An Act of Surrender (Blog #72)

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I’m really disgusted by the way science works. Apparently, on a planet such as this one, a person (I’m not going to say who) can gain fifteen pounds over the course of three months (if he eats enough carbohydrates to feed the army of a small nation), but can’t lose those same fifteen pounds in five days. Come on. Who makes these rules? I’d like to have word. Maybe I could request a different planet to live on, one where eating carrot cake and wheat beer makes your ass smaller instead of larger. Who’s with me?

Everyone wants to call dramatically altering your eating habits a “lifestyle change,” but let’s admit it. It’s a fucking diet. I think it’s interesting that just like there’s no “I” in teamwork, there’s no “life” in diet either. However, there is “die” in diet, which sounds about right. Done correctly, a good diet is a death. Here lies refined sugar. In the name of our lord, we remember thee fondly.

Five days into this diet, I continue to be cranky. I should probably lock myself in my room until it’s over or until my body gets the message that having a chocolate shake on a daily basis is not a requirement for happy living. Until then, it’s throwing a temper tantrum. But in light of the fact that I’m already down a few pounds and can now find my hip bones, I’m willing to keep things up and trust that this piss-poor attitude will eventually pass.

This afternoon I finished reading a book by Karen Armstrong called A Short History of Myth, in which the author discusses what myths are and why we need them. She says that for most of human history, myths helped mankind feel important, connected to the world and divinity around him. But since Newton and the scientific method, a lot of that has been lost. Rather than being a mystery, life has become a collection of facts, something that can be measured.

Lately I’ve been hyper-focused on my posture. No one gives a shit about this except me, but for whatever reason, my head turns slightly to the left, almost all of the time. I’ve noticed recently that my hips do the same thing, and if I consciously square my hips, it helps square my head as well. But without the correction, my body seems to be permanently twisted, like a sapling that’s managed to survive a hard storm.

This posture problem–I imagine–has been going on a long time, but since I’m now aware of it, it drives me crazy. I’m constantly trying to correct it, constantly hoping heaven will hand me down a miracle, even though I’ve never heard of an archangel who gives chiropractic adjustments. It seems I have literally made myself a problem, and part of every day is devoted to worrying about it, searching high and low for an answer. Honestly, it’s like a hobby that’s not any fun.

I had an older friend tell me once that there’s a great dissolution that happens in your thirties, that at some point you realize life isn’t the dream you thought it was going to be. Rather, he said, it sucks. (I’m paraphrasing.) Honestly, it wasn’t an uplifting conversation, and it reminded me of my dad’s line–One day you’ll be old and fat. I think my friend’s point was that when you’re younger you think your body can leap tall buildings in a single bound, but when you’re older you realize that gravity applies to you too.

Personally, I fight this thinking tooth and nail. It’s not that I think I can fly. I don’t jump off bridges for fun. But I don’t believe that everyone has to get old and fat, or at least that those two things have to go together. And whereas I’m all for reality and the collection of facts, I’m also for the mythological, the mysterious, and the idea that anything can happen for anyone, at any age. I like to think that a tree doesn’t have to stay twisted forever.

I went for a run tonight, but my body really wasn’t having it, so I ended up walking, deciding that running was for people who eat carbohydrates. I’d hoped that even the light exercise would alter my diet-induced sour mood, but apparently burning calories wasn’t the answer I was looking for. (Please try again.) But I did love the full-ish moon, and that made me think even more about the mythological and mysterious. Mostly, I was focused on a line from the book I read this afternoon that said, “You cannot be a hero unless you are prepared to give up everything; there is no ascent to the heights without a prior decent into darkness, no new life without some form of death.”

All great heroes, at some point, surrender to the unknown.

In light of that quote, it makes sense that there’s no “life” in diet. The diet itself is the death. The new life comes later. But what grabbed me most about the quote was the part about being prepared to give up everything. Lately it feels like I HAVE given up everything, but I know that’s not true. There’s plenty more I’m holding on to. And as I walked and obsessed about the fact that I kept looking to my left instead of straight ahead, I realized that one thing I have yet to give up is my idea about how my body should be. What’s more, I haven’t given up my idea about how my life should be.

But I think the myths would encourage me to do that. All great heroes, at some point, surrender to the unknown. Indiana Jones stepped out onto a bridge he couldn’t see. Jonah gave himself up to the belly of the whale. Jesus said, “Not my will, but yours be done.” Call it a dissolution if you want, but I think dissolution is a lot like resignation, and there’s usually not a lot of hope in that. Surrender, on the other hand, is full of hope. What’s more, it’s full of faith. It’s trusting that the bridge is there even when you can’t see it, or knowing that after three days in the belly of the whale or even the grave, you’ll rise again.

So not only am I working on accepting the facts of life–like the fact that it takes more than five days to lose fifteen pounds–but I’m also working on giving up control and surrendering to the unknown, letting go of my old life and letting the great mystery of life have me. All the while I continue to hope, dreaming of the very best life has to offer, trusting that even a twisted tree grows strong and tall, worthy of its place on a planet such as this one.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"No one comes into this life knowing how to dance, always moving with grace."

Results in the Distance (Blog #69)

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Today was my first full day of clean eating, and I don’t mind saying that it sucked. I drank so much water that taking a leak is now my most time-consuming hobby. I’m surprised the toilet didn’t look at me and say, “You again?” The meals themselves were fine–they just didn’t last long. This seems to be the case whenever I cut out carbs, at least for a couple of weeks. It’s like my body’s saying, “Hey, where’d all the bread go? SEND MORE BREAD!”

