All Things Great and Small (Blog #415)

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Tonight I’m afraid to write. I can’t say why. I’ve been sitting here for forty-five minutes browsing the internet, the whole time thinking, I have nothing to say. I didn’t do shit this afternoon. I read a book and drank a cup of coffee. How am I supposed to blog about that? This isn’t the first time I’ve thought something like this. Tonight’s blog is #415 (in a row), and I honestly have no idea how I’ve managed to “fill the page” time and time again, since the details of my day-to-day life aren’t that exciting. Like I said, today I read a book and drank a cup of coffee.

Woo-who.

The book I’m currently reading is called I Contain Multitudes: The Microbes Within Us and a Grander View of Life by Ed Yong and is about all the Little Critters that live on, in, and around us. I’m a hundred pages into the book and am riveted. According to the author, there are more germs living in and on one human body than there are stars in the galaxy, although “germs” is apparently not the best term to use, since it implies bad and nasty. As it turns out, the vast majority of bacteria in the world are either harmless or beneficial. Many help break down our foods and fight off disease. Quite literally forming communities in our mouths, guts, and private areas, these bacteria can influence our moods, weight, and even our personalities. (There’s a bacteria that, in order to survive, turns some insects into lesbians! Well, at least it allows female wasps to clone themselves and therefore have no need for males, which is sort of like being a lesbian.)

Since each of us is home to so many different species of microbes, Yong contends that any one of us, rather than being “an I,” is really “a we.” Here’s how he says it: “When we eat, so do they. When we travel, they come along. When we die, they consume us. Every one of us is a zoo in our own right–a colony enclosed in a single body. A multi-species collective. An entire world.”

Isn’t that beautiful?

Since being introduced to this book recently (it was a gift), I’ve started thinking of myself as a collective, an ecosystem, a rainforest, if you will. Granted, I’ve never been to a rainforest (other than Rainforest Cafe), but I can imagine–tigers feed off their prey just as lush trees feed off decaying plants, all in a complex system of give and take, life and death. Likewise, I’m teeming with a whole universe of lifeforms, and together we’re engaged in a great balancing act. For years I’ve struggled with sinus infections but have recently seen improvements by introducing a single strand of bacteria (l. sakei) into my nostrils. (This apparently works because l. sakei keeps other bacteria “in check.”) It sounds weird, I know, but now it makes more sense than ever. It’s like the scales were tipped in the wrong direction “up there,” and I just needed one heavy hitter to help even things out.

Way to go, fellas.

What’s amazing to me is that one little bacteria (the one that started the infections) has been able to cause me so much misery and that one little bacteria (the one that ended the infections) has been able to cause me so much joy. L. sakei isn’t a panacea for all my health problems, but it truly has changed the landscape of this rainforest. So often we think of ourselves as powerless or without influence, but my God, if one little bacteria can do that–wreak havoc or bring joy–how much more can I do? How much more can you do? I think about my therapist, how knowing her has completely transformed me for the better. Four years into our work together, there’s not a relationship in my life that hasn’t improved because of her, even the relationship I have with myself (and all my microbes). It’s funny, right? I had no idea the day I met her just how much my world would change.

Now our world is more magical.

Earlier I said, “Nothing happened today. I read a book and drank a cup of coffee.” What I meant to say was, “Everything happened today. This morning my entire rainforest came to life, and this afternoon we drank a cup of coffee, and a million microbial and chemical reactions made it possible. At the same time we read a book and may never see ourselves the same again because of it. Now our world is more magical, a mysterious place where everything somehow works together, where nothing and no one is without influence, where all things great and small can make a difference.”

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Our shoulders weren’t meant to carry the weight of the world.

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On Bravery (Blog #412)

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Two days ago I saw my therapist and we discussed money, which is a theme lately. Later that day while talking to my friend Bonnie, I said, “I wonder what I’ll write about tonight. I could talk about my therapy session, but it was emotional, and–believe it or not–there are days when I don’t want to share my emotions with the internet. There ARE times when I want to keep my therapy sessions private.”

Bonnie didn’t miss a beat. “I understand, but your blog IS called Me and My Therapist.”

Of course she was right (damn it), so that night I wrote about–you guessed it–me and my therapist. You can read the blog post here, but it’s essentially about my crying in therapy because I’m often paralyzed by anything involving finances (which is most things). The post also talks about why this is the case, the main reason being that when dad went to prison when I was fifteen, I had to handle the family finances (and it was terrifying). Anyway, I saw my therapist for another session this afternoon, read her the “I cried in therapy about money” post, and cried AGAIN.

