How to Be Okay with Fewer Pockets (Blog #708)

When I was twenty-five, I went to New York City for the first time. To go on a date, if you must know. Because I didn’t have a carry-on bag, I borrowed a messenger bag, a man bag, a murse (that’s man purse, Mom), from my friend Justin. They were all the rage back then, and Justin, ever-trendy, had half a dozen to choose from. The one I picked out was navy blue with an orange accent stripe. This was perfect because I’d just opened my dance studio and the bag matched my logo and business card colors.

During my time in New York City, I fell in love in more than one way–with my date, with the city itself, and with Justin’s man bag, as silly as that sounds. But seriously, it was fabulous. Not only was it my favorite colors, but it had pockets for everything–business cards, four pens or pencils, you name it. Ugh, I’m a sucker for a good pocket. So when I got back to Arkansas I told Justin I was keeping the bag. Like the good friend that he is, Justin didn’t put up a fuss.

For the better part of a decade, my man bag and I were inseparable, outlasting that three-year relationship that began in New York City or any other I’ve ever had. My bag and I saw the world, went on dozens of trips together–to Denver, Baltimore, Toronto, Mexico, Abu Dhabi, and Thailand.

With time, my man bag began to show signs of wear. (Don’t we all?) But get this shit. Several years ago some of my friends and students, Joe and Loretta, gave me a new one–here comes the weird part–that looked EXACTLY like my old one. No kidding, I guess they found it stashed in a closet somewhere, but it was identical to mine and had never been used. The tags were still on it. I can’t tell you how over the moon I was. Later that night I switched everything from one bag to the other. Y’all, it was so easy; the pockets were all the same, and I already knew where everything went.

That’s one of the things I love about my man bag–I know where everything goes. Sometimes after a difficult day when nothing else in the world makes sense, I can organize my bag, and it’s like maybe I can’t control anything that matters in my life, but I can control this. I can control where I put my business cards and pens. I wonder how many times I’ve done this, pulled items out or shoved items into my bag–Tylenol, lip balm, audio cables for dance gigs. I’m sure it’s in the thousands. It’s weird. I’ve never thought of myself as being attached to that bag, since technically it’s been attached to me. But since it’s literally been a container for my life–it’s held my money, my lunches, and almost every book I’ve read in the last decade–I guess we’ve been attached to each other. I’ve carried it, and it’s carried my stuff. My friend Bonnie recently said it smells like me.

Also, I’m not sure that was a compliment.

Earlier this week Bonnie gave me a new man bag. Not because my old one smelled like me, but because she’d gotten me one for my birthday last September but the box had gotten lost in the shuffle of their packing. (She and her husband are getting ready to move.) Oh my gosh, y’all, the new man bag is so sexy. There’s leather and everything; my old one was just nylon and rubber. I really was/really am excited to have it. Still, when I switched all my stuff from one bag to the other yesterday, I didn’t know where everything went. The new bag, although technically larger than the old one, I think, doesn’t have nearly as many pockets. I thought, Where are my business cards and pens going to go? And what about my audio cables?

When that relationship that started in New York City fell apart, it was Memorial Day weekend, and I was in Tulsa with Justin. A friend called to tell me they’d heard my boyfriend had cheated. For hours I couldn’t reach him. During that time, Justin drove me home. Finally, I got my boyfriend on the phone. For two hours I paced the neighborhood, and we hashed it out. The entire time, Justin walked nearby, never saying a word. When the conversation was over, I was single again. I remember feeling like someone had punched me in the gut. I collapsed. Not knowing what else to do, I took a shower. Then I gathered everything my ex had ever given me, put it in a box, and shoved it in a drawer. It took years, but I eventually threw it all away.

Healing from that breakup took years too. I saw my ex a number of times after that and remember wanting everything to go back to the way things were before. Since we’d dated long-distance, we’d spent thousands of hours on the phone, and his voice was so comforting. He was a fabulous listener. Part of me always knew we wouldn’t last, and yet he was like that messenger bag I’ve slung over my shoulder for thirteen years–familiar, something I wanted to hold on to. But, of course, we don’t get to hold on to anything here. At some point, everything changes and you have to let go. For years you keep your glasses in a certain pocket, and then overnight there’s not a pocket for your glasses anymore. You think, What’s going to hold my glasses? When you’re suddenly single, you think, Who’s going to hold me? In time, you figure it out, how to take your old life that used to fit into that space and make it fit into this space, how to be okay with fewer pockets, how to carry and hold yourself instead of asking a bag or a boy to do that for you.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

