project itself went really well, albeit slower than I desired. Since some of the wood in the door frame was rotten, I needed to replace it, and this meant using a saw. Well, the only saw blade I had was dull, and for a while I dicked around hoping I could make it work. Dull blades are useless, of course, so then I tried chiseling the wood and even sanding it in order to make it the right size. This felt like trying to teach a cat how to bark. Well, I finally gave up, gave in, made the long haul back to the hardware store, and bought new blades. Y’all, things went MUCH faster after that. Who’d have thought? Now–after all this time–the project is finished.

Phew.

Feeling rather accomplished, I celebrated by playing with Ray’s new kitten, Leo. I’m really not a cat person, but I love black cats, and Leo was SO CUTE. Not only did he let me hold him in my arms like a baby, he also wore a black-and-white bow tie for the occasion. Talk about a class act. But seriously–a kitten in a bow tie! Could anything be more adorable?

The low point for the evening was checking the mail when I got home. Remember when I went to the emergency room a few weeks ago for a skin infection? Well, I got the bill today, and apparently my insurance didn’t pay for anything–not a cent was spent. Talk about a huge bummer, letdown, and disappointment. I tried to stop myself, but I immediately commenced freaking out. I can’t afford this. I should’ve gone to a regular doctor. Shit–I want chocolate chip cookies–This is a terrible day to be on a diet. Y’all, if it’s not obvious, it’s really difficult for me to stay calm in these situations. I went through a similar ordeal after I had sinus surgery this year (which turned out fabulously, despite my worrying), and every time the feeling is the same–I just want the whole thing over with.

This is probably something I should bring up in therapy, the way I flip shit whenever I see a piece of paper that says, “Balance due.” It probably has something to do with the fact that I was handed the family checkbook–which didn’t have much money in it, by the way–at the age of fifteen when Dad went to prison. Now that I think about it, I’m sure it has everything to do with that.

Anyway, it took me a while to talk myself down off the ledge. For a while I tried to ignore the issue by reading a book about writing I found at a used bookstore this afternoon. Then I decided I had to move, so I went for a run, even though it was drizzling and cold outside. Considering the fact that I’m just getting over three weeks of being sick, this may not have been the smartest move. Still, I had to do something to burn off my nervous energy, which I guess I had a lot of because I ended up running six miles. Along the way I remembered that 1) what’s done is done, 2) my life could be much, much, worse, and 3) it’s possible this could turn out better than I’m thinking it will. Around mile five, I actually laughed when I thought of one of my favorite comedy sketches.

Last month when I was in Colorado at a spiritual retreat, the teacher said, “Joy is not in the object.” This statement came out of the observation that most of us behave as if joy is in the object. Like, we want a new car, a new house, or a new boyfriend because we think having those things will make us happy. But if happiness resided in those particular things, they’d make everyone happy or they’d make us happy all of the time. Well, when I laughed while running tonight, I realized that just as joy is not in the object, neither is anxiety, nervousness, or stress. In other words, if a hospital bill were truly the source of my worry, I wouldn’t be able to laugh until it were taken care of. The fact that my mood can change, however, shows me that my reaction has very little to do with a sheet of paper and everything to do with me.

Some things simply take time and often more than one trip to the hardware store.

Personally, I think this is really good news, since I have a better shot at controlling myself than I do controlling the outside world. But the point is that the outside world really can’t control your internal one unless you let it–nothing outside of you can tell you what to think or feel. Granted, part of me is still freaking out about the medical bill, but the adult that’s sitting in this chair knows that I’ll call the hospital tomorrow and start a conversation about what can be done. Like the threshold project, I’ll want everything to be wrapped up as soon as possible, but I’ll remind myself that some things simply take time and often more than one trip to the hardware store. In this way, I hope to take my mind back from all the many people, places, and things to which I’ve let it wander, gently coaxing it back home to rest where it belongs.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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In other words, there's always SOMETHING else to improve or work on. Therefore, striving for perfection is not only frustrating, it's also technically impossible.