This afternoon I ate a salad bigger than Minnie Pearl’s hat. It was so big and there were so many vegetables to chew that it took me an hour to get the damn thing down. Midway through, I was stuffed and honestly didn’t think I’d be able to finish it, but I did. (No carrot’s gonna get the best of me.) Thirty minutes later, I was hungry again. All day I’ve been hungry. It’s like I’m just throwing eggs and artichokes into my stomach the way a seven-year-old throws pebbles into the Grand Canyon. There’s just a faint “chink” as they hit the bottom of my guts. It feels like trying to satisfy a pet dragon with a stalk of celery.

The upside to being hungry all day long has been that I already feel skinnier. I had a friend tell me once that when he quit smoking and his arms trembled from cravings, he just told himself it was his body’s reaction to getting so much oxygen. In terms of cigarettes, that logic never worked for me, but I like the fact that my friend could blow smoke up his own ass to help him over a hump. So today I’ve been telling myself that feeling hungry is my stomach’s positive reaction to my good decisions, as if all that noise down there were a bunch of cheerleaders at a ballgame rooting me on. I said a-boom-chicka-boom! 

Honestly, I’m not buying it for a second.

I really hoped that by the time I finished I’d no longer be able to feel my butt bouncing up and down.

This evening I walked to the park in Van Buren and jogged around the pond/lake/whatever when I got there. Jogging is hard enough as it is, but the trail tonight was covered in goose poop, so it was like running an obstacle course. There were feathers and shit–everywhere. It looked like a bunch of birds were in the middle of lunch and got massacred by a crocodile, shitting themselves just before they died. I kept darting left and right–it was more crap than concrete–imagining that if I stepped on a wet turd, I’d end up first in the pond and then in the chiropractor’s office.

So I only did one lap, then headed back to the house.

A firm butt isn’t built in a day.

Before I got home, I stopped at the high school track and jogged a mile (for a total of about three), alternating each lap between jogging and walking. I really hoped that by the time I finished I’d no longer be able to feel my butt bouncing up and down like one of those big punch balloons with the long rubber bands that children play with. Alas, that was not the case. I kept reminding myself that Rome wasn’t built in a day. A firm butt isn’t built in a day. When it comes to losing weight and healthy living, it’s about being able “to seek distant rather than immediate results.” (Someone famous said that.)

A few days ago a Facebook memory popped up with a picture from the summer camp where I used to work. The picture (below) is almost twenty years old, and it shows me and several of my dear friends dressed up in camouflage and war paint. (We used to do a lot of shit like that in order to entertain and scare the campers. The young ones sometimes wet their pants in appreciation.) Normally I get nostalgic for summer camp and my friends when I see a picture like this one, but as I jogged tonight, the only thing I could think about about was how fucking fantastic my waistline looked back then and the fact that I didn’t even appreciate it at the time.

Now that I think about, I didn’t appreciate beer back then either. I’m sure the two facts are unrelated. In college when I gained weight for the first time, my sister said, “Is it food weight or beer weight?” Well, I hadn’t even thought about it. I said, “Beer has weight?” (This is something they didn’t teach us in science class at Fort Smith Christian.)

This afternoon I watched The People’s Court, thought that everyone on the show could use a good therapist, and put contact paper on some of my favorite paperback books. I can’t tell you how happy it made me, everything so neat and tidy. This evening I soaked in the tub and took extra time to groom and shave, so now I’m neat and tidy too. I’ve been thinking all day that it’s important to have little rituals like this whenever embarking on new adventures like dieting and exercising because it signals that we’re willing to take care of ourselves (just like putting contact paper on your paperback books signals that you’re willing to take care of your things). It’s why we break champagne bottles on new ships–it’s like a baptism, a beginning.

So that’s how I’m looking at today, as a beginning. After all, the journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step. And whereas it’s just a single step, it’s a really important one. So today is my single step, and as I strike out with hunger–both for carbohydrates and for what is to come–I seek results in the distance.

[Thanks to my friend April , whom I’ve known almost my entire life, for posting the picture from camp. She’s fourth from the left in the photo, and if it weren’t for her, I probably never would’ve worked there, and that would’ve sucked more than this diet.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You have everything you need.

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One, Two, You Know What to Do (Blog #68)

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A few years ago I had a chronic problem with my–ahem–prostate. I guess it wasn’t a serious deal, but it was super itchy down there, on the inside. (Aren’t you glad we can talk about ANYTHING here?) Anyway, my primary care doctor assumed it was a bacterial infection, and I think we went through five rounds of antibiotics to no avail over a several month period. Finally, I ended up with a urologist in Northwest Arkansas that didn’t require a referral, since the ones in Fort Smith do, and that process was moving about as fast as the return of Jesus Christ.

Well, the doctor was a miracle. (If you need a good guy “down there,” let me know.) Basically he stuck his finger up my butt, I said I felt like I should introduce him to my parents, and he said I didn’t have a bacterial infection. (That was easy.) He said that it was non-bacterial prostatitis, so don’t let anyone give me more antibiotics. Also, he said to wear briefs, take warm baths, and watch my diet. Oh, and he prescribed a pill for old people who have trouble peeing because he said it would help everything relax down south. (Apparently my prostate was “stressed.” Who isn’t these days?)