Y’all, not to brag, but I’m getting pretty good at this crying thing.

My therapist and I talked more about money today, but I’m honestly worn out with that topic for this week, and I’m not sure I could even do her wisdom and encouragement justice right now at three in the morning. (I’m exhausted and am TRYING to keep this short, but I will say that she said overcoming my fears about money was largely a matter of gaining perspective, of realizing that the “monsters in the room” are simply shadows.) But there is something I would like to talk about, and that’s that after hearing my blog post, my therapist repeated her recent comment that I have big balls.

Well, she didn’t actually say that today, but she did before. Today she said, “Marcus, you’re really brave to share your emotions and experiences the way you do.”

Y’all, other people have said this before, and I never know quite how to respond. I get that it takes a certain amount of courage to put yourself out there, but having done it for over a year now, I guess I take it for granted. This project has been so beneficial for me personally, I think, Why WOULDN’T you completely expose yourself (emotionally, not physically) to the entire planet? But I do get it–it’s scary to tell the world your secrets. So I tried to flesh out with my therapist why I do this, and the best I came up with was, “I have to. I just have to.”

I guess this statement–I just have to–could be taken the wrong way. Even as I’m writing and reading it, I think, That sounds like I’ve “been called” to write this blog, like I’m a missionary of emotions who has no other choice but to share his feelings because “it’s the right thing to do.” That’s not how I mean it. Yesterday I mentioned situations in which my heart pounds with anxiety and the only way to get it to stop is to do the thing I’m afraid of, and THAT’S what I mean when I say, “I just have to.” I mean I’ve been shoving down my emotions, disconnecting from myself, and living inauthentically for so long that I simply can’t handle the pain any longer.

I wanted a way out.

So for me this project isn’t the result of my bravery or courage–it’s the result of my suffering. It’s a result of my desperation, my hoping that something–anything–will fix my hurting heart. That’s why I went to therapy in the first place–I was miserable and wanted a way out. Even now I want a way out of my financial fears, a way out of my health problems. I’m tired of them, tired of dragging these things around by myself. They’re exhausting. That’s why I talk about everything to my therapist, and that’s why I write about (almost) everything on the internet–because doing so makes my burdens lighter. It turns my monsters into shadows. If this looks like bravery to someone else, perhaps it is, but it feels like healing to me.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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There’s nothing wrong with taking a damn nap.

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Me and My Big Balls (Blog #411)

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Recently my therapist told me I had big balls. The was said as a euphemism, of course, not as a scientific observation. A scientific observation would clearly have been a boundary violation for both of us, since she’s my very professional therapist, and I’m a (very professional) homosexual. (I don’t mean that I’m getting paid to be gay, Mom, just that this is a full-time orientation for me and I take it seriously.) Anyway, moving on. We were talking about how I often approach celebrity authors at book signings, and my therapist said, “I’d never have the courage to do that,” to which I replied, “Really?”

“Really,” she said. “And putting your entire emotional life on the internet? That takes guts. You’ve got some BIG BALLS.”

I shifted in my seat. “Uh–thanks?”

This afternoon I had lunch with a friend, and while we were eating missed a call from the insurance company of the guy who slammed into the back of me last July (while I was on my way to a funeral) because some asshole in front of us decided to suddenly stop traffic in order to save the life of a fucking turtle, an act of heroism for which I am extremely bitter and therefore continue to take to the Lord in prayer. But I digress. When lunch was over, I called the insurance company back, hoping that they’d “come to their senses” and were ready to offer me a decent settlement, something more in line with what my friends in the business have recommended I accept.

Alas, this was not the case. They didn’t budge.

Hanging up the phone, I thought, That’s it, I’m finally tired of this shit. Two hours later, I was meeting with an attorney to go over the case. And whereas older men, attorneys, and older men attorneys normally intimidate my inner gay child, I was completely at ease with this person, whom I found to be informative, matter-of-fact, and honest. For over an hour we discussed my options, as well as insurance companies and juries (neither of which, by the way, apparently have a lot of compassion for people who get the shit knocked out of them and are looking to be compensated for their lost time, money, and physical agility). “Okay,” I said, getting ready to leave his office, “I need some time to think about everything.”

For the next few hours, I was an absolute wreck. (Pardon the pun.) Not that I was nervous or anxious exactly, but as my therapist would say, “It was a lot of information,” so my mind was running wild. I kept thinking, What if I make the wrong decision?

