I Heart Boundaries (Blog #156)

If it’s not already obvious, my therapist has a huge hard on for boundaries. Like, a big one. I know this is going to sound like bumper sticker wisdom, but she says boundaries are bridges, boundaries make people feel safe, and boundaries are the holy grail in therapy. Honestly, it’s taken me a long time to digest and assimilate all this information, since I’ve always assumed I HAD boundaries. As it turns out, I didn’t. (Most people don’t.) But I’ve come to agree with my therapist. Of all the beneficial things I’ve learned in the last few years, nothing has been more important than boundaries.

I realize this could quickly turn into a commercial.

Years before therapy, my Reiki teacher gave me a list entitled “Signs of Unhealthy Boundaries.” I’d be glad to send you the entire list if you’d like, but a few items that still grab my attention are: 1) Talking at an intimate level on the first meeting, 2) Being overwhelmed by a person, 3) Accepting gifts or touch you don’t want, 4) Letting others direct your life, and 5) Food abuse. Looking back, I’m surprised I didn’t look at the list and say, “Houston, we have a problem.” But I guess I wasn’t ready for the information or ready to make changes in my relationships, since boundaries always equal changes. (Damn it.) Now I’m proud to say I’ve come a long way, first in setting and maintaining my own boundaries, and second in recognizing both good and not-so-good boundaries in others.

Today I got a t-shirt in the mail that says, “I (Heart) Boundaries.” I ordered it a few weeks ago because–well–I do. Plus, I imagine it will be a good conversation starter. Maybe someone will say, “Hey man, what’s your shirt all about?” and I can say, “Whoa mister, don’t stand so close to me. I don’t even know you.” Anyway, it’s a long story, but I ended up with an extra shirt that I would love to give away, especially if you (heart) boundaries too. It’s a men’s medium, American Apparel, and runs a bit tight. So basically–it’ll fit perfectly if you’re Justin Bieber, a teenage lesbian, or a twink. (A twink is a young, smooth, skinny, attractive homosexual, Mom.)

If this sounds like you, the shirt is yours. Just HMU (hit me up).

This week I read in The Artist’s Way that a boundary is essentially your bottom line. Bottom line, I won’t cheat on my husband. Bottom line, I won’t work for less than I’m worth. The book makes the point that often we use food, drugs, sex, money, friends/family, and work (my big one is work) to distract or soothe ourselves when we are creatively blocked. Better said, those are our creative blocks–not in and of themselves, but when they are abused. So it’s suggested that we give ourselves a bottom line, a boundary, to help get ourselves back on track. Bottom line, I won’t bring work home from the office. Bottom line, I won’t eat chocolate cake when crying or having a confrontation would be more honest.

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

My therapist says that boundaries are ever-evolving. It’s not that you’re all wishy-washy, but what works in one relationship, may not work in the next. Personally, I don’t like when people pick lint off my shirt, and I HATE IT when someone punches me in the arm. I don’t think it’s funny or appropriate. That being said, there are certain people I gladly allow in my space, either to pick lint off my shirt or just pat my shoulder. It’s just a case-by-case basis. Also–and I kind of hate this–boundaries aren’t something you knock out of the park every time. I remember for a while I was doing well with boundaries in MOST of my friendships, but there were a couple in particular in which I was sucking it up royally. (Or rather, we were.) In both situations, things are stellar now, but it simply took time to get here.

Tonight I signed up for some online yoga classes through Codyapp. Maybe I’m just a sucker for Facebook ads, but these classes deal specifically with flexibility and fascial stretching, two things that I’ve been rather obsessed with lately. At first I didn’t want to spend the money, but I decided that because my insurance is paying for all my treatment since the car accident, the least I can do is support my body at home. One of the boundaries I’m setting for myself is less time on Facebook (and zero Facebook on Mondays–eek–except to share the blog), so along with that I’ve decided to use the extra time on yoga. Bottom line, my physical body is more important than fake news and pictures of your cat. (Sorry, KiKi.)

Earlier tonight I went for a walk and listened to an interview with the guy who started and runs Humans of New York. He said that as creative people we can’t control how many people like our Facebook page, but we can control what we do with our time. We can write one hour a day. We can do yoga for thirty minutes. Whatever. As I think about it now, this seems like another way of talking about boundaries and bottom lines–basically rules and priorities we set for our lives. My blog is important to me, nothing stops me from doing it every day, every damn day. I want others to treat me well, so I have to treat them well, treat myself well.

Earlier I said that boundaries are bridges. I think this is important to remember, since it’s easy to think of them as fences between neighbors or lines drawn in the sand. And whereas boundaries do let you know where not to go and what’s not okay, they also let you know how to interact with a person and what the rules of engagement are. That’s why boundaries make people feel safe. You trust someone because they have good boundaries. You know they’re not going to sleep with your husband, kidnap your child, or sell your secrets to a supermarket tabloid. The way I see it, boundaries are just another way to respect and take better care of ourselves–and each other.

[Honestly–and no one is paying me to say this–I’m impressed with Codyapp so far, especially the classes with Dylan Werner. (He seems really smart and is also nice to look at.) If you’re interested in joining, use this link, and we’ll both get 50 percent off a class.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

Healing is like the internet at my parents’ house—it takes time.