At some point during the prostate problem period (PPP), I read a book called It Starts with Food by Dallas and Melissa Hartwig. The book contends that we can–and should–do a lot of things for our health, but it needs to begin with what we eat. It recommends a reboot of sorts called The Whole30, which is thirty days of no grains, no corn, no sugar, no dairy, no legumes, no alcohol, and–obviously–no fun. (But really, you do get to eat several types of protein and plenty of fruits and vegetables.)

As you can imagine, a diet this strict can be pretty intimidating, but I decided to–as my therapist says–give it a whirl. And get this. Within two weeks, the prostate problem disappeared. In thirty days, I lost sixteen pounds, and about day twenty-eight, I felt especially lighter and more energized. I thought, Wow–THIS is what my body’s supposed to feel like.”

It’s time for some tough love.

They say that what goes up must come down, and apparently the reverse is true also. Slowly, I fell off the wagon–a pizza here, a pizza there–and my weight went up and the prostate problem returned. And then eventually, the problem calmed down on its own. (The body is so strange.) The last time I saw my doctor, I told him about the diet, and he said, “Well, I’m just going to give you a little tough love and tell you to eat better.”

Over the last few years, I’ve done The Whole30 a handful of times, and it always works. But it also takes a lot of focus, and sometimes it makes me light-headed because maybe I’m getting too few calories or maybe I’m getting too few carbohydrates. But again, it’s effective. The point isn’t to lose weight, but I always do, and weird health issues usually clear up or at least improve. I mean, this last January, after taking antibiotics, I had the body odor issues that I’m currently having, so I started a similar thing to The Whole30 called The Candida Cure. Within a week, my body oder returned to normal (which is quite pleasant I’ve been told). But then I had sinus surgery, took more antibiotics (shit happens), and–as the song goes–the cat came back the very next day.

Honestly, I hate the fact that there’s a relationship between what I eat and how I feel. I wish I could just take an old person’s pee pill or rub some magical cream under my armpits and continue to eat waffles, fried chicken, and chocolate cake for breakfast (the healthiest meal of the day). But the fact is–I know better. I’ve seen what clean eating, if only for a couple of weeks, can do for me.

For the last month, I’ve been telling myself that I need to clean it up again, but I simply haven’t had the energy. I mean, the dollar menu is SO EASY. Plus, I usually work things up to be a bigger deal than they actually are, like every decision, every food plan, is FOR-EV-ER. So yes, I’ve been resistant. But last night I stepped on the scale, and seeing that I was just a few pounds shy of a number I’ve never seen before, I thought, Oh hell no–it’s time for some tough love.

So tonight I went to the grocery store. (Notice all the fruits and vegetables.)

While I shopped, I kept wondering if I truly had the focus and energy to currently commit to healthier living. But then I remembered once a couple of years ago when I was in the same situation and my friend and workout partner Jim said, “You know what to do. You’ve done it before.” So I’m finding a lot of encouragement in that thought, the idea that I’m not having to learn this for the very first time. Already, there’s a part of me that’s like, Yeah, this feels familiar. (And hungry. It also feels hungry.)

I’ve had a similar experience regarding my emotional life since starting therapy. I don’t remember when it was, but one day I realized that I’ve been through a ton of shit–like a lot–including illnesses, deaths, heartaches–the big stuff. And even though none of it was easy, I’d made it, so I knew I was strong. Even now, I know I can handle whatever comes. I’ve got my life so far as evidence.

And really, compared to an ex who puts you in therapy, what’s a little spinach? (You can do this, Marcus.)

I’m telling myself that I’m not going to be a complete hard ass about the diet this time. When I woke up this morning (afternoon) I thought I was going to quit coffee today too, but when I got a headache two hours later, I thought, That part can wait. There’s a day next week when I’m going out of town to hear David Sedaris, and I don’t plan on eating out and having a salad. But I know my body is asking me for better, and I do intend to answer the call.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

[The title of tonight’s blog is partly inspired by my friend Jim’s statement and partly inspired by the Lindy Hop legend Frankie Manning, who used to say, “Uh one, uh two, you know what to do.”]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Go easier on yourself.

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Uncle Walt’s Wisdom (Blog #64)

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This evening Bonnie and I went to a swing dance. For the first hour, I did what I always do when I’m in a new dance environment–I judged people. Comparing myself, I can almost always objectively say that I’m no slouch on the dance floor. I can almost always think that I’m shining at least as bright as ninety percent of the room. (It’s not like tonight was my first Lindy Hop rodeo.) But on another level, I’m almost always insecure and self-critical, wondering if I’ll be good enough, if I’ll be accepted, or if I put enough gel in my hair.

As if all that weren’t enough, I’ve been really self-conscious about my body odor the last few days. I guess it all started with the antibiotics, so it’s probably a yeast problem, but it could be something else. Google says that sweat that smells like ammonia can be caused by liver disease (oh shit) or too much protein and not enough carbohydrates. Considering how tight my pants have been lately, I REALLY DOUBT IT’S A CARBOHYDRATE PROBLEM, but I ate this angelic croissant/donut thing this morning just to be on the safe side.

Whatever the problem is, I couldn’t stop thinking about it at the dance tonight because I ALMOST ALWAYS SMELL GOOD. I don’t mean to sound arrogant, but as a dancer, people are in my personal space pretty often, and they tell me I smell good on the regular. (I’m just stating facts.) So tonight I was hyper-aware of that fact that my armpits smelled like bleach. I mean, Lindy Hop is a happy thing, and I like to wave my arms around A LOT. Maybe I’m being a drama queen, but all I could smell when I raised my arms was funk, so I kept thinking, “This is disgusting, Marcus. YOU are disgusting. No one will want to dance with you.”