In an effort to calm myself down and ruminate, I went for a jog this evening. Y’all, it was one of my best jogs ever–5.8 miles, nonstop–over two times my longest distance this year. (I just started back a couple weeks ago.) And whereas my body is currently screaming at me, the jog was great emotionally. I felt like I’d really done something, more than I thought I was capable of starting out. Granted, it’s two hours later and I can’t feel my feet, but still. Plus, the jog did work to calm me down. Apparently when you spend an hour treating your body like it’s twenty years younger than it actually is, you end up being too damn tired to actually care about car accidents, insurance agents, or attorneys.

Like, right now I’d settle this case for a year’s supply of BenGay and two gallons of Epsom Salts.

Grow a pair.

But back to my strictly-meant-as-a-euphemism big balls. While ruminating during my jog, I thought about how I often, frequently, and almost always get nervous or worked up about–well, nearly everything–but especially interactions with people of higher status. This category of people includes anyone prettier, richer, more famous (like celebrities), or more powerful (like attorneys) than I am, and certainly includes people working for insurance companies (because in my mind they’re so big and scary). That being said, I realized while running that I’ve been through A LOT OF SHIT in my life, and I’ve had A LOT of tough conversations, most of which I had while my heart was beating on the inside of my chest like a Jehovah’s Witness knocks on the outside of your door, but I had them. Y’all, I hate it when my heart beats like that, but in my experience the only way to get it to stop is to do the thing you’re afraid of doing–introduce yourself to a celebrity, have a hard conversation, tell an insurance agent to go hell. Tonight I thought, I’ve already done so many frightening things in my life–I refuse to roll over now. This is what I’m learning, that being scared isn’t always an invitation to run away. More often than not, it’s an invitation to grow a pair (of big balls, Mom) and run toward.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"Kindness is never a small thing."

Shattered (Blog #410)

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Last week I saw my therapist and we talked about money, a subject that almost always makes me twitchy. “It’s like your heart is in your throat,” she said. That night I went for a run to chill out, then wrote a blog in which I explored how my childhood feelings about money have apparently gotten all mixed up with my current feelings about money. You can read the blog here, but the big takeaway was that I was completely overwhelmed once as a teenager when I had to meet with our bank regarding our failure to make mortgage payments (since Mom was sick and Dad was in prison), and that feeling of “I’m in over my head when it comes to money” has never completely gone away.

Or gone away at all, really.

Of all the blogs I’ve written, that one about going to the bank as a teenager was perhaps the most emotional for me, meaning I broke down crying while writing it. Granted, I’ve cried plenty of times while blogging, but this was ugly crying, not movie-star crying. Serious boo-who-who-ing. Anyway, I saw my therapist this afternoon, and I read the blog to her and cried some more. “See, this–is–wha-what ha-ha-happens,” I said, adding that I hated the fact that I’m a thirty-seven-year-old man who feels like a teenager when it comes to anything financial. “I’m a fuh-fuh-fucking mess.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “Let it out.”

Later, when I was more calm, my therapist said, “You’ve never told me that story before. That was a big deal, and it makes absolute sense that you responded the way you did. Anyone in your circumstances would walk away from that experience thinking that money was scary, dirty, and hard to come by.”

“It’s not?” I said.

As we continued to flesh things out, I told my therapist that I’ve thought about that day at the bank a lot over the years. It’s not like I haven’t known “that was a bad day.” But seriously, until I broke down while blogging about it last week, I didn’t realize what a formative event it was for me, how intimidating and frightening it was. “You were acknowledging it in your head, but not in your heart,” my therapist said. “You normally don’t do a lot of crying in here, but the fact that you are now is a good thing. It means you’re ready to get this sorted out and heal. It means you’re ready to grieve for that teenager.”

I think that’s such a poignant word–grieve–since I don’t often fully acknowledge what all I lost when my dad went to prison. Obviously there was the childhood thing–I grew up way too fast. But then there were things I lost you might not think of, like my sense of power, my feeling of belonging in this world, my pride in my circumstances. Oh yeah, and that feeling I had when I was a kid about how money was exciting and fun, something to be enjoyed (and not overwhelmed by). Where did that part of me go?

Because I’d really like it back.

My therapist says that your past doesn’t determine your future, that just because things were shit when you were a teenager doesn’t mean they have to be shit forever. (God, I hope she’s right.) She also says that with everything that went on in my childhood, I could have EASILY ended up addicted to drugs, and the fact that I didn’t only goes to show how resilient I am. (So that’s something.) I hope my repeating this compliment doesn’t sound like bragging, since I’ve never once used the word resilient to describe myself (before now), and I didn’t plan it this way. It’s not like there was a moment in my childhood when I thought, Dad’s in prison and the bank is on our back, but I’m not going to shoot heroin up my arm–no, sir, not me–I’m going to be resilient!