"

It Takes a Village (Blog #141)

Okay, I’m just going to be real. Things aren’t looking good tonight. I got up early today for a checkup with my doctor, and now it’s three-thirty in the morning, and I’m spent. My brain is well-done. I mean, I guess plenty of things happened today, but all I can think about is the zit in my nose. Ugh, the inside kind. Those are the worst. Maybe I should wash my face more. That might help. Why God invented zits in the first place, I’ll never know. As if life weren’t hard enough already. Hell, I probably signed up for this before I incarnated. Yes, that’s correct. I’ll take the advanced course–the gay one with zits in my thirties. Yes, I’m sure.

All right, are we done yet? Can I take a muscle relaxer and go to bed now–start drooling on myself?

Today my doctor and I talked about body odor. I think the last time I blogged about it, it was a lot better. It still is a lot better, but it’s not PERFECT. So I asked, and at first the doctor thought maybe my sense of smell had changed due to my chronic sinus infections and the surgery I had six months ago. (Okay, shit. I’m awake. The house mouse just ran across the living room floor. Dad and I decided if we called it a pet and gave it a name, we wouldn’t have to kill it.) Anyway, back to the odor, the doctor said, “So let me get this straight. You’re THE ONLY ONE who’s smelled it?”

Well, I guess I was a tad defensive, like, yeah, but IT’S REAL. I said, “One friend said she didn’t notice the smell, but she also didn’t have her nose in my crotch.”

After a decent amount of head-scratching, the doctor said he thought it was a bacteria (not a yeast) overgrowth. He said, “I know it’s counterintuitive to think that you can take antibiotics and end up with an overgrowth of bacteria, but antibiotics don’t kill ALL bacteria evenly.” I’m not sure why I’m telling you all this, but he ended up prescribing a cream that cost a hundred and twenty dollars without insurance. So if and when anyone DOES have their nose in my crotch, I sure hope they freaking appreciate all the time, effort, and money spent to make their visit hospitable. (Please go online and fill out this survey in order to receive a discount for the next time you’re here.)

Okay, my mind wandered–by which I mean that I looked at Facebook. And I’d just like to say that therapy has sucked a lot of fun out of life because I saw an ad for a tank top that said, “Touch my butt,” and all I could think was, That’s totally without boundaries, inappropriate, and desperate.

And I wonder if they have it in a medium. (Kidding.)

Today my chiropractor asked me if I thought one of the two massage therapists I see in his office was a better fit for me. Well, this felt like I was being asked to give up peanut butter or chocolate cake. I thought, But I love them both! So I said, “You know, each brings something different to the table (the massage table–ba dum ching!), and I’d really hate to be without either one of them.” (He seemed okay with that. Phew.)

This is something I’ve been thinking about lately, the idea that it takes a village, or, as my friend Sara says, “It takes a village–and a vineyard.” Anyway, maybe it’s because I’ve been seeing so many healthcare people lately–three massage therapists, two chiropractors, one physical therapist (and a partridge in a pear tree). I mean, part of me wishes that I could give one–and only one–of them the credit for my progress, but it really has been a group effort.

Tonight I did an exercise in my creativity workbook where I had to list twenty things I like to do (read, dance, deodorize down south, whatever), and also had to list whether each activity listed was something done alone or with others. Well, I didn’t tally my responses, but I think it was about half and half, which would seem about right. My therapist told me once that of all the different types of extroverts, I’m the most introverted kind. Let’s spend time together! Okay, I’m done now.

Lately it feels as if I’ve been doing a lot of things on my own. I mean, I socialize with others, but I almost always work alone, often eat alone, go to movies alone. And I really am okay with that–I’m not fishing for a pat on the back or a touch on the butt. But as I finished the activity tonight, I was reminded–right there in black and white–that I really do like being social sometimes. Just last night at improv class, I thought, It really does feel great to be part of a group. Tonight I got invited to spend the evening with some former students and friends at their home, and it was a couple hours of simply being real, honestly connecting. Yeah, this feels great too.

My therapist says sometimes that she’s not the be-all, end-all in my story of personal growth, that she’s one of many resources I have. I guess it’s always like that. Whether it’s a doctor, a massage therapist, a regular therapist, or a friend, no one person (including yourself) is the be-all, end-all. Rather, it does seem to take a village, a community of hearts and minds coming together to help each other, each bringing their own piece of the puzzle, each helping the others to heal.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

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

"

God Is Extravagant (Blog #125)

Today I really only did two things–went to therapy and went to the lake. So really, I went to therapy twice. Y’all it was a great day. Sometimes I wish my therapy sessions could be recorded as part of a reality TV show–that’s how great I think they are. More specifically, that’s how funny I think my therapist is. Out of context for privacy, today she said, “That guy was a death trap on wheels,” “She sounds like she was too cute by about half,” and, “What happens when the shit hits the fan?”

Maybe you would’ve had to have been there. (Go to therapy!)

After therapy I drove to meet my friend CJ, who lives near Beaver Lake. A few weeks ago she invited me up to go kayaking (anytime), so I figured today was as good a day as any. Ever the consummate host, CJ had the kayaks ready to go, and by that I mean they were in the back of her truck and loaded down with fried chicken. So I threw on some super-cute swim trunks, a t-shirt, and some flip-flops, and we headed for the lake. In fewer than ten minutes, we were in the water, CJ in her ten-foot red kayak (along with her dog), and me in her twelve-foot blue one.