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On Our Messy World (Blog #597)

Currently it’s 3:30 in the afternoon, and I’m sitting in the Verizon Ballroom on the University of Arkansas campus in Fayetteville. My friend Matt is teaching a private dance lesson with a couple several feet away, but otherwise the room is empty. I’m not sure I’m supposed to be in here, but no one’s asked me to leave. Earlier there was a group class for intermediate dancers, but I didn’t get around in time for it. Whatever, I needed to sleep. Moving on. After the lesson, Matt and I are supposed to eat with some friends, then there’s a beginner lesson tonight and a dance with a live band. That’s the part I’m really excited about.

The dance.

Last night, despite being tired, tired, tired, I stayed up til one watching the FX series Pose, which is about transvestites, homosexuals, drug dealers, prostitutes, AIDS, and the “ballroom” world of New York City in the late 1980s. (Not ballroom dancing. “Balls” were a place where the outcasts of society could compete, strut, and “pose” for acceptance, recognition, and prizes.) Anyway, the series is fabulous. My therapist told me about it. When she first brought it up, I said, “Okay, I’ll watch it. You haven’t steered me wrong yet.”

In last night’s episode, several of the main characters got tested for HIV/AIDS after one of them had a scare. They had to wait two weeks for their results. Ugh. This kind of anxiety is awful. I’ve experienced it, waiting in the health clinic for your name to be called. It’s so cold and clinical there. Not encouraging at all. Thankfully, I’ve personally always been fine, but once I was convinced I was about to hear the worst news possible, since I could have sworn I saw the word “positive” on the inside of my folder. But then the nurse said, “You’re negative.” It was that quick and easy. Like, bye now, have a good day.

I really didn’t mean to start talking about getting tested for STDs. But having been tested for a number of diseases and physical problems this last year and currently feeling tired, worn out, and simply “off,” I know that the mind–at least my mind–has a STRONG tendency to fantasize, awfulize, and imagine the worst possible outcome. My dick is going to fall off. I’ll never have any energy again. I’m going to die cold, broke, and alone. And I just know what a relief it is to realize that you’ve been blowing a lot of smoke up your own ass. Even in the face of bad news–your cholesterol is high, you have hemorrhoids, whatever–it’s never as bad in reality as it is in your head.

After the Pose episode, I watched an episode of The Power of Myth with Joseph Campbell and Bill Moyers. It’s a series of interviews Moyers did with Campbell during the last two years of his life. During last night’s interview, Campbell says that the best thing you can give the world is an example of how to live in it. Because, as Campbell says, the world is a mess, and it’s always been a mess. Not that you can’t work to change it, but that it’s always going to be filled with both wonders and horrors, moments of absolute relief and elation and moments of unspeakable tragedy. So that’s what I’m working on, not rejecting an experience simply because it’s uncomfortable or painful, being open to whatever comes along.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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The clearer you see what's going on inside of you, the clearer you see what's going on outside of you. It's that simple.

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A Salchow Before Breakfast (Blog #320)

The flu is disgusting. Coughing, sneezing, mucus everywhere. I don’t remember the last time I felt this gross. Well, yes I do. It was the last time I had the flu–a little over a year ago in New York City–on Christmas Day. Talk about miserable. And having to travel home when you’re sick–that’s the worst. The plane starts to descend, and your head feels like it’s going to pop. So at least now I’m not on a plane. That’s good. And last night my body didn’t do the hot/cold thing, which means I slept better. Still, everything hurts and I feel like my power cord’s been yanked from the wall.

As Grandma used to say, “I am not a well woman.”

I’ve been thinking that maybe a shower would help. I don’t remember the last time I took a shower. Or shaved. Still, showering and shaving sound awfully challenging at the moment. Of course, it doesn’t help that the Winter Olympics are on right now. Like, Adam Rippon can land a triple-axle-salchow-double-loop before breakfast, and this homo can barely pick up his toothbrush. This is why you should never compare yourself to others.

Yesterday all my friends on Facebook told me about their terrible experiences with Tamiflu. Despite these warnings, I started taking it. I spoke to my internist about it, and she said she thought it would help. It’s two pills a day for five days, and I’m currently three pills in. Thankfully, my insurance paid for all of it. So far I’m not nauseated, bleeding from my nose, hallucinating, or having nightmares. I don’t feel like killing myself or anyone else. But this could all change, of course, so watch out. But seriously, as I sit here now, my appetite is returning, so maybe the pills are doing some good. Tamiflu is supposed to be most effective when taken during the first two days of having the flu, and I started it pretty much within that window.

