No Goose Is Worth Chasing (Blog #226)

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Currently it’s 2:45 in the morning, which I guess means I met my goal of starting tonight’s blog before 3:00. As we speak, the house is cold, so I have a comforter wrapped around my shoulders like an old lady. I’m pretending the comforter is John Stamos. I’ve heard he likes to cuddle, and this is the perfect weather for it. Earlier I took a nap on the futon, and when I woke up, the television was screaming, the microwave was beeping, and Dad was belching. This is my life, I thought. Now the television is off, my parents are asleep, and all I can hear is the gentle hum of the refrigerator and the clacking of this keyboard. Silence never sounded so good.

Isn’t that right, John?

Yesterday I wrote about waking up on the wrong side of the bed and the fact that I was in a piss-poor mood all day. Well, today things have considerably improved. My body’s felt better all the way around, and I’ve actually been happy. This, I think, is one of the benefits to daily writing and self-reflection. It’s not that I don’t have “bad days” anymore, but fewer days get labeled that way (because they’re not “all bad”) and fewer bad days bleed over into the following days because they get analyzed and silver-lining-ed every night.

This afternoon I met my friend Lorena for coffee and watched her eat a cherry pastry while I ate a salad that tasted like air. Considering the salad was made of greens and grilled chicken and not a quarter pounder with cheese, it also wasn’t very filling. Plus, I’m pretty sure that half the salad got stuck in my teeth, so I basically spent eleven dollars to floss with kale and rinse my mouth out with hazelnut coffee. But perhaps all the dieting is worth it, since Lorena said my waistline looked fabulous.

And oh yeah–I almost forgot–I feel better too. (Yippee.)

For about three hours, Lorena and I did a lot of laughing. In an otherwise quiet restaurant, I’m pretty sure we were “those people.” When I told Lorena about a straight woman who used to have a crush on me (and pursued me even though she knew I was gay), Lorena said, “Did she think you were going to put your chocolate in her peanut butter?” Oh my gosh, y’all, I nearly died. Now all I can think about is peanut butter–but the real kind, not the euphemism. To be clear, I never think about the euphemism. (That’s what makes me gay.)

Lorena and I talked about this for a while–women who go after gay men. I mean, I get it–we talk about our feelings and like to go to the opera–some girls like that in a man–I know I do. But having had a woman pursue me more than once over the years, I can’t tell you how exhausting it is, since to me it always feels like, It’s never going to happen, Alice. Of course, if it’s exhausting for me, it’s got to be exhausting for the other person, to want something you can’t have. At least that’s been my experience, having several times crushed on gay and straight men who simply weren’t interested. So I have compassion for anyone whose heart leads them on a wild goose chase.

My friend George says crushes like these start off as fun, progress to fun with pain, then end with just pain. Think about it–how could they not? And anytime someone’s gotten carried away with me or I’ve carried away with someone else, the only answer that’s ever worked has been a boundary that looked like time and distance apart. It’s never been enough to say, “Cheryl, I’m gay,” or, “Marcus, he’s straight, can’t spell, and isn’t old enough to legally rent a car” then continue seeing the person as friends. I guess this is because feelings usually don’t respond to logic, especially when the object of their desire is paraded in front of them on a regular basis.

This is why I don’t keep cherry pastries around the house. My willpower is only so strong.

Of course, this is a lesson I’ve learned (and am learning) the hard way. I can’t tell you the number of female friendships I’ve had over the years that went south because attraction got involved and no one said anything until it was too late. In those situations, I almost always asked for time and space because it’s not fair to anyone for two people to be approaching a relationship of any kind with two different and opposite expectations. Likewise, in situations where I’ve been the infatuated person, I’ve had to either be shut down or shut myself down by stepping away from guys who–for one reason or another–weren’t good for me. Okay, Marcus, no texting, calling, or creeping on him, him, and (definitely not) him. John Stamos just doesn’t like you like that. Rules like this can be difficult to enforce, but I see them as acts of self-respect and self-care, since I know from experience that I’m protecting myself from further trouble and heartache down the road.

Often a little silence is all we need to bring ourselves back to balance.

I think what’s good about time and space is that they give you a perspective you simply can’t get when you’re too close to something or someone. We all like to think that we can see clearly a hundred percent of the time, but when our chocolate and peanut butter get involved, that’s obviously not the case. It’s like trying to think when your parents are awake and making noise–it ain’t gonna happen. Honestly, I think infatuations are a lot like addictions, little habits like smoking or junk-food eating we let ourselves slip into from time to time and think we can’t live without. So we get carried away. But (duh) we can live without those things, and often a little distance–a little silence–is all we need to bring ourselves back to balance, to remind us what we’re really looking for in ourselves and other people, and to remember that no goose is worth chasing.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You’re exactly where you need to be.