Y’all, I’m pretty sure today was my first time in a kayak–ever. Boats, canoes, rafts–sure–but never a kayak. WOW. I’ve been missing out. Per CJ’s instructions, the first thing I did was “get as naked as possible,” which means I took my shirt off. Then for maybe an hour, hour and a half, we paddled around–on our own, together. At one point I hopped out, swam around a while. Back in the kayak, I noticed how difficult it was to paddle whenever a boat sped by. The waves would hit the side of the kayak, making it difficult to go forward. But then I’d turn my boat into the waves, head on, and I could cut right through them.

I figure there’s a lesson there somewhere, something about not turning away from life’s challenges. But I will say this. Currently, my arms are worn out. Perhaps it would have been easier to let the waves push me along, to not fight them. Honestly, I don’t think there’s a right or a wrong, an only this or only that. Today in therapy I told my therapist about a situation that happened recently wherein someone I’d just met referred to me as “a hetero.” They were just making an assumption (I assume), but there was a small window of time where I could have corrected them. But I didn’t. For about a day, I gave myself a hard time for not “being authentic,” or “speaking my truth.” Then I cut myself some slack–I don’t have to out myself to every stranger I meet.

My therapist said sexuality is personal, and it can get exhausting to ALWAYS call bullshit, to face every single wave directly. So sometimes you turn your boat sideways, sometimes you even turn your boat and go the other direction. In other words, sometimes you speak up, sometimes you don’t. And that’s okay. As my friend George says, “You don’t have to attend every fight you’re invited to.”

Between seven and seven-thirty, CJ and I pulled over and ate fried chicken on a large rock. It’s possible I ate almost the entire bag. It was SO GOOD. CJ’s dog kept staring at me the whole time, like we were suddenly best friends. (Literally, bitch, please.) Little sucker even sneaked around and licked my fingers.

But who could blame her?

After dinner we got back in the kayaks, paddled under Highway 12, and watched the sunset. Then we packed things up in CJ’s truck and headed back to the house. Within ten minutes we were sitting on the front porch eating homemade banana nut bread. Talk about delicious.

Last night I read that “God is extravagant.” The idea came from The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron, and yes I’m aware that I’ve been talking about the book nonstop for the last six weeks. But don’t worry, it’s “only” a twelve-week program, so we’re halfway there. Anyway, the author basically said–Look around–God is fancy–He likes pretty things. He didn’t just make one pink flower, he made hundreds. And what about all those different snowflakes! I mean, it’s not that I haven’t considered life’s abundance before–I have. I’ve certainly read a lot about it. But there’s something about that word–extravagant–that made things click for me like they never have before.

Today my therapist said that one of the hallmarks of mental health is flexibility in thinking. She said that when people get locked into right-and-wrong or black-and-white thinking there’s not a lot of room for growth. Well, although I’ve wanted to see abundance all around me for a long time, I’ve been pretty locked into scarcity for a while now. I don’t know, maybe thirty years. (Give or take.) But I have been trying to be flexible–to see abundance even during a period in my life when certain things are lacking (like–I don’t know–a job). So all day today, I kept looking for extravagance. And guess what?  It was there–in the humor of my therapist, in all that water, in all the rocks, trees, and clouds, in all the colors in the sky. And did I mention there was fried chicken?

Talk about going over the top.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

The truth doesn’t suck.

"

The Book of Yourself (Blog #112)

This afternoon Bonnie and I started hanging curtains at Annie’s Pilates studio. (Are you on the edge of your seats yet?) I say started because we only got them hung in one of the two rooms, since we ran out of time because earlier we decided to 1) sleep, 2) pack to move from one Airbnb to another, and 3) eat tacos instead. Anyway, it’s all coming together. Here’s a picture of the reception area. I’m in love with the colors, as well as that awesome  coffee table and the black bowl on it that holds all the chocolate candy (not pictured).

Yesterday we made two trips to the same store to buy an essential oil diffuser for Annie, but none of us could get it to work today. So we made another trip, and while Bonnie drove, I read one of the five books I’m currently working my way through. When we got to the store, the girl behind the counter looked at us like we were idiots and didn’t know how to operate a machine with only one button on it. “You could always call the company and see if they could help you,” she said.

I immediately wanted to pull my hair out.

No.

I wanted to pull her hair out.

“We just bought this, and it clearly doesn’t work. I personally don’t want to call the company and waste any more time,” I said. So the lady ended up calling the for us, but guess what? The company was closed for the day. So rather than take a dumb store credit, we walked out not only with a broken diffuser, but also with higher blood pressure.

Think of Jesus, Marcus, think of Jesus singing Kumbaya. Come by here–me–come by here.

In need of a break, Bonnie and I checked into our second Airbnb for the week and poured ourselves a couple of beers in the frosted mugs we found in the freezer. (Talk about a classy joint!) But on the serious, this place is super duper cutie pie. (Hi, my name is Marcus, and I talk like a junior high cheerleader.) It’s a bungalow behind a main house, so it sits back off the road.

Here’s a picture of the bed, right as you walk in the door. Notice the lamps on the wall are table lamps that have been mounted sideways. (Everyone should be so lucky.) Anyway, I love creative people.

Here’s my “bedroom,” which is also the dining area. That’s a vintage lamp above the table, and the couch transforms into a bed. Also, the vinyl floor is by Allure and comes from Home Depot, which I only know because I installed one just like it once. (It’s okay if you don’t care. I really don’t either.)

Outside there’s an honest-to-god fish pond with a waterfall, which I can hear running now. It’s beautiful and relaxing, but it’s not helping me stay awake to write.