As always, I’ll let you know how it goes.

This is about all I have in me today, just under 400 words. I’ve been staring at the screen for the last thirty minutes trying to come up with a “life lesson,” but I got nothing. Some days I think it’s enough to simply be gross, to be sick, to not do a salchow before breakfast.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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There’s a power that comes when you meet life’s challenges head-on. Those are the times you breathe the deepest. Those are the times the waters come forth and your heart beats every bit as loud as the thunder claps. Those are the times you know more than ever—no matter what happens next—in this moment, you’re alive.

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Letting Go of the Last Three Pounds (Blog #251)

Well here we are again, writing during the day. Last night I took my therapist-assigned nap, then I couldn’t fall asleep until four in the morning. More than the napping, I think the reason I couldn’t sleep is because my body hasn’t gotten the memo that we’re doing things differently now, that there’s a new sheriff in town. This morning I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, partly because I’m tired, partly because I noticed last night that the body odor that I worked so hard to get rid of has returned. I’m assuming this is because of the medications I was on recently for my sinus infection, but I’m not a biologist. Either way, part of me thinks that I got this figured out once before and can do it again, and another part of me thinks, Oh, for fuck’s sake, I quit.

I woke up this morning to the sound of the phone ring-ring-ringing and the microwave beep-beep-beeping. As if that weren’t annoying enough, my parents’ phone actually announces, rather loudly, the number that’s calling. You have a call from 479-867-5309. Maybe it would be better if the announcer had an Australian accent. Better yet, I’d be more than happy to wake up to the sound of Morgan Freeman’s voice. He could read the phone book to me any day. As it is, today I woke up to the voice of a robot. (Not sexy.) Anyway, now the sun is shining, I’m drinking coffee, and Dad and I are talking about the hot gay guys on Days of Our Lives. (They’re weaving a tangled web.) Additionally, as I’m writing, the soundtrack to the musical Kinky Boots is playing in my ears. So I’m slowly–slowly–working my way out of my bad mood.

Life, it would appear, doesn’t completely suck.

Last week my therapist suggested I watch the television series The Deuce, starring the oh-so-handsome and sexually flexible James Franco, so last night I watched the first two episodes. To be clear, I don’t think my therapist recommended the show for mental health reasons, but rather for entertainment, relaxation, and visual stimulation (James Franco). For all these reasons, I thank her. Y’all, I was completely engrossed. The show is set in New York City in the seventies, and James plays a bartender who works with the mob and serves up a number of colorful hookers. Also, he plays his twin brother, a former baseball star who’s up to his neck in gambling debts. I can’t tell you how delightful this is. Honestly, it reminds me a lot of Hayley Mills in the The Parent Trap or Patty Duke in The Patty Duke Show. You know, except with pimps and prostitutes.

Recently I’ve been toying with the idea of lowing my standards of perfection. For example, for the last twenty years I’ve had it in my head that my ideal weight is 175. Never mind the fact that the only time I weigh that much is after a week-long stomach flu. Honestly, 180 is a better goal. Well, in the last month I’ve gone from 190 to a consistent 183. Since this isn’t my first diet and exercise rodeo, I know I could spend the next three months working on those three pounds, like really putting myself through hell. But as things stand, I’m thirty-seven years old, my stomach is flat, and I wear the same sized jeans I did when I was in high school, so why am I making such a big damn deal about this and everything like it?

You can quit trying so hard and still get there.

Clearly I spend a lot of time working on “just a little bit more,” reaching for that thing that’s slightly out of reach. I’m not saying that I couldn’t lose another three pounds (I could), or that I can’t continue to write a thousand words a day (I can). But what would my life be like if I didn’t try so hard, if I recognized that I’ve already come a long way and that things are pretty great at 183 pounds and six-hundred words a day, give or take? Just the thought of that, of taking my foot off the throttle, is a relief. Phew, I can quit trying so hard and still get there, still be happy. I’m not saying I’m going to completely let myself go and start eating cheesecake for breakfast, but I am going to stop pushing so much and try to let life work itself out. It seems it always does, after all. Given enough time, answers come, healings happen, and even bad moods go away.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Our struggles unearth our strengths.

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