Coupons on the Table (Blog #184)

Okay, kids, it’s one in the afternoon, I’ve been up for an hour, and the sun has been shining the entire time. I just ate breakfast, which I made myself like an adult, and I’m ready to go back to bed. Honestly, I don’t like alarm clocks. This morning I woke up in the middle of a dream about eating food from a fast food restaurant where one of the sodas had two strips of bacon in it. I can only assume the dream had something to do with my guilt around food, and it’s no fun to wake up feeling that way then immediately march into the kitchen and start shoving calories into your mouth.

Tonight I’m going to Rogers to see one of my friends perform the lead role in The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I can’t wait. I’m going with a friend I haven’t seen in a long time, we’re having dinner, and I’m literally already writing the rave reviews for whole evening. Of course, the truth could look totally different, but I do think it will be a great time. That being said, I don’t want to drive all the way home after the show, then start writing. I’ve done that before, and it’s a bit like popping a balloon. I love writing, of course, but some nights this commitment is like drawing the short end of the “you get to go to bed now” stick.

Currently I’m sitting at our kitchen table next to Dad’s deluxe pill caddy, a tube of all-natural anti-fungal wash, and a stack of coupons. I’m hoping this isn’t a preview of things to come, but considering it’s also what my grandparents’ table looked like, I may be–as they say in Savannah–shit out of luck, my dear. Dad’s watching television and occasionally he starts talking to me, since he doesn’t realize I have my headphones in. When I told him I was writing early today because of the show tonight, he said, “Can you write in the afternoon?” Well, that’s a valid point, but I said, “I think so. I’ve done it once or twice before.”

The problem, of course, is that nothing remarkable has happened. The last two mornings I cut into my breakfast grapefruit and discovered they were both rotten–rotten to the core (haha). Well, this morning I had one grapefruit left, and–ever the optimist–I figured it would be rotten too. But it wasn’t. Although it was a little dirty on the outside, it was like a virgin on the inside–fresh as the noonday sun. And maybe it’s just because I’m quickly approaching forty, but this was really exciting. A non-rotten grapefruit!

God, I need to get laid more.

Now I’m worrying about the mail. Last week I ordered a couple items from Amazon, and yesterday I got a notification that the package had been left in my mailbox. Well, it must be invisible because it’s not there. But it SAYS it’s there. But it’s not. Maybe it went to the wrong address, or maybe it’ll show up today, but I’m trying really hard to let it go and put it in the pile of things I can’t do a damn thing about, right next to “most of the situations in my life.” Still, I keep wanting to jump up from this laptop, run to the mailbox, and–I don’t know–hold up a postal service protest sign that says, “Liars,” or something creative like that. My armpits are sweating just thinking about it.

As you can see, the letting go thing is a real success.

Rejecting yourself is what really hurts.

Last night I dreamed I was in bed with my therapist. I mean, we weren’t having sex or anything, just physically in bed together–like a slumber party from an 80s movie. Well, this sort of thing has happened before, and my therapist (in real life) says the dream really isn’t about her–it’s about all the qualities that I associate with her that actually belong to me. So I’m taking last night’s dream as a sign that I’m getting really, really comfortable with being authentic and speaking my truth. That being said, my therapist’s hair in the dream was–quite frankly–a fucking mess. Since I’m vain about my hair, that probably means I’m still judging myself or worried about what other people will think.

I’ll ask about the dream this week, but that sounds about right.

Okay, for the last thirty minutes I’ve been getting out of my chair, looking out the window for the mailman, and basically behaving like Gladys Kravitz. Anyway, the mailman just showed up, so I marched my happy little ass over to the community mailbox and asked about my package (from Amazon–don’t be dirty). For a moment I thought I was going to be up shit creek again, but the mailman ended up finding the package in the “parcel locker.” He said, yes, it was delivered yesterday, but SOMEBODY forgot to leave a locker key in my box.

Sweet, another mystery solved. Good job, Nancy Drew. Honestly, there would have been a time when I was too afraid to bother the mailman. I would have thought, I’ll just wait until next week, or, He’s too busy. Everyone says, “It can’t hurt to ask,” but it honestly can, at least on the inside. Having asked a ton of people to dance over the years, it can still be challenging. What if they say no or tell me to go fly a kite? Well, obviously, you move on or go fly a kite. Rejection hurts, but somehow we survive. Looking back, I’m probably more disappointed in the dances I didn’t even ask for than the rejections I’ve received from others because rejecting yourself is what really hurts. Package in the mailbox or not, I’m proud of any moment I practiced a bit of courage and therefore took care of myself in some way.

We imagine things should be different than they are, but life persists as it is.