I heard recently that the ego HATES being humiliated more than it hates anything else. I hadn’t really thought about that term–humiliated–before, but I have thought a lot about this one–embarrassed. Maybe being embarrassed isn’t the same thing as being humiliated, but it’s close enough, and I feel embarrassed all the time– about how my much I weigh, how I look in pictures, and even how I dance. (I could keep going, so just one more thing.) Lately, I feel embarrassed about my smelly armpits.

Sometimes the best I can do is look my ego square in the eye and say, ‘Would you shut the fuck up already?’

Well, clearly my ego can give me a pretty hard time, so sometimes the best I can do is metaphorically sit my ego down, look it square in the eye, and say, “Would you shut the fuck up already?” In practice, that basically looks like not giving into the thoughts about being embarrassed that are constantly running around in my head.

For example, I kept telling Bonnie tonight that I was worried about my nasty pits, and she said, “I’ll let you know if I smell something gross, but so far your shirt still smells like Tide.” So I forced myself to believe her. Plus, in that moment, I couldn’t do anything about how I smelled, how much talent I had, or whether or not I’d be accepted. So over and over, I got out of my chair, walked across the room, and asked someone to dance.

Well guess what? Everyone said yes. What’s more, everyone smiled, so I can only assume they were having a good time and not wishing they were somewhere else (like close to an oxygen mask).

Here’s a picture of Bonnie and me right before the dance ended. Thankfully, it’s not scratch-and-sniff.

When the dance was over, we went for a snack. Well, Bonnie went for a snack, and I went for a burger and fries (just to be even more on the safe side). When we finished, Bonnie requested an Uber, and within three minutes there was a Ford F150 on the other side of the street, and a guy named Chris had his head out the window shouting, “Bonnie? I’m just going to whip this around.” And then, with his muffler roaring like my dad’s stomach after he’s had Mexican food, he did a U-Turn in the middle of the street, ran up on the curb, stopped, leaned across the cab to open the door, and said, “Don’t worry. I’m a good driver.”

Well, I’m not sure that was a true statement, but I can say that Chris was the most interesting Uber driver we’ve had all week. He had what basically amounted to an Uber Disco Ball on the hood of his truck, and he could make it change colors with a remote control. Plus, Chris was dressed in a suit and tie, and what Uber driver wears a suit and tie at one in the morning? But the thing that really caught my attention was the fact that Chris smelled like an entire can of Axe Body Spray, something that should never be the case for anyone over the age of fourteen. I kept gagging, sort of grossed out, sort of wondering if I should borrow some to spray on my armpits.

There’s a beautiful poem by Uncle Walt (Whitman) from Leaves of Grass that says,

“I believe in the flesh and the appetites;
Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle.
Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touch’d from;
The scent of these arm-pits, aroma finer than prayer;
This head more than churches, bibles, and all the creeds.”

Well, I’ve seen pictures of Uncle Walt. You can’t tell me the man took a bath every day. You can’t tell me the man used Axe Body Spray. But I love the fact that he was so in touch with his divinity that he considered every part of him, even his probably smelly armpits, to be a miracle. And of course, he was right. As the song says, “Everything is beautiful in its own way.”

For I am a universe–large–just like you are, and there is room here for all that we contain.

Personally, I know that I forget this fact a lot. I get focused on what my body doesn’t look like, doesn’t dance like, doesn’t smell like. I start listening to my ego and get embarrassed by all those things and more. In the process, I forget that I too am a miracle. After all, I’m alive, and I can dance–no matter how well–and I can ask another miracle to dance with me. For I am a universe–large–just like you are, and there is room here for all that we contain, more than enough room for any smell or embarrassment. An ego, of course, is small, and it is disgusted and humiliated by the smallest of things. But a universe is bigger than that, much too big to judge itself or another, much too big to ever question how bright it is shining.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Each season has something to offer.

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Well, This Is the Pits (Blog #53)

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I’m just going to say it—I think I have a yeast infection—probably everywhere on my body that doesn’t see daylight, but mostly in my armpits. (I’m sorry if this is gross to talk about.) I think it started in December when I was prescribed antibiotics for a sinus infection, but it took me a while to figure out what was going on. Well, in February, when I seriously cleaned up my diet and started taking some supplements I found in the feminine hygiene section of the natural food store, it went away.

It felt like a miracle. You know, a miracle that doesn’t last very long, since the stuff came back sometime during the last month while I was taking two additional rounds of antibiotics for cellulitis and an upper respiratory infection. I mean, I’m assuming it’s a yeast infection—I’m not a scientist—but that would make sense.

I’ve really tried to have a good attitude about the whole thing, fight the good fight, and keep a stiff upper lip. This last week I’ve been taking some of those feminine hygiene supplements and watching my diet, but I’m not being nearly as strict as I was before because diets take a lot of mental energy and frankly, damn it, I’m tired and am starting to wear down. So it’s more like I’m fighting a mediocre fight and keeping a stiff-ish upper lip.

Do they make Viagra for upper lips?

Sometimes the universe can really kick you in the balls.

Sometimes I think the universe can really kick you in the balls and make you drop to your knees. Maya Angelou says there are times when life makes you cry uncle, and on days like today, I’m just about there. This morning I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, and to make matters worse, when I rolled over, I could smell my own armpits. It wasn’t sexy. (I don’t know why I’m worried. It’s not like anyone else has their nose down there.) Anyway, every time I smell myself, it’s the most frustrating thing because it feels like (or smells like) things are never going to get better.

