Self-Critical Cowboys (Blog #52)

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Five minutes ago, I was down on my knees giving myself carpet burn. And whereas I wish I could tell you that someone was down there with me, that was sadly not the case. Rather, I was on the floor with my phone—the closest thing I have to a relationship—because the charging port is broken. So once or twice a day, I have to lay the phone on its back, futz with the cord so it connects just right, and then put a book on top of the cord to hold it in place. All this I do with one hand while I cross my fingers with the other, recite five Hail Marys, and hope to god that Mercury has moved out of retrograde.

This routine has been going on for the last several weeks, and it’s starting to get old. Honestly, I think it’s time for new phone.

Lately my days and nights have been flip-flopped, and because I got up early this morning to have breakfast with my friend Lorena, I’m currently functioning on about three hours of sleep and two pots of coffee. (I’m pretty sure union requirements state that my brain has to have six hours of sleep to work properly, so it’s a wonder I was able to dress myself this morning and not end up with my underwear on the outside of my pants.)

After Lorena and I had breakfast, I went with her in her Subaru to unload a couch at her office. Lorena’s a therapist who’s opening a clinic in Booneville, where she plans to specialize in pet bereavement, which I didn’t know was a thing, but Lorena says is for people who are grieving the upcoming or recent loss of an animal. Anyway, somehow Lorena managed to squeeze a couch in the back of her Subaru, and in order for me to fit in the passenger seat, I had to enter into a yoga pose.

Lorena called it “balls to the wall,” and I held it for forty minutes.

This evening I drove to Fayetteville to take family photos for a friend. I imagine I’ll say more about it later when I can share some of the photos, but toward the end of the three-hour session, I started to feel stressed. And although I’m sure some of that stress had to do with trying to get two adults, a two-year-old boy, a two-week-old baby, and a dog to smile and look at the camera AT THE SAME FUCKING TIME, I’m also sure most of that stress had to do with the fact that I’m tired, and whenever I’m tired I usually get self-critical and think things are going worse than they actually are.

The Old West was anything but a heyday for homosexuals.

For the longest time, I’ve had this thing with cowboys and the Old West. And no, it’s not a fetish, although I guess that could be fun with the right person. (Bad cowboy, bad.) It’s kind of hard to explain, but it’s this mental game I play with myself in order to make big things seem smaller and easier to deal with. Like, in today’s world, it’s easy to look in the mirror and then pick up your cell phone and compare yourself to the entire world and end up feeling pretty shitty. But if you lived in the Old West, your world would be a lot smaller, you’d have fewer people to compare yourself to, and you’d probably be less self-critical.

Still thinking in terms of the Old West, I’m now imagining my self-critical and “things are going worse than they actually are” thoughts as outlaws or cowboys. And I guess most of the time there’s a town sheriff keeping those guys in check, saying things like, “You’re drunk. Go home. We don’t want your kind around these parts.” But all I can imagine is that my mental sheriff belongs to that union I mentioned earlier and went to bed a long time ago, leaving the outlaws to run amuck and tear up the town.

My friend Barbie says that negative thoughts are like ants. If you let one in your house, it’s going to bring all its friends. Well, I guess that self-critical cowboys are the same way because even as I’m typing this blog, I’m already getting self-critical about it too, thinking it probably sounds as if a drunken cowboy wrote it. And I guess drunken cowboys don’t have ANYTHING POSITIVE to say, since I’m also thinking I’ll probably wake up fifty pounds heavier because I ate at Waffle House tonight, and I’ll probably die alone because let’s face it—the Old West was anything but a heyday for homosexuals.

All that being said—

I think my personal battery has been running low for a while now, and when I get extra tired, I have to remind myself that I’ve been through a lot lately. And by a lot, I mean—Earth. I have to remember that life these last several months has been a lot like the Old West—new and exciting, sure, but also scary and unpredictable. (The Old West ain’t for sissies.) I guess it feels like I’ve been riding my horses hard, and that simply can’t go on forever. No, my horses need a long, cool drink of water. If only for a night, I need to recharge my battery and I need to rest. And then in the morning, my sheriff will be back on duty, the world will look different, and those bad, bad cowboys can be the ones to sleep for a while.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You really do belong here.

