Pants and Other Things That Change (Blog #161)

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Okay, this is kind of a big deal. I’m starting a blog before midnight. The reason for this small miracle is because I’m tired. I’d like to get this done and go to bed. As it turns out, when you sleep on a farm like I did last night, you have to wake up early–at least if the farm next door has a bulldozer that beeps every time it backs up. Oh well, shit happens, and thank God for coffee.

I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but I think I could actually be a morning person. I mean, I don’t think I’ll ever be “one of those” morning people–you know the type–bouncing off the walls, annoying. But I could definitely function and be pleasant. This morning I sat on CJ’s porch, caffeinated, and watched the butterflies flap their wings and a spider make its nest. I also heard a wasp fly by my ear, but since I was half-naked, I screamed like a girl and didn’t stay outside for any more “morning wonders.” So I went in, took a shower, and almost slipped and fell on the slick floor. And before I could stop myself–just like an old person–I thought, God, a rubber mat would be nice.

This afternoon I made a pit-stop in Fayetteville for lunch (and more coffee) with my friend Ray. Then I went shopping for a new pair of jeans, since last week I split the seat out of mine. Plus, it’s my birthday next week, so I’d like new pants. That is, I’m assuming I won’t be spending the whole day naked. (Sigh.) Anyway, maybe I really am getting old and cranky, but when I was younger, buying jeans was easier. Now every item I pick up is basically a pair of yoga pants–skinny calves, stretchy all over–not flattering for people who eat pancakes for lunch. Still, I always try on these “rubber bottoms,” hoping. But they never work. My ankles are small, my butt is big–nothing fits. Talk about frustrating. The only positive thing to shopping today was all the calories I burned trying to get into and out of all that elastic denim.

It wasn’t pretty. Plus, still no birthday britches.

Tonight in improv class we played a game called Change. Or maybe it was called Try Again. Obviously, I wasn’t paying a lot of attention. But the idea is that two people start a scene, like maybe a couple is out to eat at Long John Silver’s. Then at some point in the dialogue, someone off stage (the director) says, “Change,” and the actors have to keep changing their dialogue until they get a green light.

“I sure would like the shrimp, honey.” (Change.)

“I sure would like the catfish, dear.” (Change.)

“Do these hush puppies make my butt look big?”

One of the benefits of the game is that it teaches you to think on your feet, to quickly let go of whatever you had in mind for the scene and go in a different direction. Of course, it’s hard as hell, but that’s the fun of it. No one has any idea what’s going to happen next. (Kind of like life.)

Back at the house tonight, Mom was already in bed, so Dad and I went to Waffle House for dinner. We both got the same thing, so it was almost like eating at home, except we didn’t have to do the dishes. I had two more cups of coffee, so even though I’m currently exhausted, my arms are shaking. Anyway, I made Dad take four selfies with me, and he was a good sport about it. But when we got home–maybe as payback–I had to give him his insulin shot. Granted, until tonight, I’d never given anyone a shot ever, but I thought, It can’t be that hard. Hell, I can put a nail in sheet rock like nobody’s business.

Of course, sheet rock doesn’t bleed.

Luckily, Dad didn’t either. I just counted to three, stuck the needle in as if I were picking up a piece of cheddar cheese with a toothpick, and slowly injected the insulin. Then I counted to ten, took out the needle, and rubbed the spot with alcohol. Dad said, “You don’t have to take the skin off.”

“Oh.”

Tonight I’ve been thinking that it would be nice to have a “change” or “try again” option for life. Like, there are a few (dozen–hundred–dozen hundred) things I’d like to do differently. Of course, we can’t go back. That being said, things are changing constantly, and I guess we really can begin again at any moment. We can always wake up one day and say, “This isn’t working for me anymore.” Really, I think life is constantly reminding us of this. I met a spiritual teacher once who said we get hung up because of how we identify. For example, I could think, “I’m a dance instructor,” and cause myself a lot of problems if I don’t have any students. He said the truth is always simpler. Like, in this moment, I’m a sitter because I’m sitting. If I wanted to go a step further, I could say that I’m a writer, but as soon as I close my laptop, I’m not a writer anymore.

The truth is right in front of you.

This makes a lot of sense to me, but I often forget to remind myself that each day–each hour–I play many different roles. First I’m a coffee drinker (change), then maybe a yoga student (change), then a friend at lunch (change). Before the day is over, I’m a shot-giver! The mystics say this isn’t a problem unless you get stuck identifying with your past, which–by the way–only exists in your head. So one minute you’re healthy, then you’re sick, then your healthy again. Or one day you have a job, and then you don’t, and then (surely) you do again. And maybe it really is all a game. The mystics say that too, that life’s just exploring itself. One minute it’s here, the next minute it’s there. They say the joke is that the truth (reality) is right in front of you, it’s just always changing, sort of like a pair of pants.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Give yourself an abundance of grace.