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Walls Are Meant for Painting Over (Blog #220)

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Last night I slept in a twin-sized bed, the one I slept in from childhood until the summer I moved out of my parents’ house at the tender age of twenty-eight. My dad’s best friend growing up was a guy named Ronnie, and Ronnie’s dad, Roger, handmade the bed, which has a trundle, sometime before I started remembering things. Roger worked for a local furniture company during the day, and at night he’d craft his own furniture, which he said was his therapy. I guess he needed a lot of it (who doesn’t?), since Roger not only made my bed, but also made my entire bedroom suite, part of which I said goodbye to last year when I had the estate sale. What remains, however, is the bed, a nightstand, a dresser, a toy chest, and some other piece of furniture I can’t describe but that my sister spilled nail polish on when we were kids, so it needs refinishing.

Anyway, most of that furniture is crammed into the room I grew up in. I’ve been staying in a different room since I moved back home–my sister’s old room–but sometimes I go into my old room to search for things or practice yoga. The room itself is smaller than my sister’s, but it currently has more floor space. Twin beds, after all, don’t take up much room. Today I went in there to exercise, and I noticed a small chip in the brown paint, really no bigger than a sunflower seed. Beneath it were tiny flecks of baby blue and dark grey–baby blue from when we moved here when I was five, dark grey from when I was in high school and decided to remodel, replacing the cartoon train border with a Coca-Cola one.

I don’t usually think much about it, but sometimes when I’m in my old room, I’m swept away by nostalgia. The blinds are wide, aluminum, something I picked out at some point and matched with a retro fabric band that holds them together. Around the window is a set of adjustable shelves we had custom-made. Now they hold some of my dad’s collectables and a few family photos, one of me in a Boss t-shirt, trying to be all sexy, as if that’s possible when you’re thirteen. But I can still remember the way I alphabetized my CDs on those shelves, exactly where my collection of Tim Sandlin books went. Around the top of the room are other built-in shelves that once held my collection of Legos, Batman toys, and Coke bottles. Now those things have all been sold, and God knows where they ended up, other than my memory.

When I think about the trundle-bed, I remember Dad used to hide me in the trundle part whenever my friends would come over and play hide-and-seek. At bedtime he’d tuck me in real, real tight on both sides so that I couldn’t wiggle or squirm. Then he’d turn out the lights, and there I’d stay, all wrapped up until morning, since I hadn’t yet experienced the need to get up in the middle of the night to pee. But something about the pressure of the tightly tucked-in sheets, I guess, made me feel safe. Then again, I didn’t think much about safety back then or whether or not the world was a scary place to live. Not like I do now. I just assumed everything would be all right.

When I was a kid, the bed had a regular mattress. But when I was a teenager, Roger came over to the house and reinforced the sides in order to convert it into a waterbed. I can still see him placing the brackets. Anyway, it’s been that way ever since, although it usually stays unplugged, unheated, and unused unless my nephews are visiting. When I was in my mid-twenties, I wrote an essay about the bed. I’d have to dig it up, but my dad still jokes about it because I basically blamed my small bed for my not growing up sooner. After all, twin beds don’t offer a lot of room–for growing, stretching out, or spending the night with someone else. I guess Dad thinks things would have been different, life would have been better for me, if I’d gotten a bigger bed before I moved out in my late twenties. (Maybe he thinks I would have moved out sooner.) But today I told him, “Dad, I’m fine. I was being poetic.”

Getting far in life has absolutely nothing to do with where you’re physically standing.

Of course, I prefer a bigger bed. They are great for spreading out, certainly for hosting others. Not that I’ve done any hosting since moving back in with Mom and Dad, but I did pick the bed in my sister’s old room because it’s larger–king-size, I think. Plus it’s been easier to not be in my old room. I guess sometimes when I go in there, it does feel like I haven’t gotten very far in life. Like, here I am–thirty-seven, same fucking town, same fucking room. But then I look at the picture of that thirteen-year-old kid, I remember everything we’ve survived in the last twenty-four years, and I’m reminded that growth and getting far in life have absolutely nothing to do with where you’re physically standing.

The bed in my sister’s room is just all right. It used to belong to my aunt and her husband, so I’m guessing the mattress is at least as old as I am. Anyway, my back has been hurting since I moved back home, and I’ve simply been blaming it on the fact that I was in a car accident or that my back just hurts sometimes. But since my back didn’t hurt while I was in Colorado and New Mexico, I decided to warm up the waterbed to see if it would make a difference. And whereas I can’t say that my back has felt like a miracle today, I do think it’s been better.