After I took a shower, in the midst of trying to accept the fact that I’ve become a traveling playground for fungi, I put my phone on the bathroom counter and applied athlete’s foot powder to every crevice of my body. Still irritated about my phone because the charging port is broken, I then put the powder back on the counter, and it fell over, spilling the powder on my phone’s speaker, filling up a hundred little holes with white dust.

Uncle.

There’s a saying in the self-help word—no feeling is final—so I keep thinking that my bad mood about everything going on with me will eventually pass (or I will). Wayne Dyer says, “In all of nature, no storm can last forever,” so I’m reminding myself that I’ve been through storms before, especially storms dealing with health issues I didn’t think would go away. A couple of years ago, I had little warts on my face (also not sexy), and I made monthly trips to the dermatologist for over a year. The doctor kept saying that one day they’d go away, and one day—they did. It just took a lot of time and a lot of patience.

So I know the yeast thing will level out at some point. This morning I felt like quitting, but this afternoon I went to the natural food store and talked to one of those weird natural food store people about what’s been going on. I thought, I can do this—I can try something else.

The lady at the store said my body was worn out (and all God’s people said Amen) and recommended a probiotic with at least 50 billion (!) bacteria, but she said it had to be refrigerated, so I said I’d have to come back when I wasn’t on my way to the library to use the free Internet. But the lady also said that I could up my garlic, to which I replied, “UP YOUR GARLIC, Lady!”

Okay, I didn’t actually say that.

Lastly, the lady said that I could apply coconut oil topically. So while I was at the library, I looked up coconut oil and garlic for yeast infections because I was intrigued. Honestly, I’m not sure the Internet was a lot of help, but I did come across an interesting article about a woman who put a clove of garlic up her who-ha in order to get rid of a yeast infection. (I guess that would also be a creative way to ward off vampires.) Anyway, I’ll try just about anything once, but I draw the line at vegetable suppositories.

So this evening before I went for a walk, I got out the coconut oil and rubbed it under my armpits. And actually, for a while, things didn’t smell so bad. But that was a few hours ago, and as I sit here in my tank top, I keep getting a whiff of myself and am not amused. It smells like a dead animal. And by it, I mean me. (Things not to put on a dating profile.)

However, I’m determined to get this problem figured out, and that’s one of the reasons I believe in the soul. (Bet you didn’t see that coming.) What I mean is that no matter how hard life kicks me in the balls and no matter how frustrated I get about it, there’s a part of me that never seems to be fazed, and I don’t think that sounds like the human ego. I don’t think that sounds like anything made of flesh. Maybe stardust. Of course, if it is the soul, it’s just a whisper, a still, small voice reminding me where I came from and what I’m really made of. “Keep going,” it says. “You’ve got this. The storm will pass soon enough.”

[My friend Matt from summer camp did the drawing, at least his wife and I think he did. I’m assuming that was the year I taught tennis, so I would have been sixteen. Apparently I’ve been having rough days for a while now.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Answers come built-in. There are no "just problems."

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Stepping in Shit (Blog #47)

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For the last few weeks, I’ve had this problem, weird thoughts that have been coming out of nowhere. I’ve been thinking—and only thinking—about doing push-ups. Strange, I know. Who can say where crazy thoughts like these come from, but they’ve been showing up quite a bit lately. Honestly, I’d hoped they would go away. (Get thee behind me, Satan.) But alas, that has not been the case. So this afternoon, I gave into them, a strategy that has always worked well with thoughts about eating chocolate cake.

Y’all, push-ups are not nearly as fun as chocolate cake. Not by a long shot.

Thankfully, I didn’t get carried away. I did two sets of ten, threw in some crunches (which felt more like “squishes”), and called it good. I figured I didn’t want to be sore tomorrow (or ever). When I was doing the push-ups, my arms literally shook, so that probably means they weren’t intended to be used like that. Besides, it’s been eight hours and I don’t have pecs yet, so what’s the point anyway?

I’m probably like five years away from being one of those coupon people.

This evening I taught a dance class, and when I got home, more of those weird thoughts showed up. (They brought their friends!) I kept thinking I needed to run up and down some bleachers. So when I went for my walk this evening, I started off by jogging to the high school, and it actually felt good. But I forced myself to slow down because I have a hip that gives me problems whenever I act as if I’m twenty-three and don’t stretch first. (I’m probably like five years away from being one of those coupon people.)

When I got to the high school, I found the bleachers and took off to the top, which went well. But coming back down was awkward, and it was dark, and I kept picturing myself tripping and ending up with a new nose, so I stopped. For the rest of my time outside, I just walked, although I did stop at an elementary school playground and do four—that’s right, four—pull-ups.

In the past, my tendency has been to do something all or nothing. Like if I weren’t going to the gym for an hour, it really wasn’t worth it. But lately I’ve been thinking about how little things can add up, so all day I’ve been telling myself that I can start small with working out and add on—a little here, a little there. After all, something is better than nothing. (Please note that this theory does not apply to men who have comb-overs. In that case, nothing is better than something.)

When I got home and took my shoes off, I realized that I’d stepped in shit. (Yippee.) My shoes have really deep grooves in them, so the shit was everywhere, and there were little rocks in the shit, and all I could think was, Shit, shit, shit. This is how the universe rewards exercise. (There’s a great story about Saint Teresa of Avila, who was riding in a carriage and got thrown out into the mud when it hit a rock. She looked up at heaven, shook her fist, and said, “If this is the way you treat your friends, it’s no wonder you have so few of them.”)