No emotion is ever truly buried.

But seriously, I don’t know why one person who’s dealt a shit hand in life turns to drugs and another doesn’t. Likewise, I don’t know why my sister has always been one to cry about things in the moment and I’ve (apparently) always been one to bury my emotions for decades. But I do know from personal experience that no emotion is ever truly buried. You may keep it down for a while–fool yourself and others–but it’ll come up somehow. (Just you wait.) Also, getting back to that long list of things I lost when I was a child like my feeling of belonging and pride in my circumstances, I don’t think these things were ever truly lost. Separated, maybe. But surely I can reconnect with them. Surely anyone can reconnect with themselves. For what is resilience but this, the firm belief that all shattered things can somehow be put back together.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

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Totally Mixed Up (Blog #405)

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Last year, in the midst of starting this blog, I began walking late at night. It was a good way to get out of the house, clear my head, and organize my thoughts before sitting down to write during the wee hours of the morning. At some point I began jogging, running, something I hadn’t done in forever because of a hip that’s historically given me a lot of grief. I had to start slow, but eventually worked myself up to eight miles. And whereas my hip never fell in love with running, it did tolerate it, especially if I took time to stretch my legs and didn’t pound the pavement every day.

When my immune system went haywire last October, my night-time strolls and midnight marathons took a long vacation. There was just no way. Even if I’d felt like a million bucks, I’m not sure I would have left the house, since it was winter and cold outside, and I hate winter and cold outside. All this to say that despite my aversion to pollen and even though spring is literally in the air right now, last night I went for a jog–one mile. Let’s just see how our body responds, I thought. Well, the jog went great–but get this shit. As I was jogging, it was like my body was remembering every walk or run I’ve ever been on. I took a route I used a lot last year, and all these memories came back of specific podcasts I was listening to along those streets, of particular thoughts and emotions I was sorting out before blogging about them.

That’s weird, right?–the way your memories get tied to distinct locations or activities and can come flooding back at a moment’s notice? It’s like the past and the present get totally mixed up in your head.

Today I saw my therapist, and we talked about money. Y’all, I hate talking about money. First of all, no one ever taught me how. Second of all, growing up, most of my experiences with money were negative. Like, we never had enough of it, or what we did have (in the form of possessions) was taken away (in a house fire), stolen, or repossessed. This is why I write so much about abundance–it’s something I want to believe in, but haven’t always had a lot of proof of. So today when my therapist and I were talking about a couple business situations like the insurance claim regarding my car accident last year, I practically broke into a cold sweat. “You’re all twitchy,” she said. “Yeah,” I replied, “because I’m afraid I won’t be able to handle myself.”

“Then it’s my job to support you emotionally until you do feel like you can handle yourself,” she said.

Since leaving therapy this afternoon, I’ve continued to be a nervous wreck. It’s a little better now because I went for another run earlier–two miles–and that helped burn up some energy. But even as I’m propped up in my childhood bed, I can remember where I was sitting when I was handed the family checkbook as a teenager, how I felt completely inadequate to do what was being asked of me. I can remember exactly where I was sitting at the bank the afternoon I met with our loan officer and told him we could no longer afford our mortgage payments as long as Dad was in prison. I was sixteen. On one side of the desk was this confident man in a suit and tie, three times my age, and on the other side was overwhelmed me in a pair of jeans and maybe a collared shirt, crying, embarrassed. And even though twenty years have elapsed between then and now, when it comes to money, I guess a large part of me still feels like that little kid–all twitchy. It’s like the past and the present are totally mixed up in my head.

How do you fix a problem that’s twenty years old?

Now it’s three in the morning, and I don’t know how I’m going to sort this one out. I guess I don’t have to tonight, but I do want to–get it sorted out–at some point. I simply can’t keep living on this side of the desk, practically paralyzed by the world of business, by–the world. And yet, how do you fix a problem that’s twenty-years old? How do you learn to walk again, let alone run when your legs are trembling with fear? Honestly, I don’t know. But perhaps you start by recognizing that despite your past and your trembling legs, you’re still standing. Perhaps you start by realizing that life even in its most intimidating moment wasn’t able to completely knock you down. Because surely that fact alone would mean that you are strong, much more capable of handling yourself than you were previously giving yourself credit for.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Damn if good news doesn't travel the slowest.

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Shadow Dancing (Blog #401)

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Well hell. I just spent thirty minutes trying to connect my laptop to the WIFI at a local coffee shop to no avail. I’ve had this problem before–a message that says another device is connected to the network with my IP address–but this is the first time I haven’t been able to resolve it. So now I’m connected to MY hot spot and using MY data, which feels stupid because THE WHOLE POINT of blogging at a coffee shop is to use THEIR free internet. But I CAN’T connect to their free internet, so what am I EVEN doing here?