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getting body positive (blog #39)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seasons change.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

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two-beer Marcus (blog #24)

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All other things being equal, I like Two-Beer Marcus better than I like Sober Marcus. Two-Beer Marcus is more authentic–more relaxed, more friendly, and more confident. And, at least in his opinion, he’s pretty damn funny. Sober Marcus, on the other hand, is often uptight, shy, and hesitant. I guess this is because he tends to take himself pretty seriously and is often concerned about what other people think, particularly at dance events. But Two-Beer Marcus doesn’t give a fuck. (T.B.M.D.G.A.F.)

Before we go any further–and in the spirit of honesty–One-Beer Marcus is typing now. (He’s not so bad.)

My intention with this post is not to discuss the benefits (and obvious drawbacks) of drinking. Rather, what I’d like to point out is that I think sometimes a couple of beers can let you know what’s lurking just below the surface. To quote my therapist, “Alcohol reveals what sobriety conceals.” (She typically uses this line if I’ve told her about someone who got drunk and hit on me, or someone else who got drunk and acted like a real tool bag, but I think it can be applied positively.) What I like about this theory is that, apparently, just below the surface is a guy I really like, a guy who’s more honest with himself and everyone else, a guy who’s not such a stick-in-the-mud. And whereas there’s part of me that wishes I could just drink a couple of beers every day in order to calm all my social anxieties, there’s an even bigger part of me that knows that could turn into a real problem. I mean, beer has a lot of calories, and I’d eventually have to buy new pants, and that’s something I, my wallet, and my pride are NOT okay with.

Speaking of needing to buy new pants, I just sat down on the floor–and it wasn’t easy. As I sit here, the final dance at Sunflower Swing is in progress. It’s at a place called Care to Dance, and it’s maybe my favorite dance venue so far–mostly because there are mirrors in the room. (I’m pretty famous for looking at myself in the mirror when I dance, so I’m in heaven now.) And whereas I’ve been accused of being vain–and I am–what I like about the mirrors is that they offer me immediate feedback on my dancing, and I almost always come away feeling better than I do without mirrors. If the point hasn’t already been made and belabored this weekend, I’m usually running a low level of “beating myself up” or “feeling insecure.” But when I look in the mirror, I actually like what I see. It’s better than the me that’s in my head.

I think that as a general rule, I blow a lot of smoke up my own ass. Like, I gan five pounds, and I think I’m SO FAT or SO UNATTRACTIVE and I’M SO SORRY you have to even look at me. Or I mess up a dance move or don’t dance like THAT GUY, so I think that the person I’m dancing with is probably bored, really inconvenienced by having to hold my hand for three minutes. Well, just a couple of beers (and two easy payments of $4.99), and that voice in my head gets a lot quieter. Or just a quick look in the mirror and (most the time), I get closer to the truth–I haven’t completely let myself go, and my dancing is more polished than I give myself credit for.

I once had a friend–who’s older than I am–ask me if I thought she was pretty. (There’s only one socially acceptable answer to this awkward question, right?) When I told my therapist about the situation, I think she rolled her eyes. She said, “By this point in my life, I know what I got, and I know what I don’t got.” So when it comes to things like how I look or how I dance, she says the goal is to take an honest, accurate assessment, to not make myself more than I am, but not make myself less than I am either.

Ultimately, I think the closer a person gets to his or her authentic self, the labels of more than or less than seriously start to fall away. When you’re authentic, your authenticity is enough. You don’t need to compare. And that’s what I think the value of Two-Beer Marcus is. (He doesn’t G.A.F., remember?) More specifically, he lets me know that I’m capable of being more relaxed, friendly, and confident. I mean, those qualities have always been there, or they couldn’t come out after a couple of drinks. And honestly, especially since starting therapy three years ago, I’m more of all those things than I used to be, even without the beer. And whereas it may not be perfection (whatever that is), it’s certainly progress.