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Waiting in the Green Room (Blog #164)

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It’s 9:30 in the evening, and it’s quite possible I won’t have to “backdate” today’s blog. I’m writing earlier than normal because I have morning appointments the next two days, and I’m tired of depending on coffee to put one foot in front of the other. Okay, that’s forty-five words in three minutes. Things are looking good. That being said, my home internet connection has been slow this weekend, and it’s been making my armpits sweat. So whereas things are looking good, they’re not exactly smelling good. But really, I’m the only who’s bothered by this. As my dad said yesterday, “It could be worse. Someone could have their nose in there.”

I should be so lucky.

This afternoon I went to the library, answered emails, and paid bills–something that lately always makes my blood pressure go up. My first thought was, Shit. I’m screwed. But then when it was over, I thought, Okay, that wasn’t so bad. I’ll live to see another day. Afterwards I went for a walk around the park, and it was nice, but nothing spectacular happened. I mean, no one put a ring on my finger. Then I went for a smoothie, and while I was waiting in the drive-thru, I noticed a bumper sticker on the car in front of me that said, “Are you THIS CLOSE to Jesus?” Currently I’m trying to decide if it was funny, passive aggressive, or both.

I’m thinking probably both.

When I got home tonight, Mom was reading last night’s blog to Dad, out loud, so I pretended to be doing other things, but I was actually listening to her read, glued to every word. This is still a weird phenomenon for me, the idea that other people–my parents even–read what I write. Of course, I love it, I just haven’t quite wrapped my head around it. I’m not sure I’m supposed to. Before I left for the library earlier, I got a birthday gift–a lovely book–in the mail from my friend Amber. The note inside said, “This reminded me of one of your blogs.” Again, people read this stuff. Wow.

So this week I turn thirty-seven, as in “years old.” This is another fact I can’t quite wrap my head around. I’m not sure I want to. People say that age is just a number, but I think that’s kind of like saying, “McDonald’s is just a burger joint,” or, “John Stamos is just another pretty face.” I mean, there’s a certain amount of bullshit in all those statements–you know it, and I know it. Maybe every society doesn’t do it, but this society praises youth and beauty. Seriously, I watched a video today about guys who have started getting Botox injected into their scrotums to make their nuts “more aesthetic.” I’m not kidding, they call it “Scrotox.” So let’s not pretend we live in a culture where growing old and having wrinkles–anywhere–is something we get excited about.

Honestly, for the longest time, getting older hasn’t been a problem for me. I mean, I still feel young, have tons of energy, and enjoy pretty good health. Granted, my metabolism occasionally goes out for a smoke break, but we all have our challenges. That being said, maybe because I still use words like, “totes,” “adorbs,” and “fo sheezy,” my sister says I’m the teeniest-booper thirty-something-year-old she knows, which I take as an “on the serious” compliment. But despite my youthful frame of mind, forty is getting closer and closer, and there’s something about that number. In the gay culture, it’s pretty close to death. This, I think, is a mentality we could improve on.

You can’t change your age, but you can change what your age means to you.

Several of my older friends say there’s a point when you become invisible, when other people stop noticing you. I’ve never said this to them, but I’m not sure that’s a bad thing. Ultimately, I think we all have to get our validation from inside, not outside, ourselves. Clearly, we’re all headed to one place. You can put Botox in your forehead or your nut sack all you want–that’s fine–but it doesn’t change the fact that all of us have a one-way ticket out of here. One of my friends, who’s well-passed retirement age but works harder than any twenty-year-old I know, says she dyes her hair not to impress others, but to avoid the constant reminder that she’s “old” or “incapable,” at least by society’s standards. This, I think, is the key. You can’t change you age, but you can change what your age means to you.

In my case, I’m choosing to look at thirty-seven as the year I was reborn, the year I started over. Earlier tonight, as part of a creativity exercise, I wrote myself a letter. I won’t get it for a couple of days, but one of the things I told myself was, “Your past is only a springboard, a jockey (small warm-up) before the real dancing starts.” If this is anywhere close to the truth, if I’m not just blowing smoke up my own ass, I have a lot to look forward to.

Look out, forty, here I come.

Some of you might not believe this, but I’ve taken more selfies since starting this blog than I ever have before. Part of me likes it and part of me hates it, but since I try to have a picture with each blog and my stuffed animals are camera-shy, it is what it is. Anyway, tonight when I took a picture in my room, I noticed that all the walls are green. I mean, I’ve noticed before–I’m not blind–but I’ve never thought of the room as “the green room.” But tonight I did think of it as “the green room,” which–I’m sure you know–is the theater term for a star’s dressing room. Better said, it’s the place you wait before you go on stage.