While Bonnie rested earlier this evening, I read more in The Artist’s Way. I’m currently on week four of twelve, and although I’ve been really pleased with the whole program so far, this week’s assignments include something called “reading deprivation,” which is exactly what it sounds like. No reading–for a week–seven whole days. Uh, wait, but I read all the time. I’m currently reading five different books. I’M AN OVERACHIEVER. I can’t–stop–reading. But I guess that’s the point, to give yourself a break, to focus more on what’s going on in YOUR head rather than someone else’s.

Shit. No more escaping into books.

So after a momentary internal temper tantrum (and finishing the chapter of the book I was reading in the car earlier), I stacked up my books, my Kindle, and even a magazine and shoved them to the other side of the table. Honestly, it felt like locking my own offspring outside in the cold. I’m sorry, Daddy’s got other things to do right now. But he loves you–never forget that–and will be back in a week.

For dinner Bonnie and I walked to a place called Haymaker for sandwiches and drinks. Y’all, my Bloody Mary had a Slim Jim and a piece of cheese in it. How cool is that?

Welcome to Texas!

After dinner I’d planned to attend a swing dance while Bonnie went to the first night of the Kizomba (Latin dancing) festival she’s attending this weekend. However, I was pretty wiped out and decided I could use some time to myself, since asking strangers to dance and meeting a lot of new people can take a lot out of me. So instead I went for a walk, learned a little bit more about the layout of Austin, and came back and took a bubble bath in the most adorable little bathroom you’d ever want to spend time in. Check it out.

I actually spent over an hour in the tub, something I rarely do. I dragged a little cabinet over, set my laptop on top of it, and watched the first episode of Will, TNT’s new series about William Shakespeare. Then I dried off and plopped down on the pull-out couch and watched the second. The show’s pretty good, and apparently Shakespeare was a PILF. (The P stands for playwright. Figure out the rest.) I seriously thought about binge watching all the episodes, but I’ve got this blog thing going on, so I exercised self-restraint. (It does happen occasionally, but it’s not currently happening now with regard to the potato chips I’m eating.)

At one point during the show-watching (not in the bathtub), I picked up my phone and clicked on a couple of articles that had been posted to Facebook. But in the middle of reading the second article, I remembered that I’m not supposed to be reading, so I stopped. This could be harder than I thought.

Actually, I’m kind of looking forward to this not reading thing. As much as I enjoy reading, it’s always on my “to-do” list. I see all the books I own and all the others on my Amazon Wish List, and it feels like I’ll never get them all read. (I hate to break it to you, Marcus, but you probably won’t.) So there’s always a slight amount of internal pressure–read more, learn more, grow more, BE MORE! The thought of shutting that down for a week sounds nice. Plus, it will give me more time to do other things–practice yoga, sing Kumbaya, get mounted sideways.

A girl can dream.

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

When I first started therapy, my therapist told me she didn’t have any friends with whom she spoke every single day. Even with her best friends, she said, they only spoke once a week, twice tops. “I spend that time with myself,” she said, “I work on myself.” Well, at the time this wisdom was easy enough in theory but harder in practice. I had a number of friends with whom I spoke or communicated with daily, and I couldn’t see that changing. However, eventually, all those relationships failed or morphed into something else. As a consequence, I’ve spent a lot of time alone over the last three years. Sometimes it’s been difficult, of course, but I know myself better now than I ever have. As it turns out, the more you get to know yourself, the more honest you are about what’s actually happening inside of you, the happier you are. If you stay on the right path long enough, I imagine you get to a point when you don’t have to have all the distractions–watching television, texting with friends, reading five books at once. Rather, you simply read the book of yourself, the only book you truly can’t do without.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

Pressure, it seems, is necessary to positive internal change. After all, lumps of coal don't shine on their own.

"

 

 

Looking for God in All the Wrong Places (Blog #107)

Tonight I took Tom Collins on a date to the drive-in theater. Even though we’ve only been together for two days, I’m already in love. He’s super sexy, never argues, and has a firm rear end. Of course, as you may remember, Tom Collins is my new car, which basically means I took myself on a date to the drive-in this evening. And we had a great time, thank you very much–me, myself, and Tom Collins–and one of us really enjoyed his cheeseburger, candy bar, and popcorn from the concession stand. But I’m not going to say who it was.

As I’ve mentioned before, I’m working my way through a twelve-week (but not twelve-step) program for creativity called The Artist’s Way. One of the things the author, Julia Cameron, is pretty insistent about is something called The Artist’s Date, a once-a-week ritual that involves taking your inner artist on a creative outing of some sort. You could go to an art museum, watch a play, or–like I did tonight–go to a movie. (Since I’m an overachiever, I went to a double feature.) Hell, I guess you could even finger paint, so long as it’s something creative and no one else does it with you. (Julia is a hard ass on this point–no guests allowed!–but I’m assuming Tom Collins would be an exception.)

Before I left for the movies (Despicable Me 3 and Spider-man: Homecoming) I almost broke Julia’s rule and invited someone else along. I mean, I’m pretty comfortable doing things by myself (and I’m a rule follower), but sometimes it gets old. Plus, for the last few weeks I’ve been more emotional than usual. I’ve cried a lot. I thought someone else would be a nice distraction from all that. But I went alone. I mean, I don’t think Julia would A) find out or B) give a shit or C) track me down and beat me up if she did, but I didn’t want to take any chances. After all, she said The Artist’s Date was one of the things that was “non-negotiable,” and “non-negotiable” was in italics, so she must have meant it.