[P.S. One-beer Marcus may have started this article, but Sober Marcus finished it, and he resents being called a stick-in-the-mud.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Nothing is set in stone here.

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a Mexican soap opera (blog #10)

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Late last night, right before I went to bed, I noticed the lymph nodes in my armpits were swollen. Like, one minute they weren’t swollen, and the next minute they were. (The above photo was taken earlier in the evening, before all my pit problems.) I tried to raise my arms to take my shirt off, and it felt like someone had inserted two lemons up in there, one on each side. So I Googled the problem, decided it was cancer, and went to bed hoping for a miracle. (I don’t recommend using Google when you don’t feel well.)

This may come as a surprise, but the miracle didn’t show. I woke up in the middle of the night with chills. So I put on a shirt, grabbed an extra blanket, and went back to sleep. Then I woke up again with a fever.

When I was a teenager, I started getting sinus infections, although I’m not sure that I understood back then exactly what was going on. I just knew that I would feel terrible, gross, and lethargic. For the last twenty years, on average, I’ve probably gotten a sinus infection once every two to three months, each infection lasting a couple of weeks. Looking back, it feels like I have just as many memories of being sick as I do of being well.

For the longest time, I believed that getting sick was a result of sin because, you know, I’m such a terrible person. So I thought if I could just follow the right rules or say the right prayer, I’d stop getting sick. Well, I guess God’s pretty hard to please, since I could never seem to get better.

At some point, I stopped believing that God worked that way. But as I think about it now, I realize that I still put a lot of pressure on myself because I started believing that I could get better if I just followed the right rules in terms of diet and holistic health (which, by the way, didn’t work any better than following God’s rules).

Even now, whenever I get sick, there’s part of me that feels I’ve done something wrong, like it’s my fault. It’s a lot better than it used to be, but it’s the most frustrating thing, this feeling like I’m doing everything I know to do, and I’m still getting sick on a regular basis.

Several years ago, I dated a guy who looked a lot like Buddy Holly. Honestly, he’s probably the kindest, sweetest person I’ve ever dated. But he was also a lot younger than I was, and my therapist says it’s really hard to date someone whose brain hasn’t fully developed, especially when yours has. Anyway, the night before we broke up, I’m sitting up in bed, and he comes in the room and straddles me like I’m horse. (As it turns out, he didn’t want me to run away.) And then he starts wagging his finger in my face and says, “You told me you loved me, and then I fell in love with you, and NOW you’re telling me you don’t know what you want? WELL YOU BETTER FIGURE IT OUT!”

When I told my therapist this story, she said, “Did he think he was on a Mexican soap opera?” So now that’s what we call him on the rare occasion his name comes up—Mexican Soap Opera. (I’m sure he has names for me too.)

So the next day, when things are seriously over, he starts crying. And he says, “I did everything right.” And I start crying too because he did, and I know what that feels like, to work your ass off in a relationship and have it turn to shit anyway. I know what it’s like to spend all your money and time going to doctors and alternative doctors—pharmacies and health food stores—and still get sick. And all of it sucks. All of it feels like failure, like you’re not good enough.

All of it feels like a Mexican soap opera.

A couple of months ago, finally, I had sinus surgery. I could probably write a blog post about that experience alone, so I’ll spare you the details for now. But as it turns out, it wasn’t God’s fault, and it wasn’t my fault either. I’m sure you’re excited to hear about it, so here’s a picture from the day of the surgery to hold you over.

Getting back to my swollen armpits, I spent this afternoon feeling frustrated about not feeling better, about getting sick—again. My consolation was that I wasn’t sick with a sinus infection. This was a NEW problem, which actually made it feel less like a failure. So early this evening, I went to a walk-in clinic, and the doctor squeezed and poked my armpits like he was shopping for avocadoes.