Oh yeah, I’m drinking coffee.

Yesterday I did my second live video on Facebook. I know this isn’t new technology, but as I’m usually late to the party, it’s new to me. So I’m excited about it. In yesterday’s video, I shared an essay I wrote in September of 2016 that helped initiate all my big life changes–closing the studio, having an estate sale, and–ultimately–starting the blog. Additionally, I read yesterday’s blog–which was #400–out loud. If you missed it and would like to see it, here it is. (It’s about 26 minutes long.) As I continue to hit milestones with the blog, my plan is to share other previously unshared essays and/or short stories.

After last night’s live video, I went dancing with my friend Bonnie. Well, sort of. We went to a swing dance, but the attendance was super-low, so we pretty much walked in then walked right back out. As a former organizer of dances, I kind of hated doing this because I know how much difference every person makes, but as an attendee I thought, This just isn’t going to work for me. We ended up at a local restaurant where a rockabilly band was playing, and since there wasn’t enough room for dancing, we simply listened (and snacked).

Y’all, the place was a bit of a dude bar. You know, pool tables, waitresses in Daisy Dukes, Hells Angels scattered about the room strategically. Mid-evening, when I had to go to the bathroom, I was forced to wade through all of it. Weaving my way around burly guys with pool sticks in their hands, I thought, What have I gotten myself into? Well, I guess I was wearing a look of suspicion on my face when I cautiously opened the door to the men’s room, as one of the guys at the urinals said, “You opened that door like a serial killer, bro.”

Seriously? This gay boy has been called a lot of things over the years, but never bro.

I mean, a serial killer.

Later in the evening, Bonnie and I went Latin dancing in downtown Fayetteville. That’s where we took the above picture, inside some sort of blow-up, light-up, bounce-around tent that I assume was meant to look sophisticated but really just looked tacky. Business owners, before doing something drastic like this, remember the following little poem by yours truly:

When you’re straight,
It’s okay to decorate.
But if your vision
Includes an “inflatables” decision,
Trust a homo–
It’s a no-no.

Getting home late from the dance last night, I slept in this morning. Then this afternoon I taught a couple’s dance routine to a group of teenagers, the group I spoke of yesterday and have been dreading working with for nearly two months now. And yet, after all that worry about them being awkward and me being awkward and us being awkward together, everything went great. We worked for two hours and went from them know pretty much squat to being able to perform the entire minute-and-a-half routine. Throw in a little practice and some nice outfits, and they’ll be golden. And y’all, the experience was actually fun for me, working with “the kids,” seeing them progress. I actually felt–well–proud.

You can speak your truth and stand beside it.

This has been on my mind lately, how something in real life is so often the complete opposite of what I’ve imagined. During the group lesson I missed a call from the insurance agent of the guy who rear-ended me (in the worst way possible) several months ago. So when the kids left, I called them back, and despite all my anxiety over speaking to this person, the conversation went fine. A couple months ago my therapist said, “I bet you’re a better negotiator than you realize. I bet you could actually be tough.” And not that I did any tough negotiating today (I just gave them my email address), I did think, I can say what I want. I can speak my truth and stand beside it. I guess life is funny this way, turning what I thought were monsters into simple shadows on the wall, shadows that quite often turn out to be fun to dance with, shadows that shrink as I step closer to them.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"That love inside that shows up as joy or enthusiasm is your authentic self."

Every Dip and Turn (Blog #399)

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Last night after dinner in Fayetteville I had coffee for the first time in ten days–two cups. It was delicious. When I got home my stomach was a little upset, and then I couldn’t fall asleep until four in the morning. (BZZZ!) But once I did pass out, I was out solid–I didn’t wake up until two this afternoon. Talk about glorious. What’s more, Mom and Dad were gone, so I had the house to myself! I realize this is something a teenager would normally say while simultaneously making plans to have a keg delivered. But I, being the responsible thirty-seven-year-old that I am, simply enjoyed reading a book in peace and quiet.

Other than reading, the biggest thing that happened today was that I went to the grocery store to stock up on Autoimmune Paleo supplies (broccoli!), and a cute guy said hello to me. There I am standing next to the canned fruits with my headphones in, and this total stranger starts talking to me. Well, it’s not like we had a conversation. He said, “How are you?” and I said, “Good, how are you?” I was so startled by the interaction, I didn’t even register his response. The next thing I knew, he was strolling toward the avocados. Thinking he DID look familiar, I almost chased him down to ask his name, but then convinced myself that he was a store employee.