It may be that the activities in The Artist’s Way are partly or completely responsible for all the emotions I’ve been experiencing lately. As it turns out, when you write down your thoughts every day or take time out to get quiet and be by yourself, all the things you haven’t dealt with yet come hurling up from inside you like undercooked chicken from a fast food restaurant. (It’s not fun–I don’t recommend it.) But really, it’s been like an emotional roller coaster–angry one minute, sad the next, happy the next. Shampoo, rinse, repeat. I wish I could tell you there’s a better way to make progress in life–like cigarettes, liquor, or a popcorn bucket that comes with a free refill–but I guess there’s not. As John F. Barnes says, “The key to healing is feeling.”

I hate that (but it does seem to be true).

Earlier this week, I spoke with my therapist about The Artist’s Way, the blog, and all the writing work I’ve been doing, and she referred to it as “planting a seed,” something that–at some point–would grow and bear fruit.

I hope she’s right.

After the movies tonight I decided it would be a fabulous idea to stop at the casino on the way home. I mean, I’ve been thinking about it for a while, was in a good mood, and figured it would be the perfect way for God to rain down showers of blessings in my general direction. I do this sort of thing a lot–not gamble–but try to tell God how he could best provide for me. I come up with fantasies about writing contests I could win or how some random hot guy at the library could propose after we both reach for Liza Minnelli’s biography at the same time. And then, God, it’d be awesome–just swell–if he got down on one knee and said, “I’ve been waiting for someone with stunning hair like yours. And don’t worry about ever working again–my daddy’s rich.”

Well, this may come as a shock, but God doesn’t take orders from me very well, even though I remind him that they are just “suggestions.” Which means I lost twenty bucks at the casino tonight and I still don’t have a ring on my finger. But just to be clear, recently a large junk of my sinus surgery bill was forgiven, and a few days ago I got a sweet deal on Tom Collins. (Plus, I do have great hair, and that’s worth a lot.) So God provides, just never in the way I fantasize he will. I can only imagine he long ago got tired of saying, “Would you give it a rest, Nancy? Relax, I know what I’m doing,” so now he just waits for people to figure it out on their own.

As is the case with many superheroes, Spider-man is actually a real person named Peter Parker who wears boxer shorts and spends as much time fighting zits as he does evil villains. In tonight’s movie, Peter is a high school student, a sophomore, and even though he disappears–every time–right before Spider-man shows up, none of his friends and classmates are any the wiser. I mean, who would think some virgin quiz-bowl champion would be a superhero? Who would look for Spider-man in geometry class? But this is the mistake I often make with the divine–I get so focused on how I think it “should” look and act that I don’t see how it actually looks and acts. I get so focused looking for God “over there” that I don’t see him right here, right now.

There’s a quote by Ovid that Julia uses in her book that says, “Chance is always powerful. Let your hook be always cast; in the pool where you least expect it, there will be a fish.” What I love about this quote is that it reminds me that God always shows up, the universe always provides, but rarely according to our pre-determined fantasies. Obviously, it’s not our job to tell God what to do and how to do it. Rather, our job is to be diligent and to plant seeds, trusting that at some point and in his own way–thank you very much–God will cause them to grow.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

Transformation doesn’t have a drive thru window. It takes time to be born again.

"

The Thread That Remains (Blog #100)

Currently it’s 3:33 in the morning, and I’ve been stuck behind this laptop at my aunt’s house in Tulsa for over an hour. Twice I’ve written an opening paragraph and deleted it, and I just moved from a chair in the living room to the floor hoping the change in location might will help. Physically, I’m both exhausted and over-stimulated. Emotionally, I’m the same. Tonight’s post–if and when I finish the damn thing–will be number one hundred. One hundred days of blogging in a row. Wow. That’s well over one hundred thousand words. That’s more than the first Harry Pottter. I feel like I should throw a party for myself, but then I probably wouldn’t get any writing done. I can’t think. I’m blaming the almost-full moon.

Oh my god, I finished a paragraph and didn’t delete it.

I’ve said this before, but almost every time I sit down to write, a theme becomes apparent. It’s as if there’s a single thread that somehow runs throughout each day’s random events, and my job is to find it, tug on both ends, and pull it all together. But on days like today, I feel like a seamstress (or is it seamster?) who’s looking at a pair of pants with too much material, wondering how I’m going to trim things down, make everything fit.

I came to Tulsa today for the wedding of my former dance partner Janie. When I opened my dance studio on September 25, 2005, Janie was one of the four people who showed up for my first group class. Her sister, Jennifer, had taken swing from me at a local fitness center, and that’s how Janie found out about the studio. Several years ago, Janie moved to Tulsa when she graduated college, but for years and years (and years) before that, Janie was at the studio–dancing–multiple times a week.

I really don’t know how to keep this brief. Janie and I made hundreds of YouTube videos together. We’ve performed together more times than I can count. In the process of learning aerials, I’ve literally been closer to Janie than I’ve ever been to any other woman in my entire homosexual life. We’ve picked each other up, dropped each other, laughed together, cried together. In my fifteen years of teaching dance, no one has been as talented, kind, light-hearted, trustworthy, or drama-free as Janie.