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some boundaries, please (blog #27)

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My therapist says that when I first showed up in her office, I was a “fucking mess.” (How’s that for honesty?) I remember coming home after that first appointment and my ex asking me what she said, to which I replied, “She said we have zero boundaries.” We both agreed that was true, but looking back, I’m sure neither one of us knew what a boundary even was. Well, my next therapy appointment was two weeks later, in the morning. That afternoon, I moved out of my ex’s house. I’d finally had enough of the lying, cheating, manipulating, and fighting. I’d finally gotten a boundary.

(The above photo was taken about the time I started therapy, after I broke up with my ex and dyed my hair blonde. It’s included so that you’ll know what a “fucking mess” looks like.)

For the last three years, my therapist and I have continued to talk about boundaries—what they are, why they’re important, how to get some (it’s not as simple as you’d think). The subject comes up so often, it could easily turn into a drinking game. Like, if you sat on the other end of the couch and took a shot for every time one of us used the word “boundaries” during a one-hour session, you’d probably have to crawl out the door and call an Uber to get home.

If you don’t know me, I have this problem with having an “all or nothing” mentality. It’s like I either eat super healthy every meal of every day—no bread, no corn, no sugar, no alcohol (and also no fun)—or I eat cake for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Well, I don’t recommend living in this manner, and I’m working on it. But that way of thinking is always playing in the background. Like, in therapy I tend to think of myself as having “zero boundaries” or “perfect boundaries,” even though my therapist points out that all of us are somewhere in between. Boundaries are something we’re always working on—good boundaries here, not-so-good boundaries over there.

In my experience, my not-so-good boundaries are usually a result of my desire to please other people. Like, I’ll do whatever you ask—you don’t even have to pay me—if you just like me. And please don’t yell. Or write my name on the board. And whereas there have been plenty of experiences over the years that I knew were wrong or inappropriate or just not okay with me, I ignored a lot of those things in favor or making someone else happy or, at the very least, not rocking the boat.

This morning my Dad and I went to Waffle House. There were two middle-aged guys next to us, and they started talking to the waitress. Well, I guess it was her birthday, since she said something about being twenty-one. Then one of the guys said, “Has anyone given you your spankings? Come over here and I’ll give you your spankings.” Personally, I was disgusted because the guy clearly didn’t have boundaries. And I can only assume the girl didn’t say anything (like, “Watch it, asshole) because she didn’t have any either, or, more likely, she wanted to keep her job.

Several years ago, I had a student who would touch or pat me inappropriately. For the longest time, I ignored it. I told myself it wasn’t a big deal and that I needed the money more than I needed to draw a line in the sand. Well, I finally had enough, so one day I said, “Keep your hands off my ass.” When that didn’t fix the problem, I told her she wasn’t welcome anymore. Sure, I felt a hit in my wallet, but I haven’t regretted it once. Apparently, self-respect feels better than money. (Who knew?)

After some time had passed, I ran into that same student in a parking lot, and she wanted to come over and give me a hug. Well, I didn’t want to, so I put myself behind the door of my car and said, “I’d rather not.” So she stood several feet away, and I stood behind my door, and we talked, and it was a decent conversation.

When I told my therapist about the incident, she said, “How did it feel when you stood behind your door and told her no?” And I said, “It felt great, like a rush, empowering.” And I thought my therapist was going to jump out of her chair. I actually think her arms flew up in the air, like her favorite roller derby team had just scored a point. She said, “THAT’S what a healthy boundary feels like!”

This last weekend, I had a similar experience, although on a smaller scale. I was at a dance, and a grown woman (who was very pleasant), came over and told me that her friend wanted to dance with me but was too shy to ask. Well, I understand being intimidated by other dancers. It can be REALLY hard to ask someone else to dance. That being said, I don’t recommend getting one of your friends to ask for you because, well, we’re not in junior high anymore. Maybe in the past I would have asked the lady’s friend to dance, but this time I decided to be a boundary setter instead of a people pleaser. So I said, “She’s welcome to ask me. I promise I’ll say, ‘Yes.’” Unfortunately, the lady’s friend never came over.

It’s never a minor thing to take better care of yourself.

This evening, I taught a dance lesson to a couple who’s only been once before. They messaged an hour before the lesson and asked if I could meet half an hour earlier. Well, I hadn’t cleaned up yet, but I figured I could make it fifteen minutes early, so that’s what I said. As I was getting ready, the people pleaser in me wanted to rush around and get there faster. But I forced myself to slow down—to shave, to clip my fingernails, to actually get ready and to stick to my boundary. And we were all earlier than originally planned, and no one was upset, and everything was fine.

As I think about these two incidents, there’s part of me that considers them pretty minor. But they were good practice in setting boundaries, and it felt good to have them. What’s more, I didn’t walk away from either situation feeling like I’d compromised a part of myself in order to make someone else happy, and that means I didn’t walk away with any resentments. I know that in the past, I’ve often been resentful—or angry or bitter—when someone else was doing something I didn’t like. And while it’s easy to blame the other person when something like that happens, the truth is that I was the one who was putting up with it.

My therapist says that boundaries are the Holy Grail in therapy—they’re that important to good relationships and mental health. So with that reminder, I guess it’s never a minor thing to work on boundaries. It’s never a minor thing to teach people how to treat you. It’s never a minor thing to take better care of yourself.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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It’s never too late to be your own friend.

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