You know, because the only men to ever engage me in random conversation are the ones that are paid to do so.

“Would you prefer paper or plastic, Sir?”

I often think this question sounds a lot like, “May I have your number?” Perhaps this is why I’m in therapy.

But I digress.

Later, after scoping out several shelf-stockers and item-checkers, I decided the guy wasn’t an employee, that we probably knew each other from “somewhere.” I also decided he was straight, since most people are. This is a thought I have a lot, that the whole world is straight and that if I’m ever going to meet someone, it will “just happen” and I won’t have to put myself out there.

We see how well this strategy has worked so far.

I think about this shit a lot, how much to leave up to the universe, how much to be proactive about. Not just with my (non) dating life, but with everything. Today I’ve been “blah,” and I think it’s because I’ve been worried about my body and my future. Stuck at home with nothing better to do and tired of not having the answers I want, I’ve obsessed over every little thing in my life that continues to be–in my opinion–broken. I don’t recommend this behavior to anyone else, but I did it still.

Patience is a worn-out old broad with three chins.

Looking back at my life, every major “thing” has either “just happened” or been so easy that it might as well have. Learning to dance, teaching dance, opening my studio–all of it just fell in my lap. Not that I didn’t have to put work into each of those endeavors–I did–but everything lined up; it wasn’t forced. And every time I’ve pushed to meet some guy or tried too hard? Disasters. Should-have-been-in-therapy-years-ago disasters. So I really am trying to strike a balance, to do what I can and then let go. In all things personal and health and job-related, I really am trying to be patient with the speed of life. But whereas I’ve always pictured patience as a sweet, smiling, long-haired lady in a white dress, I’m coming to see her as a frumpy, worn-out old broad with three chins. You know–sturdy–someone who’s been through the ringer and lived to tell about it. This is the kind of person I want to be (at least on the inside), someone who’s firmly committed to the roller coaster of life, someone who trusts every dip and turn.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Nothing is set in stone here.

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Remembering (Blog #398)

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This afternoon I saw my therapist and told her about my meeting Del Shores on Sunday. I shared this bit of news as if I were a junior high cheerleader at a slumber party, and she responded in kind. (I love it when people rejoice with me appropriately.) Then I told her about receiving good news about my medical bills last week and ended the conversation by groaning, “So maybe the universe isn’t such a bad place to live after all.” My therapist raised her hand as if she were about to offer a benediction. “It has its moments,” she said, then bowed her head slightly. “It has its moments.”

After therapy and a quick trip to the library, I met my friend CJ for an evening in Fayetteville. For dinner, we went to Herman’s, a steak and rib joint that’s been around for decades, but it was our first time there. Y’all, it was pretty great. We both had steak, and they were super big, super juicy. Good stuff. And I was so proud of myself for staying mostly on Autoimmune Paleo. (I ate hash browns, but NO tomatoes, peppers, or bread!) That being said, when CJ suggested dessert, I did think, Oh, fuck it and started fantasizing about the possibilities. But thankfully (I guess), I didn’t have to exercise my willpower or decide to further break my rules for the evening because Herman’s doesn’t have a dessert menu. What they do have, however, is a basket of (free) multi-flavored Tootsie Pops.

Insert my eyes rolling here.

I can’t tell you how unimpressed I was. When the waitress brought the basket to our table, I felt like I was a toddler at a dentist’s office. Granted, it worked out for my diet, but come on–a sucker for dessert? (I politely declined.) I can only assume a straight person came up with this idea. (No offense, straight people, but a gay man would NEVER propose an idea like this.) I asked the waitress, “Do people actually get excited about this basket of suckers you’ve laid before me?” With a completely serious face, she replied, “Some people do.”

A sucker at a steakhouse. I’m still not over it. (Some things are really hard for me to let go of.) However–for both your sake and mine–I’m going to try to move on with my life. (Here I go.)

After dinner CJ and I went to see a play at Theater Squared. Well, we did stop in a local sex store first, but since we did that last year, it wasn’t exactly a novel or notable experience. If you’ve seen one dildo, you’ve seen them all. That being said, if you haven’t seen a seventeen-inch dildo or a rainbow-colored “pride” dildo like I did tonight, then, yeah, maybe you should get out more often. And I guess the glass dildos were notable, what with their different shapes and colors. Some of them were quite pretty–stunning, actually. Had it been winter and had they not been in the penis-shaped vibrator section, I could have easily mistaken them for Christmas tree ornaments.

Just imagine. Presents under the tree AND on the tree.