More than anything else, crawling into bed last night truly felt like coming home again. My sister’s old room is on the corner of the house, and it’s always cold this time of year. But my old room is in the middle of the house–it’s smaller, warmer, cozier. Of course, the waterbed itself is warm, the sheets flannel and inviting. Crawling under the covers last night felt like slipping into the biggest hug. Pulling the comforter across me, I could feel the pressure, the okay kind that makes all the other pressures of life seem bearable. All it felt–familiar–as if I’d been there and done that ten thousand times before. Obviously, I had, and it’s no wonder I slept better than I have in maybe a year, even if my toes were a little crowded. Now part of me wants to hold on to that bed forever, as if it had the power to turn back the clock and make everything all right again. But another part of me knows it can’t do that–that’s my job. Beds, after all, are meant only for sleeping, just as walls are meant for painting over and boys are meant for growing up.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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The more honest you are about what's actually happening inside of you, the happier you are.

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On the Mend (Blog #219)

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Last night I slept on the futon because my back has been hurting for several months and I’ve been wondering if the mattress I’ve been sleeping on since moving in with my parents is to blame. As my dad said, “It’s only a hundred years old.” Honestly, the futon is pretty old too, but just like I’ve been squirting garlic water and everything else up my nose to try to rid myself of a sinus infection, I’ve decided I have to try something. I don’t think it’s a completely off-base idea, since my back didn’t hurt for the two weeks I was traveling and not sleeping on the hundred-year-old mattress. So we’ll see how it goes. Tonight I’m planning to rotate to the waterbed I slept in growing up (which wasn’t warm enough to sleep in last night). Considering it’s a twin-size and I’m more of a full-size boy (well, some would say a queen), I’ll probably be blogging about it tomorrow.

So get excited.

This afternoon I went to a coffee shop to work on a friend’s blog, but I spent most my time thinking about that fact that I was drinking green tea instead of a cheeseburger and fries. This is one of the things I hate about being on a diet–even though I started the diet to help my body heal and not to drop pounds, calories and weight still become a mental obsession. What’s worse, despite the fact that I’ve spent the last year eating pretty much whatever the hell I’ve wanted, for the last few days, whenever I’ve seen someone drinking a mocha or eating something with cheese wrapped in a white tortilla, I’ve instantly assumed the moral high ground. How could they? That’s SO bad for you. I’m guessing all this will get better as the diet becomes more routine and I learn to not take myself so freaking seriously.

A big positive to the diet, however, is that after only four days, I already feel better. Maybe it’s the garlic-up-my-nose thing or a combination of the two strategies, but I’ve stopped coughing up dark mucus and blood every morning, which I’m taking as a sign of improvement. Plus, you know how you take your health for granted? Like, when you feel well you don’t spend all day thinking, God, I feel like a million dollars–I just love breathing! But when you’re sick you can’t think of anything else; every thought from sunup to sundown is just one big ain’t-it-awful. Well, after a few hours at the coffee shop today, I realized I hadn’t thought about being sick one time. So maybe I’m on the mend.

Maybe.

In the middle of my work, a lady asked if it would bother me if she and her friends convened nearby. Imaging they wouldn’t make much noise, I said, “Why, are you having a dance party?”

“No,” she said, “but sometimes we can be a little loud.”

That’s considerate, I thought.

Well.

A LITTLE LOUD? Y’all, it was like they were at Chippendale’s–a bunch of middle-aged women hooping and hollering. Cackling. (Cackling is actually the word I was looking for.) It was obnoxious. That being said, I just gave up carbohydrates, so everything is obnoxious. Anyway, I put my headphones in for a while, then eventually moved to a different area.

A little loud. Sheesh.

When I finished working on my friend’s blog, I spent about an hour reading a book my friend Amber loaned me–The Happiness Project by Gretchen Rubin. It’s about–well–ways to happier, and the author suggests making a list of hallmarks by which to live your life, pithy things like, “Be Marcus!” or “Stop taking yourself so freaking seriously.” So today I wrote down several from the book to “try on for size,” but my favorite was, “People give what they have to give.” This reminds me of the sentiment, “People are doing the best they can,” but I like it better because to me it’s more compassionate. Whenever I hear someone is doing the best they can, I always think, Yeah, but they SHOULD be doing better. I always picture Mr. Holland in Mr. Holland’s Opus screaming, “Your best is not good enough!” But people giving what they have to give reminds me that if someone is passing out something I don’t like (rudeness, nasty looks, uh, cackling), it may be because that’s all they have to give. Put another way, even if they’re being a total shit, it’s probably because that’s the best they’ve been given.