My date for the wedding tonight was my friend Marina, whom I met at a swing dance in Tulsa God-knows-how-many-years ago. One of the most fascinating people I know, Marina is a ninety-something, still-working, still-dancing local historian. She was an original Rosie the Riveter in the Boeing factory in Wichita in World War II. An inspector, she checked so many rivets that she’s missing fingerprints on two fingers. I like to think of her as my fairy godmother. Never short for stories, tonight Marina told me the factory she worked in was disguised to look like a farm, complete with plastic cows and hay bales that got moved around each night. She also said she used to tell her mom she was going to the library to study but instead would go to a gymnasium to teach soldiers how to swing dance.

Here’s a picture of Marina and me at the wedding with my friends Bruce and Lyn from Fort Smith. A long time ago I said something smart ass to Lyn, and she lightly popped me on the back of the head, so we started joking that I’d “better watch it,” maybe wear a hard hat whenever I’m around her. Anyway, tonight Lyn said she’d go easy on me, since I recently lost a game of real-life bumper cars.

Also at the wedding tonight were my dancer friends Joseph and Elisabeth. Elisabeth reads the blog regularly, and she’s the one who told me about The Artist’s Way, a book about creativity that’s currently doing to my emotions what the Tilt-A-Whirl does to the stomach of anyone over thirty-five. Anyway, Elisabeth said she read somewhere that the creative well never runs dry–basically, “there’s always more where that came from.” I remember, just earlier tonight, nodding my head in agreement, and then later staring at my blank laptop screen and thinking, bullshit.

Seeing Janie tonight was only a little weird. I guess it’s like that when you go a long time without seeing someone you used to be so close to. It felt like both nothing had changed and everything had changed. So often it was just the two of us practicing, rehearsing. But tonight the room was full of people, which made me realize I’m just a piece of Janie’s life, just like all those other people are, all of us pulled together by this one common thread.

What wasn’t weird–but rather what was wonderful–was dancing with Janie, someone I’ve danced with more than anyone else in the world. Nothing short of marvelous, being on the dance floor with Janie felt like falling into you favorite chair after a difficult day, like you’ve somehow gotten lucky and found a place where time doesn’t pass by.

Marina and I also danced. We shuffled our feet, rocked back on our heels, wagged our fingers at each other. (She refers to this sort of thing as “getting funky.”)

After the wedding, we go back to the house Marina’s lived in since 1955, the home she’s currently moving out of. Her living room empty, the kitchen is full of bills, newspaper clippings, some pictures of white-haired Marina in airplanes and helicopters. The inspector uniform she wore over seventy years ago hangs in the hallway. She still fits into it. Once when I said, “Marina, you must not have worked very hard–that thing isn’t even dirty,” she rolled her eyes and said, “They gave us a new one every week.”

Marina tells me that when someone asks what she’s doing, she says, “As much damage as possible.” We walk to her backroom. She gives me a cap she says she got from a Greek sailor several years ago when she was in Hawaii. “They were dancing on the tables, and I had a straw hat on with a pair of sunglasses,” she says. “This guy comes over and starts talking to me in Greek, so we had to use a translator. He said, ‘I’ll give you my hat if you give me yours.’ So that’s what we did.” And then she gives me a cowboy hat too, one that belonged to her son before he died the year after her husband did. So I make her put on another hat I find in the closet, and we take a picture together.

The only piece of furniture in the room is a Singer sewing machine. Marina says she’s three inches shorter than she was when she worked at Boeing, that she keeps shrinking, keeps having to hem her pants higher and higher. Later in the lobby of her new apartment she says, “I’m so small that I have to carry a heavy purse so the wind won’t blow me away.”

We go upstairs, get off the elevator, go inside Marina’s new home. Marina digs through her dresser drawer and pulls out a jewelry box with a rubber band holding it together. It’s a box of cufflinks that belonged to her husband, Don. “Take what you want,” she said. “I can’t wear them.” I remember that I only own one button-up shirt and it doesn’t have French cuffs. I look at Marina, almost a hundred. I wonder how many more times we’ll dance together. Thinking I can somehow hold on to her, I reach in the box and pull out a pair of the most beautiful turquoise cufflinks I’ve ever seen. A few minutes later, I stand to leave because it’s after midnight.

Now the sun is up, and I am too, obviously. Thinking about Janie and Marina, I realize that our paths converge and separate, separate and converge. Everything changes as one moment outgrows the next. One day your pants fit, and the next day they don’t. As my friend George says, “You turn around three times and twenty years have passed by.” I guess on some level we know that everything is coming apart, so we do our best to pull it all together. We collect things–cufflinks, newspaper clippings, pictures of when we used to dance with each other or ride in airplanes–hoping to hold on somehow, to slow down the inevitable goodbyes. All of it still passes away, of course, except the love that runs between us. Yes, love is the thread that remains.

[Thanks, Elisabeth, for the pictures of Janie and me.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

I, Marcus, Am a Brilliant and Prolific Writer (Blog #89)

A couple of months ago I had two cavities filled. The next day I developed a bacterial infection on my skin, and the doctor at the walk-in clinic said it was probably because my body was all “what the fuck?” after my sinus surgery and dental work. And then–and then–my teeth started hurting. After I had them filled. Even though they didn’t hurt before. Again, what the fuck?

Well, I went back to the dentist–twice. Both times he said the filled teeth were “high,” meaning they were striking each other too hard (you know–because I was using them to chew) and therefore staying inflamed. Anyway, after the second trip back to the dentist’s office (for a total of three trips altogether), the problem got–uh–better, but one of my teeth has still been sensitive to cold and room-temperature water.