He said that I had a bacterial infection, probably due to the fact that I had sinus surgery recently and two fillings at the dentist a couple of days ago. He said he couldn’t point to one specific cause, that it was “a soup.” (This reminds me of the time my urologist told me that “dilution is the solution to the pollution,” and I said, “Did they teach you that in medical school?”) Anyway, the doctor today said surgery and dental work are invasive procedures, and it’s easy for the bacteria in your body to get out of hand. One minute things are fine, and the next minute things turn into a Mexican soap opera.

So the doctor prescribed an antibiotic, and he told me I shouldn’t wear deodorant for a while, which I’m sure all my friends will appreciate.

Somewhere I heard the story about a mystic or a monk who performed a wedding for a couple, and during the ceremony, he took a stick or something and started lightly tapping them over their heads. He kept saying, “Pain is not a punishment. Pleasure is not a reward. Pain is not a punishment. Pleasure is not a reward.”

I guess for the longest time, I’ve put all his pressure on myself when it comes to my health (and relationships and money), like, YOU BETTER FIGURE IT OUT. But I think the lesson about pain and pleasure is the perfect reminder on days like today. Just because I feel bad, it doesn’t mean I’ve done something wrong. It doesn’t mean life hates me. Likewise, just because I fell good, it doesn’t mean I’ve done something right. Sickness and health come and go, just like everything else. It’s just the way life is. And even if it’s not, I don’t have to have all the answers. (Obviously, that’s what Google’s for.)

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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it’s time to soften up (blog #1)

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My friend Marla says that she could be a bank robber because no one ever remembers her. Most of the time, she’s quiet. She doesn’t get in anyone’s way. Like, you could probably step on her shoe on purpose, and she’d apologize for not having a smaller foot. By her own admission, she tries to blend in, to not stand out. I guess we all develop strategies for getting by in the world, and at least for now, this one is working for Marla.

Which is too bad.

This morning I woke up at 6:45 to hear Marla speak to a group of local business leaders. She currently writes and edits for a magazine in town that I used to write for, which is how we met. So six years ago she was just my editor. Now she’s also my friend, which is the only reason I got out of bed so friggin’ early.

Getting dressed, I threw on a white t-shirt that I bought as part of a three-pack deal from TJ Maxx. I love a white t-shirt first out of the package, but as they start to shrink, I usually grow to hate them. For this reason, I’ve recently taken to not putting my t-shirts in the dryer. Well, now that I’m living with my parents, of course, my mom has started doing my laundry. Turns out, she uses fabric softener on t-shirts. Well, I guess the scent is extra strong because the shirt wasn’t put in the dryer, so every three minutes, I get huge whiff of the stuff, and it smells like a brand new teddy bear on a glorious spring morning.

It makes me want to vomit.

The event this morning was held at a local bookstore and coffee shop, and the hosts provided a free waffle bar that was so fantastic it’d make even the Holiday Inn Express jealous. So I’m in the waffle line this morning, just holding onto my coffee cup and smelling my t-shirt, hoping that no one will talk to me or stand too close. And just at that moment, the guy next to me calls me by name and strikes up a conversation. All I could think was, “Shit” because I hate it when people know my name and I don’t know theirs, especially when there’s a timer ticking away on a waffle iron two feet away. It’s like the universe hitting you over the head and saying, “You’re stuck here for another two minutes and sixteen seconds.”

And then to make matters worse, I realize whom I’m talking to. It’s a guy who’s hit on me a number of times online. On Grindr. (Grindr is essentially a hookup app, but sometimes after five days of feeling lonely and three hours of drinking margaritas, I’ll think that it’s a good way to stumble across marriage material. I could probably compare this mentality to my dad’s believing that God wants him to win the lottery.) Anyway, this guy in the waffle line has straight up asked me for sex before, something that always offends me, at least when it happens before I find out someone’s name. (Once another guy asked me for sex, and when I asked what he did for a living, he told me that information was too personal. But sex is okay. Go figure.)