But back to the play we went to see, The Hound of the Baskervilles, or as my mother misheard when I told her about it a couple days ago, The Hound of the Basketball Pills. It’s a Sherlock Holmes story, of course, but this version has been adapted as a comedy, and y’all, it was hilarious. Three extremely talented actors played twenty (20!) characters in two acts, and I was completely in stitches. They never missed a beat. It was the perfect way to get out of the house and remind myself, once again, that the universe “has its moments.”

But seriously, I highly recommend the show. Go see it. (It’s playing until May 27.)

Then I stand a little taller.

Something I often notice when I go to therapy or see a wonderful show like I saw tonight is that even if I’ve spent the week worrying, fretting, or even bitching about my problems (my often very real and in-my-face problems), all of that falls away. If only for an hour or two, I forget about the past and am strongly reconnected to the present and the idea that life is good. I love these moments when I forget about myself, these moments when my worries simply vanish into thin air. Then I stand a little taller, without all that weight on my shoulders. Then I move about the earth as a star moves about the heavens–confidently. Remembering that I belong here, that this is my home, I continue steadily along my path.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We may never be done, but that doesn't mean we'll never be complete. And surely we are complete right here, right now, and surely there is space enough for the full moon, for you and for me, and all our possibilities.

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A Different, Kinder Tale (Blog #397)

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Today was an easy day. Day ten on Autoimmune Paleo, I’ve fallen into a routine. A boring, bland, void-of-chocolate-cake-and-all-things-worth-living-for routine, but a routine nonetheless, one that looks like cooking, eating, cleaning up, then doing it all over again. All this, of course, when I wasn’t sneezing today. I don’t know who came up with the idea of sneezing. Granted, it’s a fabulous way to expel unwanted particles from a person’s nose, but it’s just so violent and gross. Last night while typing, I sneezed into my shirt to keep from blowing mucus all over the blog (you’re welcome) and ended up shooting snot into my formerly white tee.

Disgusting.

Burdened by allergies, I took a nap this afternoon. Then I woke up, cleaned up, and hurried out the door to teach a dance lesson at a student’s house. This is how I typically live my life, filling up every minute with something, rushing from one thing to the next. But I guess the universe has been trying to slow me down this last year, changing my routine, sprinkling illnesses and allergies here, there, and everywhere, forcing me to put the brakes on. Take a nap. Slow the eff down, Marcus.

And yet I’m slow to get the message. I spend all day thinking about what I “should” be doing, work that “could” be done. Tonight I showed up to my dance lesson thirty minutes early because I didn’t double-check my calendar and thought, Crap, I could have gotten some work done, even slept longer. But it turned out to be the best thing–my student has a dog that LOVES me, and she (the dog) gave me the biggest hug when I got there. Two legs wrapped around my waist, she wouldn’t let go. Then I sat down on the couch, and I had her on one side and another dog (pictured above) on the other, both cuddling up and wanting attention.

I was smitten. I actually relaxed (briefly).

This afternoon I finished reading a book by Chis Van Allsburg called The Chronicles of Harris Burdick. One of the most magical books I’ve read in a long time, it requires a bit of a backstory. Harris Burdick, I guess, was a real person, who showed up one day in the office of a book publisher with fourteen beautiful illustrations, each with a title and a caption, and most of them mysterious. One showed a frightened man in his living room. The man’s holding a chair above his head, looking at a large lump under the carpet. The caption says, “Two weeks passed and it happened again.” (Good, right?) Anyway, Mr. Burdick said if the publisher was interested, he’d return the next day with more illustrations and the stories that went with them. The publisher said that indeed, he was interested, so Mr. Burdick left the illustrations in the man’s office.

But he never–ever–returned.

Fast forward a little, and the publisher and Mr. Van Allsburg (who wrote Jumanji and The Polar Express, by the way) published the illustrations in a work called The Mysteries of Harris Burdick in hopes that the author would come forward. But he didn’t. However, the drawings were so provocative that children and adults have been creating their own stories around the images and captions since they were first made public in 1984. Then in 2011 came the book I finished reading today, in which fourteen best-selling authors (like Kate DiCamillo, Lois Lowry, and Stephen King) each take an illustration and caption and spin a magical tale from them. It’s glorious.

As much as I enjoyed the stories in the book today, I couldn’t help but think that in most (if not all) cases, had I been the author, my stories would have been completely different. I’ve been thinking about this a lot today, the notion that two people can look at the same thing, and their brains can go in totally different directions. And who’s to say that one person’s story is better or “more right” than another’s, especially when it’s impossible to know what The True Author intended? I look at my life and think I need to speed up, that I need to be doing more. My therapist looks at my life and says, “Slow down. Take it easy. One day you’ll be so busy you won’t be able to.” Honestly, I like her story better than mine, so I really am trying–to slow down, take it easy, relax, nap.