Sure, I don’t know that I’ll end up on stage or be “a star.” But I like thinking of this time in my life as a waiting period, a sort of rest before the curtains open to whatever’s coming next. When my dad talks about getting older, he always says, “It beats the alternative,” and I’m going to have to agree. Even if it means a few more wrinkles, I’m willing to stick around and look forward to all the coming attractions, things like starting all over, living to see another day, and maybe–just maybe–having someone’s nose in my armpits.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Aren’t you perfect just the way you are?

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Simplifying My Digital Life (Blog #48)

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This evening I went to the library and spent most my time cleaning up emails and going through saved links on Facebooks—articles I wanted to read, videos I wanted to watch. The process started when I saved a link and then noticed I had twenty others just like it. So after a couple hours, I’m down to seven, and I can’t tell you how good it feels to have marked so many items off my to-do list. But then again, I’m the type of person who sometimes adds items to my to-do list AFTER I’ve done them just so I can mark them off, so I may have a problem.

Don’t worry. I’m in therapy.

My “things to read/things to watch” list is something I’ve started consciously monitoring since I had the estate sale and seriously downsized the number of physical objects in my world. Since I don’t have a job, I have a lot of time on my hands, so I want to use it to clean up digitally and simplify my life even more than I already have.

For over ten years, anytime I surfed the Internet, I’d bookmark a page if I thought I would come back to it. Well, most of those bookmarks were all lumped together, so I’d end up with—for example—a recipe for Paleo brownies right next to an article about 36 Terms for Lesbians You Didn’t Know Existed. (My favorite continues to be “bumper-to-bumper.”) Anyway, it was impossible to find anything, so a couple of months ago while I was healing from sinus surgery, I went through EVERYTHING. In my typical anal-retentive fashion, I checked every link, decided whether or not I could still use it, and either deleted it or put it into a corresponding folder (Dance, Writing, GAYTHINGS). And here’s what’s great—I went from 2,000 bookmarks to 200—200, well-organized, anal-retentive bookmarks.

Personally, I think the Lord would approve.

When I had the estate sale, the biggest thing I had to come to terms with was getting rid of hundreds of books, most of which I had personally purchased with the intent to read. Plus, I tend to think that the written word is sacred, so it didn’t feel like I could get rid of them. But what tipped the scales for me was a little thing called honesty. One day, I admitted to myself that although I loved to read, I didn’t love to read as much as I thought I did. I kept thinking, I’ll read that one day, but one day never came.

Several years ago, a friend of mine who lost all her possessions in a fire told me that you don’t realize how much psychic weight your stuff takes up until it’s all gone. That phrase—psychic weight—has stuck with me ever since I heard it, and I think it went a long way in helping me let go when I had the estate sale. Now that almost everything is gone, I agree with my friend. I feel much lighter without the stuff. It’s less to take care of, fewer things to dust, hundreds of books I’m not telling myself I’ll read one day. In short, less stuff is less stress.

What I’ve found is that just like less physical stuff is less stress, so is less digital stuff. When I got rid of the hundreds of Internet bookmarks, it felt just as good as getting rid of the hundreds of books. In both cases, I ended up with not only something simpler, but also something much more manageable. But whereas it’s gotten easy for me to go shopping for three hours and not make a single purchase, I still fight the tendency to save links online and add videos to my Watch Later list. Sometimes I’ll watch one video and then immediately add three more “suggestions” to the cue. But psychic weight is psychic weight, and especially for a personality like mine, it’s stressful to add to-do list items faster than they could ever possibly be checked off.

I’m simply not ready for that kind of commitment.

Just after I started typing this tonight, I looked up a Facebook friend’s podcast and added it to my digital to-do list. But then a few minutes ago, I went back and deleted it because I’m already listening to three other podcasts, I honestly don’t have that much time in my life, and hell, I just met the person at a coffee shop one time, and I’m simply not ready for that kind of commitment.

Maybe it sounds like a little thing, but it feels like I just got thirty hours of my life back.

As I think about it now, I think the big sense of relief, that psychic weight that’s gone, is largely about the pressure I put on myself day in and day out. For the last thirty years, I’ve made a habit of thinking, I should read these books, I need to organize those things, and I can’t get rid of this thing because it was a gift. But the truth was that I wasn’t reading those books, I had other things to do other than organize, and I thought that gift was fucking hideous. So I let it all go, and the pressure went with it. The truth set me free.

Of course, old habits die hard. I get on the Internet and see so many shiny things that I want to read and watch and buy. But I’m only one person and there’s only so much time in the day and John Stamos is not for sale. And sure, I think it’s fine for me to want and to have shiny things, but as soon as a shiny thing becomes an excuse to should on myself (like I should read that, watch that, or dust that) then it has become my master and not my servant, and that’s not okay. After all, I’m the only shiny thing around here that gets to tell me what to do.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Getting comfortable in your own skin takes time.

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