Amen, sister.

So I cleaned the shit and the rocks out of my shoes with hot water, left them in the sink to dry, and did some yoga stretches in hopes of taking care of my hip. (The above photo is me in double pigeon, which is probably the type of shit I stepped in.) As I sit here now, my shins are sore, and I’m thinking about grabbing an ice pack for my hip. Honestly, I’m not sure I was cut out for running anything other than a fever. I mean, my feet are flat. There’s not a lot of support down there.

Fuck it. Pass the chocolate cake.

My tendency in moments like these, after I’ve just stepped in shit and my body isn’t what I want it to be (tight hip, flat feet—no pecs!), is to get frustrated and say, “Fuck it. Pass the chocolate cake.”

But—

I have been wanting to get in better shape lately, firm things up a bit, so all those weird thoughts are probably there for a reason. They’re probably the answer I’ve been looking for. Caroline Myss says thoughts that won’t let go (like “go to the gym,” or “call that person back”) are actually our intuition, or, if you will, our guardian angel. And she says that if you don’t listen to your guardian angel when it comes to little stuff like going to the gym, you’re probably not going to get much help when it comes to big stuff like your career and relationships.

If this theory is true, I can only assume that my stepping in shit this evening was my guardian angel’s way of trying to be funny, which probably means he doesn’t have a lot of friends either.

I read a quote by Winston Churchill recently that said something like, “Success consists of going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm.” As I see it, that means that sometimes you step in a lot of shit. You set out on a new career, and it doesn’t go like you think it will. Or you go for a jog, and your body hurts. Maybe you literally step in shit. So maybe you have to course-correct, but that doesn’t mean you have to give up on your dreams, and it certainly doesn’t mean you have to give up on yourself.

No.

You can keep going because there is a way to get from here to there, and if anyone can find it, you can. Plus, we are all supported in more ways than we will ever know. So just a few small steps in the right direction, and before long, you’ll be so far from where you started. Indeed, if you could only see it, you already are.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You've really got to believe in yourself and what you're doing. Again, it comes down to integrity and making something solid of yourself, something that's so well-built on the inside that it can handle any storm.

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getting body positive (blog #39)

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I’ve been thinking that if I want good material to write about every day, it would really help for me to leave the house. I mean, I could tell you about my trip to the mailbox today, or the fact that Dad watched his favorite soap opera twice (once by himself and once with Mom), but I can’t imagine that would be anymore exciting than the fact that I had spinach for breakfast (woo).

Yesterday while I was waiting on my prescriptions to be filled, I decided it was time to buy some groceries and put together a meal plan for the week that didn’t involve white bread and eating peanut butter from a jar. So I picked up some protein, fruit and vegetables, almond milk, and granola. I also got some dandelion tea because I’m fancy (and it’s supposed to be cleansing). And despite the fact that I ate fried chicken, chocolate chip cookies, AND cheese fried in corndog batter less than twenty-four hours before, I still felt like a superior bitch when I put my healthy food on the conveyer belt next to some lady’s TV dinner.

I’m telling myself that I don’t have to do a 30-day balls-to-the-wall diet like I’ve done in the past. I can start slow, drink more water, cut out desserts. So that’s what I did today. After dinner, Mom and Dad and I listened to the S-Town Podcast, which if you don’t know about, you need to. This is my second time through it, and it’s storytelling at its finest. Anyway, during the podcast, I did a few yoga stretches. It was nothing major, but it was a beginning, and that’s something.

I’m not sure why the decision to eat a couple healthy meals today and do some light stretching feels so good. Like, I stepped on the scale this evening, and it’s not as if the number changed from what it was last week. But I actually feel better, and I’m sure that feeling has something to do with self-respect.

Caroline Myss, who teaches about chakras (the energetic centers that produce and maintain our physical bodies), says that our self-esteem is located at our third chakra, which is around the navel. She says that we grow our self-esteem when we keep the promises we make. So if you’re always telling yourself that you’re going to start a diet or go to the gym or whatever and you don’t, your self-esteem will take a hit because you’re literally not being true to yourself.

My therapist and I don’t talk about weight a lot, but she says that if you’re going to eat stuff that’s “bad” for you, eat the expensive stuff. Don’t waste your time on Cheetos because they don’t fully satisfy. Really indulge. At some point, you’ll burn out. She also says that most people go back and forth within a ten-to-fifteen pound range, so even though I freak out about gaining ten pounds, it’s a normal thing to do. As my friend Jim says, “Weight goes up, weight goes down.”

Seasons change.

Beating yourself up is a far cry from self-respect.

Last week I spent a couple of days with my friend Kira. She used to take dance from me, but then, just to prove that miracles exist, she met a stud in the military and moved to Italy. Anyway, she’s back in the states, and while we were hanging out, she used a phrase that I’ve fallen in love with. It’s “body positive.” Kira says that body positive means that you think and speak well about your body, you don’t put yourself down. And maybe it’s not something you get perfect, but it’s a goal, and I think it’s a good one.

In light of body positive, I’ve been thinking a lot this week about my tendency to pick at all my physical imperfections, and I had a small revelation. It might seem obvious, but I realized that all the picking and self-criticism don’t do any good. They don’t really motivate me. More than that, none of it makes me happy.

Recently a friend and I were talking about how I was able to get to the point of selling most of my worldly possessions, how I went from being a hanger-on-er to a let-it-go-er. I said that before I decide to sell everything, I was coming home most days depressed. (My therapist says I wasn’t clinically depressed, but I definitely wasn’t myself.) And one day I was looking at all my stuff and thought, If it’s that great, it would make me happy. If it’s that important, I wouldn’t be sad.