Nothing is set in stone here.

We look in the mirror and are convinced that the picture we see is the picture the world sees. And yet this hasn’t been my experience. Time and time again my therapist has mirrored back to me a self that’s kinder, stronger, and more talented than I’ve ever given myself credit for. I assume this is true for most of us. We downplay our strengths, cut ourselves short, and refuse to give ourselves slack even when we’re doing the very best we can (damn it). What’s more, we imagine our endings to be one way for so long that no one can convince us it could be otherwise. But I’m learning that we can rewrite our stories. We can tell ourselves a different, kinder tale, one where we are the hero and everything turns out maybe not perfect, but all right and better than before. And who’s to say it can’t come true? I’m honestly coming to believe this, that we can change our endings if we want to, that nothing is set in stone here.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We are all connected in a great mystery and made of the same strong stuff.

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Create, Adjust, and Maneuver (Blog #395)

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Last night was one of the best night’s I’ve had in a while. Our improv group, The Razorlaughs, performed in Tulsa at a venue called The Rabbit Hole. A few of our regular members were unable to attend, so at first it was just going to be my friend Aaron and me. (I realize that, grammatically, that should be Aaron and I, Mom.) But at the last-minute our friend Victoria jumped in, and y’all, last night was her first improv show ever, but she did great! We had a small audience, a baker’s dozen, but all of them were into the show, and most of them participated. As a performer, this makes all the difference, performing for people who want to be performed to.

In the above photo, we are making a nod to one of our improv games–Stand, Sit, Kneel–where someone always has to be standing, sitting, or kneeling. (Therefore, if one person changes their position, the others have to also.) In the picture below, Aaron and I were playing a game called Pillars with two audience members, who had to “fill in the blanks” or give us suggestions at random times during the game.

One of the highlights of last night’s show was that my friend Kara, whom I went to high school with, came to watch. She even got up on stage. (She also took the above photos.) When we graduated, Kara was the valedictorian of our class, and I was the salutatorian, so I couldn’t help but notice how well she did with The Alphabet Game, where players have a conversation in which the first sentence starts with A, the next with B, and so on. When it came to the letter X and it was Kara’s turn to speak, she said, “Xerxes (pronounced Zerksies) only knows. (Pause.) It starts with an X, I promise.” So this morning I texted Kara, referenced this moment on stage, and said, “#ThingsOnlyValedictoriansSay.”

Last week at therapy I told my therapist that I was doing the Autoimmune Paleo (AIP) diet, which basically means eating nothing enjoyable–wheat, dairy, tomatoes, legumes, eggs, nuts, or alcohol. Later she told me, “Go easy on yourself. It’s okay to modify. If you want to eat some nuts, eat some frickin’ nuts.” So last night after the show I took her advice to heart. Aaron, Victoria, Kara, and I met at Kilkenny’s, a cool Irish pub, and whereas I stuck to AIP for my meal, I decided to have a drink. I told myself, “It’s okay to modify, Marcus. If you want to have some vodka, have some vodka.”

When our group wrapped up for the evening and said our goodbyes, I walked around the corner at Kilkenny’s and ran into my swing dancing friends Gregg and Rita, who had come by for a bite after last night’s celebratory swing dance. (Yesterday was International Dance Day). Y’all, it was the perfect little unexpected reunion. They were with their son and some of his friends, and everyone was so kind. We sat for a couple of hours and just caught up, talking about dance, work, family, earrings–you name it.

It was a wonderful night.

This is what I want for my life.

Now it’s two in the afternoon, and I’m back in Arkansas. When I first woke up this morning, I thought I was going to be sick because my sinuses were running. Maybe it’s just allergies, I thought. Still, I took some probiotics that usually help my sinuses, lay back down for a nap, and have been hitting the water pretty hard since I woke back up. (Water covers a multitude of sins.) I just had breakfast, and I need to get on the road again in an hour and a half, since I’m seeing a show in Little Rock tonight. I don’t have a “deep thought” for the day, but I do wish you could see an improv show–the way the people on stage have NO idea what’s about to happen, but are still able to create, adjust, and maneuver their way into something fun. More and more, this is what I want for my life, to be able to rise to any occasion, to take what life gives me, roll with it, and enjoy.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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If another's perspective, another's story about you is kinder than the one you're telling yourself, surely that's a story worth listening to.

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