I guess we all do the best with what we’ve got. I mean, if I really knew a better way to heal my sinuses, be on a diet, or not get irritated with a bunch of middle-aged ladies, I’d do it. Maybe one day I will. For now, things are the way the are. Still, I continue to experiment in various ways, like moving myself from bed to bed hoping something will make a difference for my back. Perhaps we all experiment like this, trying everything under the sun to fix our problems until either something works and we feel better or we give up. Answers are nice, of course, but I’m learning that even trying to heal is an act in self-care and self-compassion. And I’m starting to believe that being on the mend has less to do with what’s going on in your external world and more to do with what’s going on in your internal one. This, of course, is where true healing happens, the place we learn first to give to ourselves, then later give to others.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You have everything you need.

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The Hot Guy Who Hugged My Aunt and Not Me (Blog #218)

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About six weeks ago, for my birthday, my parents said we could go out to eat, which we finally did today. That being said, Dad told our waitress we were celebrating my birthday, HIS birthday, MY MOM’S birthday, AND MY AUNT’S birthday, so it really just felt like we were–well–eating out on a Friday for no particular reason. Lest I seem ungrateful, I did get to pick the restaurant–Outback–a place I not only love, but also meets my current dietary regimen. This morning I remembered the quote, “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.” Of course, this sounds good if you say it fast, but as my entire family passed around chicken wings and ice cream while I forked my zucchini, I was like, Yeah, right.

A week before my birthday in September, I bought my first pair of stretchy jeans. Y’all, I love them–I wear them practically every day–but they are the worst thing in the world for someone who doesn’t want to gain weight because–well–THEY STRETCH. I mean, they offer absolutely no feedback whatsoever. Not once have they said, “You’re going to have to lie down if you want this zipper to close, buddy. You better watch the burritos.” Nope. Every day it’s been, “Don’t worry about that cheeseburger you inhaled last night–we’ve got room for plenty more.”

Anyway, the thing about owning only one pair of jeans you like is that you eventually have to wash them. So this afternoon before I met my family at Outback, I washed my stretchy jeans and figured I could wear my ex-favorite pair of jeans. After all, I reasoned, I’ve been on a diet for two days; they should fit fine. Wrong–they did not fit fine. Granted, I didn’t have to lie down to zip them, but they were so tight around my thighs that they cut off the circulation of blood to my toes. I was so afraid of ripping them that I spent the entire day taking steps so small they bordered on shuffling. Getting in and out of my car required holding my breath, keeping my thighs no more than eight inches apart, and praying.

God, grant my jeans the serenity to let go wherever possible, the courage to hold on everywhere else, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Determined to see the day when my jeans won’t have to work so hard to keep me inside them, I stayed true to my diet at Outback–even though it was (sort of) my birthday celebration. But then just when I thought life couldn’t get any more interesting than a plain baked sweet potato, some hot guy with perfect teeth and great hair brought my mom a salad. Well, naturally, I perked up, but get this–my seventy-year-old Aunt Tudie perked up too. Even before the guy walked away from our table, she said, “Did you see that?”

“Uh–of course I did,” I said. “It took everything in me to not fall out of my chair.

“Well, I really liked looking at him,” she said.

At this point our meal became infinitely more interesting. My aunt said she guessed he was in his late twenties, but I said he had to be in his early twenties, or I wouldn’t have been attracted to him. Then my mom (my mom!) said, “Marc, what’s your gaydar say about him?” (Gaydar is gay radar.)

“Well, his fingernails were really clean, so it’s definitely possible.”

My sister and I were mortified.