So I got rid of it. And sure, there are a few things I still think about, but nothing I’m heartbroken about letting go of, and I’m happier with less than I was with more. Go figure.

That’s what I mean about all the self-criticism not making me happy. I’ve been at it a long time, and both in the short and the long-term, it hasn’t done anything for me except make me feel worse. I mean, I know I want to eat better, and I can do something about that to show myself respect. But changing your habits in order to improve your life is different than beating yourself up in order to feel better about yourself. Beating yourself up, after all, isn’t body positive. Beating yourself is a far cry from self-respect.

I’ll let you know how the gentle, body positive approach goes. It’s only been one day, but so far, so good. And don’t worry, I promise this won’t become a food blog. I’m not a great chef. Plus, I’m leaving the house tomorrow (woo), so there will be other things to talk about it.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Suddenly the sun breaks through the clouds. A dove appears--the storm is over.

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this present moment (blog #34)

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Dad just finished taking a shower and getting dressed. The entire house smells like twenty-five-year-old cologne. I’m gagging. Earlier today I decided that I don’t have a sinus infection but do have a cold, and I can only imagine how bad the smell would be if I weren’t congested. He must have slathered the cologne on, maybe taken a bath in it. “You smell like a French whore,” I said. “I’m going to blog about it.”

***

I spent the day coughing and reading a hundred pages in a book by Andrew Solomon called The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression. It’s 445 pages of total text, and it’s not exactly what I would call light reading. But I’ve had it checked out of the library for over a month and I’m determined to finish it.

A couple of months ago, my mom and I watched Andrew’s TED Talk called Depression, the Secret We Share (30 minutes), and we both cried. So I checked out his book from the library, and Mom read it first. Having been clinically depressed for over thirty years, she identified with Andrew and marveled at his ability to put into words many of her dark feelings and difficult experiences. So more than anything else, I’m reading the book to better understand my mom and people like her.

Mom’s depression started shortly after I was born, and I don’t have many memories of her without it. I guess as a kid I didn’t fully understand, but I remember that she had to go away for maybe a year when I was six or seven to live in a hospital in Baltimore. I guess all kids are embarrassed of their parents, but I can remember thinking that my mom seemed different than the other moms. Maybe it was just that she wasn’t able to do as much.

At some point, Mom had to quit her job as a nurse. The depression was too bad. The electric shock treatments affected her memory. From what I can gather, nursing was one of the few things that she really loved about her life, something she was really good at, and I think it’s taken her a long time to come to peace with the loss.

I’ve heard all my life that Mom has a type of depression that never goes away. Her doctor says that it’s like that for a small percentage of people. Some days and some years are better than others, but it’s like she’s never really out of the woods.

When I was in my early twenties, Dad had a heart attack. I remember going to the Van Buren City Park the next day and jogging. I started going to the gym soon after that, subscribing to Men’s Health. Even Dad will admit that the heart attack didn’t scare him into changing his lifestyle. He’s heavier now than he was back then. But it certainly scared me. Looking back, the jogging, the working out, the reading—it was all motivated by fear.

I’ve spent the last fifteen years really digging into health—what it is, how we lose it, how to get it back, how to keep it. It’s taken me down some pretty interesting paths, both traditional and alternative, and I’ve learned a lot. And whereas I thought that it all started with Dad and his heart attack, I’m sure now that it actually started with Mom and her depression.

Over eight years ago, I took a class in Reiki, a hands-on form of healing that originated in Japan. I usually preface any mention of Reiki by saying that it’s really weird, but it seems like things that are weird are becoming more and more mainstream lately. Anyway, my Reiki teacher says that there is a divine intelligence that is capable of healing any illness. Anything is possible.

Frankly, I love this idea, and it actually lines up quite nicely with my Christian heritage. (I can do all things through Christ, God can move mountains, etc.) Still, there’s a big part of me that has a lot of evidence—like Mom’s depression—to the contrary. So it’s something I really struggle with, this idea of whether or not things like pain and sorrow come and go or simply come—and stay.

I think it’s a huge part of the reason that I get so frustrated when I get sick. Every illness feels like it could be permanent. I can handle a sinus infection for a week, but the thought that I’ll have to handle them for the rest of my life is pretty unbearable. Those are the times it feels like everyone else has things that get better, but I’m the exception. Worse, it feels like I’m doing something wrong. Like if there’s a divine intelligence capable of healing, it’s either not willing to, or it must be my fault when things don’t get better.

Last night I started reading a book by Pema Chodron called Comfortable with Uncertainty. I picked it up at an estate sale last weekend in Tulsa because I liked the title and because I’m not. There’s a line in the first chapter that says, “We explore the reality and unpredictability of insecurity and pain, and we try not to push it away. If it takes years, if it takes lifetimes, we let it be as it is.”

Wow.

“We try not to push it away.”

I can’t tell you how hard I try to push pain away, how hard I work to make health a permanent state of being, to make it certain. (A history of chocolate cake and cigarettes notwithstanding.) But clearly, the truth is that it’s uncertain. As Saint Teresa of Avila says, “All things pass away.” (I just got up to take some Claritin and Ibuprofen, and the house STILL SMELLS like a teenage boy who’s discovered Axe Body Spray. So—obviously—some things pass away more quickly than others.)