I realize that my getting on a hookup app and being offended by a quick offer for sex is a bit like showing up to an orgy and sipping tea and crumpets in a three-piece suite with your pinky raised in the air (like, I’m so much better than this), but we all have our standards.

So back to the waffle line. The timer’s up, it’s my turn to make a waffle, and the guy moves on. And despite everything that was going on in my head, it was a pleasant conversation. It didn’t make me want to go on a date or have sex with him, but it did make me think that some people come off better in person than they do online.

When my waffle finished, I topped it off with hazelnut cream cheese, bananas, and maple syrup, and sat down at a table in the middle of the room to hear Marla speak. (I guess I overdid it on the sugar and coffee because I’m actually shaking as I sit here in the library.) True to form, Marla started slowly, quietly. She read from a prepared speech, and she mostly looked down. She talked about losing a former job, about all the shit things that happened in her life before she ended up working as a full-time writer at the magazine. And I can only assume that I wasn’t alone as I sat there wondering where the talk was going and how she was going to connect with everyone in the room.

But then it happened.

In a still, small voice, Marla, whose exact beautiful words I can’t recall, said something like, “We all have times in our lives when we feel like we’re up against a wall, when we feel like things will never get better.” Right then, I wanted to cry, and I guess it’s because I’m single and I’m living with my parents, and my mom’s doing my laundry, and I smell like a field full of daisies. And to make matters worse, now I’m crying into my Belgium waffle at eight in the morning. (I’ll take “Things that are not a turn-on” for a thousand, Alex.)

My therapist says that life always balances itself. Like if you swing a pendulum really far in one direction, you know it’s going to swing back in the other. She says that I’ve been burning the candle at both ends for so long that this period in my life is the universe’s way of saying, “Whoa, Trigger, slow down.” This period of time is about resting, about getting balance. And as for living with my parents, she says that she lived with her parents for a while when she was getting her Master’s Degree and that it really laid the foundation for the good relationship she has with them today.

So maybe being at home again isn’t a bad thing. Maybe it’s about building better relationships and about finding balance, even if it’s in the little things like Mom doing my laundry because she was so sick with depression when I was growing up that she wasn’t able to back then. At that time, I had to grow up pretty fast. I had to take care of myself, do my own laundry. So now it’s like there’s this chance to turn back the clock. It lets her be a mom, and it lets me be a kid. It lets me experience being taken care of.

When I think about balance, I think about how I’ve spent most my life being really hard on myself and everyone else. Like, totally judgmental. Pinky in the air–I’m better than this. It’s like, maybe a little judgment is useful now and then, but I’ve been way overdoing it, like putting too much hazelnut cream cheese on my self-judgment waffle. And I think that Marla’s words hit me this morning because that kind of thinking and judgment can really make you feel like you’re up against a wall. Things don’t go the way you want–say, you might move in with your parents–and suddenly you feel like you’re all alone, that things will never get better.

I like to think that the universe is always trying to get my attention, that it’s actually interested in what’s going on with me, that it’s wanting to spark a conversation, dropping hints here and there. And if that’s the case, I think the fabric softener on my white t-shirt is a big hint. I think it’s telling me, “Hey, you’ve been really hard on yourself for a long time now. It’s time to soften up…a lot. It’s time to swing the other way.”

Earlier I mentioned that I thought Marla’s quiet persona was too bad. What I meant by that is that I think she’s an amazing writer and an even better friend. I think more people might notice her if she spoke in a louder voice. But what I’m finding is that sometimes it’s the still, small voices that have the most to say. They slip in late. They sit on the back row. But if you listen, they disarm you. They remind you that you’re overdoing it. They tell you that you need to soften up. They say, “You may be up against a wall, but I’m right here with you.”

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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None of us is ever really lost. At least we're never really alone. For always there is someone to help point your ship in the right direction, someone who sees you when you can't see yourself.

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