You know how every family has that one person who always goes out of their way to be embarrassing, like, they could do it for a living? Well, for our family, that’s my dad. When my sister and I were teenagers and our family would go out to eat, if my sister said something about our cute waiter, my dad would flag the poor fella down and say, “My daughter thinks you’re sexy. Are you single?” I remember once we were at a gas station, and my sister liked a cute boy’s Razorback t-shirt. So my dad approached him, gave him something like a hundred bucks, and honest-to-god swapped shirts with him right there in front of god and everybody. My sister and I were mortified.

As I think about these stories now, I’m actually grateful I didn’t come out until I was an adult. Can you imagine how my dad would have acted? Excuse me, young man, my daughter AND MY SON think you’re a–what’s the word?–studmuffin. Which of them do you prefer?

Well, Dad hasn’t changed much. After my aunt and I made such a big deal about the hot salad delivery boy at Outback, my Dad told our waitress that it was my aunt’s birthday and “she would love it if that handsome man would come give her a hug.” I thought, Oh my god, this is not happening. But the next thing I knew, the guy was marching over, my aunt stood up and put her arms out, and they were in a full-frontal embrace. She said, “You are SO cute. If I were thirty, well, forty years younger, I’d be chasing after you,” and he smiled and said, “I’d let you!”

I. Was. So. Jealous.

Y’all, it didn’t stop there. My aunt got so twitterpated about this guy that she couldn’t let him get away. Just before we left the restaurant, I thought she was getting up to go to the restroom, but no, I looked up, and she had this guy backed against a wall. Apparently, she’d turned her trip to the toilet into a reconnaissance mission. When she came back, she had his name, age (twenty-two–I was right), and sexual preference (girls–harumph). When my aunt came back to the table, she said, “I asked him if he had a girlfriend, and he said, ‘I can’t manage to keep one for very long.'”

My mom said, “Maybe because he’s gay.” (Thanks, Mom.)

My aunt said, “He said I made his day. I told him he really charged my battery.”

Charged my battery–that’s a direct quote from my retired aunt. I thought, I didn’t know your “battery” needed charging, but I’m glad you feel comfortable enough to talk about it.

My therapist says that if you see someone at a cocktail party and you get that “zing” feeling, run the other way because that’s a sure sign you’re looking at a disaster. Rather, she says, go up and talk to the ho-hum person that’s “just all right.” I guess the theory is that everyone’s subconscious is a shit-show that wants to be figured out. The best way to do this, of course, is hook up with a person who will push all your buttons and bring all your dramas to the forefront–that way you have to deal with them (or start seeing a therapist). That’s what the zing is all about.

As my therapist says, ‘Do you really want to go down THAT road again?’

Personally, I think this theory sucks and is no fun, but so far it’s proven to be true. Looking back, every guy that I was immediately attracted to and ended up dating ended up being a disaster. Perhaps better put, we ended up being a disaster together. That being said, I still feel that zing now and then. Honestly, I felt it at Outback today. I mean, if I had the balls my aunt does, I would have cornered that guy against the wall like she did. But seriously–a twenty-two year old who dates women. As my therapist says, “Do you really want to go down THAT road again?”

Well, when you put it that way, no–no I don’t.

I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve walked (or ran) down that road or one similar to it. It’s never ended well. And yet there’s always a part of me that thinks it will be different THIS TIME. It’s probably the same part of me that thinks I can eat chocolate cake and Taco Bell and still fit into my ex-favorite pair of jeans. Caroline Myss calls this our saboteur, the part of us that effs everything up when life is going well. But she says when we learn to work with it, our saboteur lets us know where our weak spots are, what roads not to walk down again. In my experience, I still desire chocolate cakes and pretty faces and whatever. But I’m slowly–slowly–coming around to the idea that “zing desire” often ends up looking like tight pants and relationships that land you therapy. The desire to be healthy, on the other hand, is more ho-hum, and it honestly looks more attractive all the time.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"I believe we're all courageous, and I believe that no one is alone."

Giving My Own Self Some Damn Grace (Blog #217)

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When I woke up this morning, I felt worse than I did yesterday. Low energy, coughed up some junk. It wasn’t pretty. For a while, I actually thought about going to the doctor, but I’m kind of tired of doctors and all the drugs, so I ate breakfast and took a shower instead. Along the way, I decided to try sinus rinsing again (which I stopped a couple days ago), this time with a garlic infusion. I’ll explain. My chi kung teacher swears the best way to heal your sinuses is by putting a salad up your nose–well, by running sterilized, hot saline water over a clove of garlic, then using that water to rinse out your sinuses. The idea is that garlic is a natural antibiotic and anti-fungal, so no matter what’s causing the problem, it’ll get rid of it.