A few years ago, Mom’s depression started on an upswing. I can remember going out to eat with her in high school or college and her not saying a word. Now she talks and talks and talks some more. (It drives Dad crazy.) She’s still sick, but it’s a remarkable difference. And I think that’s one of the benefits of my being here now. For the longest time, it’s been easy for me to keep Mom’s illness at a distance, to personally run after health and treat someone else’s sickness like something that doesn’t concern me. Looking at it now, that’s because I haven’t been ready to admit just how scared and vulnerable I really feel about it.

So this week my goal is to do my best to lean in, to be more okay with having a cold or a mother with depression, to open up to this present moment rather than trying to push it away. And rather than wishing things were different than they are, I can look for the gift in this present moment—a chance to experience compassion for myself and others, a chance to experience my heart.

[The top photo is of my mother when she was in nursing school. Isn’t she lovely?]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"When you’re authentic, your authenticity is enough. You don’t need to compare."

the prison doors (blog #33)

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Last night I dreamed that I was in a dark, dank prison. It looked medieval. You know–guys with bad dental hygiene locked behind bars–the whole bit. But then later in the dream, the prison was cleaned up. The guys behind the bars were gone. The doors had been taken off the cells. It was like a museum, and as I was walking through it, I saw a few ghosts fly across the corridors.

When I woke up this morning, I was sick. Like feeling gross, coughing, hacking up box-of-crayons-colored snot. As I type this now, I can’t say that it’s gotten any better. All day I’ve been fighting disappointment. I mean, I just had this sinus surgery to help cut down on sinus infections, and here I’ve probably got one staring me in my face, or more accurately—I’ve got one in my face. I guess the word that comes to mind is hopeless, as if it’s never going to get better.

I’ve really been trying to be patient with my body, to consider that there are a lot of other factors that contribute to getting and staying well besides having a surgery. I’ve heard that nutrition and sleep are important, and I’ve pretty much been giving those things the finger for the last month. Plus, there’s this new thing called stress that’s supposed to be a negative influence, and I may have a tiny bit of that in my life at the moment.

This afternoon I saw my therapist. I told her about speaking at the writing class yesterday, about how I read a story that I’d written six months ago and how the whole time I was reading it I was thinking, God, Marcus, you sure say “fuck” a lot. And I can’t believe you just told this group of total strangers that you’re gay! But then I told my therapist just how liberating it was to be myself, and I figured that’s what the dream with the prison was about, like my subconscious was saying that I was finally free.

My therapist agreed about my interpretation and added that the ghosts in the dream are like those people-pleasing or self-judgmental voices in my head, the guests that are welcome to come to the party but not sit at the table. She called them “the ghosts of Christmas past.” She said she thought it was an INCREDIBLE dream, and both her eyebrows shot up when she said INCREDIBLE, so it felt like my subconscious had just gotten a gold star.

Another thing we talked about was unexpressed emotions. For pretty much my whole life, I think I’ve put most of my emotions in a really big jar with a really tight lid on it. Over the last few years, I’ve given myself permission to take the lid off, which has been both relieving and terrifying. The terrifying part has to do with the fact that you don’t get to pick when emotions come out of the jar. I mean, if it were up to me, I’d get out my planner, look at next Friday, see that I had some free time, and write down “Cry” between three and five in the afternoon.

But that’s not how emotions work, apparently.

My unexpressed emotions always show up unannounced. Once I was on a massage table and ended up crying as soon as the lady got to my stomach. My body was shaking, and I had memories of the fire that burned out house down when I was four. Another time I got extremely angry in yoga class when the teacher kept telling me what to do and it reminded me of my father because he likes to do that. And then at the end of class, as soon as I went into Child’s Pose, I started sobbing. Another time on another massage table, I couldn’t stop laughing. The guy said I was probably laughing at how shitty my life had been. (Isn’t that perfect?)

So I told my therapist today that I feel like there are a lot of emotions left in the jar. My hip pain always feels like frustration, and my sinus issues always feel like sadness. And I want it all to come out. I want it to all be over. But my therapist has said before that emotions happen in their own time. You can’t force them. And she reminded me today how much progress I’ve made since I first walked through her door three years ago. She said that I had started the journey long before I came to her and that I’ll continue it long after, but she said that I had gone through the dark part of the woods, that I wasn’t lost anymore.

So I think when it comes to my health and my sinuses, I could look at having the surgery like coming through the dark part of the woods. And whereas I always want a “one and done” miracle, the more realistic viewpoint is that I’ve come a long way and that’s something to be proud of, but the journey is not over.

Last night a dear friend gave me a small notebook. She’d read one of my blogs where I quoted a bookmark I used to have that said, “If at first you don’t succeed, lower your expectations.” So the front of the notebook said, “Lowering my expectations has succeeded beyond my wildest dreams.” (See the picture at the top of this blog.)

Well, I think that’s amazing. I also think it’s an excellent reminder to not put so much pressure on myself. I can lower my expectations. I don’t have to cry today. It took decades to shove all those emotions in the jar. I’d probably have a mental breakdown if they call came up at once, so a little bit here and a little bit there is fine. It’s enough that the lid is finally off. And I don’t have to fix all my sinus problems all at once. Isn’t it a big deal that even as I sit here feeling sick, I can actually breathe? And really, the prison doors are finally off. I can handle a few ghosts.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Confidence takes what you have and amplifies it. Confidence makes anyone sexy.

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on being embarrassed (blog #31)

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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)

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As taught in the story of the phoenix, a new life doesn't come without the old one first being burned away.

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