So this afternoon I had an appointment to get my teeth cleaned and was not looking forward to it, I guess because I’m tired of going to the damn dentist. I mean, he’s a nice guy and all, but if we spend any more time together and he puts his fingers in my mouth one more time, I’m going to have to introduce him to my parents. Add all that to the fact that I was pissed off because his office has been harassing me with appointment reminders (I’m coming already!), and you’ll understand why I showed up today with anything but a good attitude.

But sometimes God throws you a bone. Y’all, my dental hygienist was amazing–kind, intelligent, funny–a real hoot and a half. Okay, fine, two hoots. She was that good. I’ll spare you the details, since stuff like that never comes across right when told to someone else, especially in writing. Suffice it to say she took wonderful care of me, made me laugh, AND explained what was going on with my teeth.

She said that teeth are actually alive, fed by roots. (They’re like a bunch of hard potatoes, really.) Anyway, she said that inflammation explained the problem when my bite was off, but now it was more likely that I was experiencing “normal sensitivity” due to the fact that one of my roots was ever so slightly exposed because my gum line had receded. (Hey! Get back where you belong.) So she put this vitamin compound on the root, which she said would help fortify it, give it a protective coating, and–kind of like a condom–cut down on sensitivity. (I added the part about the condom. She didn’t actually say that.)

When I left the dentist’s office, good mood restored, I met my friend Tim for a late lunch. Tim and I know each other mostly through Facebook, but he’s been a faithful and supportive reader of the blog since the beginning, so we decided to meet in person. And whereas everything went well, I’m sad to report that Tim closed his eyes for the selfie we took together. There was one photo with his eyes open, but he wasn’t smiling, so I went with smiling over open eyes because teeth are a thing today. (I hope this was the right choice. If I’d been to the eye doctor, I would have chosen the other picture.)

The rest of the day has been hit and miss. I’ve mostly been tired, and one minute I’ve been upset, and the next minute I’ve been sunshine and rainbows, even if my parents might disagree. In addition to sleep-deprivation, I’m attributing part of my mood fluctuation to working through the book I mentioned yesterday, The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. One of the exercises I did earlier this evening required that I write, “I, Marcus, am a brilliant and prolific writer” ten times. I’m serious. That was in the book. The only part I added was my name, and there was a blank for that. (If you want to try it, it could be applied to any creative endeavor. You could say, “…brilliant and prolific artist, dancer, cook, or basket weaver.”)

Anyway, when I did the exercise–and this was the point–a bunch of negative thoughts came up, things like–you’re not good enough–you’re not as smart as that other guy–you’re getting too big for your britches. Well, obviously those thoughts have been lingering around in the shadows for quite a while, but when you put them down on paper, it’s like, Shit, now what?

This afternoon Tim gave me a t-shirt that had the word “writer” in the middle of it, along with a whole bunch of other words that might describe a writer or a writer’s life, things like storyteller, wordsmith, dreamer, and mystery. Honestly, in addition to being an extremely thoughtful gift, I think it came at just the right time, the same day as the assignment to make positive affirmations about myself as a writer.

I’ve been thinking this evening that labels are really important. We can pretend they’re not, but if you tell yourself every day that you’re a freaking fantastic writer, that’s going to have a dramatically different impact than if you tell yourself you’re a piece-of-shit writer. But I think it’s interesting that most of us are more comfortable with negative labels than positive ones.

Once I remember telling my therapist that sometimes I thought I was one of the best dancers in Fort Smith. She immediately said, “Probably one of the best in the state.”

“Isn’t it conceited to think that?” I said.

“No,” she said. “It’s reality. Our goal is reality. You don’t make yourself any more than you are, but you certainly don’t make yourself any less.”

Each of us is brilliant and prolific when it comes to something.

This afternoon when my dental hygienist told me that my teeth were alive, I was genuinely surprised. I said, “I’ve never thought of them as alive before.” So that’s been on my mind all day, and now it makes a lot more sense to me why they’d be sensitive, why they’d get inflamed, why they’d hurt. That’s what living things do. So tonight I’ve been trying to remind myself that I’m a living thing too. I have feelings, rights, and talents like you do. I know that may seem obvious, but so many times I’ve made everyone else out to be better than I am–more talented–more worthy–that I think a little positive affirmation is a good thing. I, Marcus, am a brilliant and prolific writer. And I’m really not getting too big for my britches here. I’m just growing into them for once.

The way I see it, teeth are a small part of the body, but they’re an important part. So I think this has to be true for me, and it has to be true for all of us. Each of us, no more but certainly no less than another, plays an important part or we wouldn’t be here. Yes, each of us is brilliant and prolific when it comes to something, worthy of positive affirmation, and–above all–a dreamer, a mystery.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

if you're content with yourself and you're always with yourself, then what's the problem?

"

Weird and Awkward Beginnings (Blog #88)

Today was a day for beginnings. Why some days are for beginnings and other days are for endings, I don’t know. But I suppose this is simply how the universe works. One day you pick up a cigarette. Another day you put it down. You tell yourself for weeks, maybe months, that it’s time to quit, but then one day it actually is. For me, there’s always a feeling that accompanies a fresh start. I wish I could tell you that such a feeling involved angels and trumpets, a parade where suckers are handed out to people who start diets. But that’s rarely the case. Rather, the feeling I get is more like a soft hum, something that tingles and buzzes inside of me and sounds like I’ve had enough. I’m ready. Shit. No more Camels and chocolate cake.