As a bonus, it’ll also keep vampires out of your nostrils.

Anyway, I tried the garlic-water-up-my-nose thing. Also, I added garlic to my diet because a stranger on the internet said to. Whatever, we’ll see how it goes. I will say that I’ve felt better this afternoon, and I even went for an almost-two-hour walk tonight, something I haven’t felt like doing for the last three weeks. Granted, I’m currently tired and holding my body upright with willpower and ambition, but aren’t we all?

I read recently that scientific studies have shown that vague prayers such as, “Thy will be done,” are more effective in healing than specific ones like, “God, heal Marcus’s sinuses,” or, “God, give Marcus the wisdom to stop putting vegetables and baby shampoo up his nose.” I guess the idea is that vague prayers show concern and compassion but drop any personal agenda that might presume to know what’s best for yourself or someone else. Anyway, I can’t remember the last time I asked someone to pray for me, but if you’d like to say, “Thy will be done” on my behalf, I’d appreciate it.

In other news, this is day two of clean eating. I promise not to become one of those people who post pictures of their organic lunches on the internet, but I am going to talk about them sometimes. (Like now.) Today I ate turkey and vegetables twice and salmon and canned peaches once. This is why I could never be a chief, since I thought that last meal was a good idea. But in my defense, it was easy, and–having done this before–pulling out the skillet three times a day gets old real fast. As I sit here now (sipping on peppermint tea with apple cider vinegar), I feel the same way about the diet as I do about the garlic water nasal rinse–hopeful that it will “work,” fearful that it won’t.

I guess whenever I start a diet like this, I’m always looking for a miracle. Once I ate clean for thirty days and lost sixteen pounds, but that’s never happened since. But it’d be nice if it would, and it’d also be nice if at the end of this month I could fit into all my clothes, my back didn’t hurt, and I had x-ray vision. Le sigh. Some things–most things–take more time than thirty days.

Unrealistic expectations aside, I do feel better when I eat well. If nothing else, I never feel stuffed and bloated. Tonight I met with my friend Bonnie to hang curtains. (She finally found some for our mutual friend. I’ll post pictures after the big reveal.) Anyway, she’s been eating “right” for the last month, and when I told her that after only two days of dieting I already felt like a skinny bitch, she said, “It’s kind of disappointing how good it feels to not eat junk.”

I mean, is she right, or is she right?

While walking tonight, I listened to part five (of seven) in a lecture on trauma and transformation. The speaker, James Finley, is a therapist and said that one of the benefits to a good therapist is that they put the client back in touch with themselves. Like, maybe you have a breakthrough or moment of compassion for yourself, and at first you give the credit to the therapist or even the office space, thinking someone or something else needs to be present in order for that good feeling to happen. But that breakthrough or compassion came from inside you, so it’s available all the time.

I’ve been thinking about this for the last few hours. I brag on my therapist a lot–she deserves it. I know she’s not a blood relative or even a traditional friend, but she treats me just as good if not better than anyone I’ve ever known–she never interrupts, she never tells me what to do, and she never judges me. In short, she respects me. Even when we disagree about something, we talk about it calmly, and she says our relationship can act as a model or ideal for other relationships in my life. Like, if I’m being bossed around or judged, that’s a clue that’s something is off. Anyway, I’m eternally grateful for all of this, but it occurred to me tonight that the way she treats me is the way I could treat myself–I could take that feeling of unconditional acceptance I have in her office with me when I walk out the door because I’m the one that’s feeling it.

To borrow a phrase from Bonnie, this means “giving my own self some damn grace,” not beating myself up for taking time to heal or starting a diet–again. Because that’s how it feels, like, I’ve tried all of this so many times before. But–for crying out loud–I’m just a human, and it’s our nature to struggle and try, to fall down and get back up again, to start over. I guess it’s also our nature to judge ourselves, to think we should be one way when we’re actually another. But I think that part can change, for surely if we can be patient with someone else (and all of us can), we can turn that love around to where it’s most needed.

Surely.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We are surrounded by the light.

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Just the Way You Are (Blog #216)

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It’s 3:08 in the morning. Where did the day go? More importantly, where is tonight’s blog going? I honestly have no idea. This is only a slight problem, of course, since I’m the one writing it. I spent most the day burning fat. Keep your seats–I didn’t run a marathon or anything–I just started eating better. That’s right, today was day one of what will hopefully be a four-week dietary reset involving no bread, no refined sugar, no alcohol, no happiness. So far it’s going pretty well, except for the fact that I’m hungry, cranky, and have a headache. (I guess that’s the no happiness part.) Regarding the headache, I wish my parents didn’t keep the Ibuprofen bottle right next to the stool-softener bottle.

They look VERY similar.

I don’t want to speak too soon, but I’ve actually felt better today. I’ve had more energy–at least putting my jeans on didn’t wear me out–so I’m taking that as a good sign. Still, I’ve told myself I’m going to take it easy for the rest of the week, so I spent the day lying on the futon, working my way through a book about the mythological figure Lilith, the first wife of Adam. Yes, you read that right–Eve was God’s second choice. Apparently, Lilith was a feminist from the start, and when Adam said he wanted to be “on top,” Lilith said SHE wanted to be on top. Well, as my dad would say, this went over like a fart in church, and there was a fight. In the end, Lilith spent the rest of her days destroying creation and devouring newborn children, and Adam settled down with the more agreeable, albeit hungry for apples, Eve.

Obviously, nobody’s perfect.

As I understand it, a lot of religions and mythologies have a goddess like Lilith. The book mentioned the Babylonian Ishtar, and I’m familiar with the Hindu Kali. Whatever the case, these ladies are almost always temptresses and destroyers. I guess they could be compared to Cinderella’s step-mother or Snow White’s Evil Queen, and they are usually juxtaposed to benevolent female characters such as Mother Mary or Cindy’s fairy godmother. We like to make these sorts “all bad,” of course, but it seems as if life itself is a constant interplay of forces that destroy and create, destroy and create. Where would one be without the other?

This evening I went to the grocery store with a list for my parents and a list for me. Since my list was for my diet, I don’t mind saying that their list was infinitely more appealing. I mean, it had french fries on it; mine had chicken and lemons. Y’all, going to the grocery store when you’re on a diet really is discouraging. EVERYTHING has corn syrup in it. There are literally like five healthy foods in the entire world, and only two of them taste good. I realize I’m not starting this transformational journey with the best attitude, but I’m assuming that will improve once my body adjusts to the shock of pancake withdrawal. Plus, it doesn’t help that my checkout girl looked at my selection of vegetables and said, “We never eat those at my house–it’s all Twinkies and potato chips.”

I mean, she didn’t have to brag.

Tonight I video chatted with my friend Matt. He ate Taco Bell while we talked, so that was only a little difficult to watch. I told Matt that whenever I start a diet, I immediately start thinking of everything else I need to start, like walking in the afternoons, doing yoga at night, and wearing my retainer when I go to bed. (Look, Ma, I’m self-improving in my sleep!) Even when I haven’t felt well, there’s part of me that wants to push-push-push for perfection. It’s exhausting. But Matt said, “Aren’t you perfect just the way you are?”

Well there’s a novel idea.

Here’s a picture I snapped while talking to Matt. We were talking about dance, and he was using the fan to ask me a question about his “partner.” If I’d been thinking, I would have said, “Tell her to chill out.'”

A couple years ago I’d stopped smoking cigarettes but picked them back up again. Prone to beat myself up about such things, I brought the topic up in therapy, and my therapist said, “You’re just upset because you expect things to always be the same. Just give it some time–it will change–and then it will probably change again.” I’ve been thinking and blogging about this a lot lately, the idea that everything comes and goes. So much of me wants to get my life and body a certain way and have them stay that way, but that’s not how things works. You get sick for a while, then you get better. You eat right, then you don’t, and then you do again. This, I’m learning, is normal and how life works. Habits are constantly created and destroyed, nobody is on top all the time, and aren’t you perfect just the way you are?

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Our world is magical, a mysterious place where everything somehow works together, where nothing and no one is without influence, where all things great and small make a difference.

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