Or something like that.

Fortunately, today wasn’t about quitting anything. (Ugh. No one likes a quitter.) Although I guess anytime you start one thing, you have to quit another, even if it’s simply quitting not doing the thing you weren’t doing before. (I’m about to confuse myself, so I’ll just say it.) Today I started swimming again. There, I’m glad that’s out in the open, along with everything it implies. Yes, I wear Speedos (the square-cut kind). Sometimes I shave my legs (and absolutely love the way it feels). Of course, as is obvious from the above picture, I haven’t shaved anything lately. Anything–at–all.

Anyway, today I swam a thousand meters–sixteen hundred is a mile–and it felt great. When I first started swimming four years ago, I liked it, but it was difficult because it always felt as if I was sucking in more water than air. But after a few years, I started to get the rhythm of it. We’ll see how the summer goes, but I really think the sinus surgery I had is going to make all the difference, since I can actually breathe now. I mean, I haven’t swum in a year, but the ten laps today seemed easier than anything I’ve ever done before.

Messages from other people are requests, not requirements.

This afternoon before I went to the pool, I got two voicemails–two!–from my dentist’s office. I didn’t even listen to the second one, but the first one requested a “verbal confirmation” that I would be at tomorrow’s teeth cleaning. This after I verbally made the appointment last week and digitally confirmed by text a few days ago. I told my dad, “I’ve forgotten appointments before, but I’m an adult. I said I’ll be there, and I’ll be there. Hell, they used to send emails too.”

Dad said, “Marcus, not everyone keeps a calendar. I don’t think you realize how stupid some people are.”

The old Marcus would have called back to confirm, but the new Marcus thought, “Fuck that. I have better things to do.” Of course, it’s taken a long time for me to come around to this way of thinking. Really, I’ve spent most my life returning every text message, every email, every phone call. But therapy has taught me that messages from other people are requests, not demands, certainly not requirements.

Today at the pool I focused on my breathing, lifting my head every odd-numbered stroke so that I alternated sides. For the longest time, I’ve only come up on my right side, and I think that’s contributed to the imbalances in my body. Of course, lifting on the left side today felt weird, awkward, anything but smooth. I probably swallowed some pool water, so don’t even try to remind me how many little kids pee in it every day. I mean, they make chlorine for a reason!

While swimming, I was thinking about how often we to run away from anything that feels weird, awkward, anything but smooth. I know I used to see that in dance a lot. If people didn’t get something “right away,” they’d get frustrated, cry, even walk away. But–and I hate this–any new thing takes time to master, whether it’s dancing, swimming, or setting boundaries with secretaries at your dentist’s office. (My next step is to call them and say, “I have an appointment tomorrow and would like a verbal confirmation that my dental hygienist will be there.”)

A couple of years ago I had three incidents happen–bam, bam, bam– that involved bad customer service. In one instance, I was treated rudely at a medical facility, and in another given incorrect change at a restaurant. (It may sound high-minded, but I HATE IT when servers owe me $9.13 and bring me back $9.00 instead, like the rest doesn’t matter.) So when I talked to my therapist about these incidents and said I wanted to write letters to all the respective managers, she leaned forward in her chair, raised her eyebrows, and said, “DO IT!”

So I did, and it felt great.

In the case of the medical facility, I believe someone lost their job, or at least got a stern talking to. Either way, the manager said that if I had to return, please contact him personally. I also got a gift certificate from the restaurant. But none of that was the point to the letter writing. The point was to express myself, to confront a damn problem for once. Honestly, I’m still not a pro at confrontation. I usually have to be pushed pretty far before I’ll speak up. In any form, confrontation feels anything but smooth. But just like my breathing at the pool, it’s a hell of a lot better than it used to be because I’ve been willing to practice, even with little things like not returning phone calls that I simply don’t want to return.

This evening I started reading a book called The Artist’s Way: A Spiritual Path to High Creativity by Julia Cameron. The book has been around for twenty-five years, but I’d never heard of it until a few weeks ago when two people told me about it within the space of a few days, which I figured meant the universe wanted me to read it. (God works in mysterious ways.) Well, I’m only a couple chapters in, but I’m riveted, and I already have homework. Specifically, starting tomorrow, I’m supposed to starting writing, by hand, three pages (called Morning Pages but will be Afternoon Pages in my case) about anything and everything that comes to mind. Sometimes called “brain drain,” the idea is that the practice gets out all the junk that’s currently blocking any creativity.

I’ll let you know how it goes, but I’m both excited about nervous about the idea. Excited because it makes sense, and I want to see how it changes my creative life. Nervous because, like learning to swim again and learning to handle confrontations, it’s probably going to feel weird and awkward for a while.

There are angels there to help, but they don’t blow trumpets.

They say that if you want a different life, you have to let go of the one you have. You have to do things differently. Personally, I’m finding that changes that really matter are usually a process. Maybe there are angels there to help, but they don’t blow trumpets because they know beginnings are pretty much always rough and not really trumpet-worthy. But anything you consistently work at–dancing, swimming, finding your voice, creating–will eventually smooth out. Just give it a little time, and it won’t feel weird or awkward at all. No, you’ll get the hang of it, and–what’s more–you’ll have a different life, a life that tingles and buzzes–and feels great.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

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

"