Now I’m almost done blogging and ready to start preparing for tonight’s festivities. I kind of hate to admit it, but it feels really good to finish writing with the day ahead of me instead of behind me. In conclusion, I’ve been thinking this week that I make a lot of plans in my head. All week I’ve been imaging dinner tonight and going to the show. You know how you think about talking to people and fill in both parts of the conversation. But, of course, it never happens that way. Every day is full of surprises–weird dreams, rotten grapefruits, and packages that are just out of reach. All the while, we imagine things should be different than they are, but life persists the way it is, looking like undelivered mail, feelings of hope alongside rejection, and coupons on the table.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We are surrounded by the light.

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Traveling in Time (Blog #183)

For the last two and a half hours I’ve been sitting on Bonnie and Todd’s porch. I can’t think that I’ve really done anything “productive.” It’s been great. Maybe one day I’ll have a porch just for this reason. Porches make you sit down, relax, and enjoy your friends. If you live in the hood, they also make you enjoy the announcer at the local high school football game, the neighbors fighting, and all the cars driving by with speakers blaring rap and mariachi music. But I think Bonnie went to get beer, so all of that is about to not matter so much.

About an hour ago the mosquitoes found me. I guess they’re not a big deal in the afternoon or late at night, but flare up during the interim. They’re like zits between the years of ten and thirty-seven, apparently. Anyway, rather than spray myself with Deep Woods Off, I turned on an oscillating fan that Bonnie and Todd keep handy. Well, the mosquitoes aren’t biting me, but the fan has blown all the moisture out of my eyes. I currently have tears running down my cheeks, and my eyeballs are as dry as the Sahara. I feel like a headache is about to invite itself over for dinner.

Rude, I know.

The state fair is in town, and it feels like I should be somewhere eating a fried turkey leg or ridding the Zipper and testing the constitution of my stomach. Each year I ride those things it seems it gets harder and harder to keep my lunch down. I’m sure it has something to do with my inner ear, but I don’t like it. I also don’t like the fact that I was recently in a public restroom with two safety bars on the wall and thought, That sure is nice, as I grabbed one and stood up from the toilet. I guess we all need help from time to time.

Before long my friends Matt and Jason should be here. Even as I type, they’re driving down from Missouri for dance lessons. Afterwards, they’re taking me out for my birthday. Bonnie will go too. I’m hoping to write as much as I can now so I can celebrate and not be distracted later. Uh–speaking of distractions–Bonnie just arrived with beer and pizza. In light of this information, I’m going to take a break now. But don’t worry, you don’t have to. Just skip down to the next paragraph, and even though there will be fifteen or thirty minutes between the end of this sentence and the beginning of the next one, you won’t notice.

Don’t you feel like a time traveler?

Okay, phew, I’m back. It’s actually been several hours. After pizza and beer, Matt and Jason showed up, and we all danced. When I told Jason that he’d improved since the last time I saw him, he said, “Really?” Yes, really. Jason said, “I’m usually pretty hard on myself.” I said, “Join the club.” I guess most of us expect too much of ourselves. I know I do. As one friend says, “Sign me up for the advanced course.” But they say it takes 10,000 for the brain to really master something. That breaks down to three hours a day for a little more than nine years. If that’s true, you really can’t rush success. You simply have to put in the time, recognize where you’ve made progress, and keep showing up.

After dancing we–Matt, Jason, Bonnie, and I–went to dinner. Somehow we started talking about my new jeans, and Matt said he heard that if you don’t want to wash your jeans because they’ll shrink or whatever, you can put them in the freezer. He said the cold air kills all the bacteria, so they won’t smell. This won’t work for stains, of course, but for everyday wear and tear, the denim deep freeze is a way to go. I said, “Yeah, but I don’t want to step into an ice-cold pair of pants. That’s just going to make my balls shrink.”

But Matt said, no, this is a real thing. You let the pants warm up before you put them on–of course.

Of course.

Recently Bonnie and Todd had a water leak in their basement. It happened while they were out-of-town and the water went everywhere, so now they’re having to have their kitchen floor redone. They’re in the middle of it right now, and everything is a mess. Still, they let me come over and dance. In my book, this makes them saints. Anyway, after dinner, we all went back to Bonnie’s house, and she showed us a ventriloquist’s dummy she salvaged from her basement–you know–because everyone has a ventriloquist’s dummy in their basement. As it turns out, the dummy’s name is Ezra, and he belonged to Todd’s mother. (I think that’s right.) I guess back in the sixties or seventies she signed up for a correspondence course, and her notebook was still in the case. How cool is that?

Unfortunately, the contraption that allows Ezra’s mouth to move was broken. I wish this were the case with a few people I know. Sometimes, I wish it were the case with me.

Tonight at dinner we discussed our experiences with a certain dance teacher. Hands down, they’re a fabulous dancer, but they’re often harsh, aggressive, and impatient with students. My therapist says you never treat anyone better than you treat yourself, so this person has my compassion. Anyway, the conversation made me realize that I’m often harsh, aggressive, and impatient with myself. I want to grow, to be better–whatever the hell that means–now! And whereas I do think I should work toward my goals and put in the 10,000 hours, I’m also reminded tonight that it’s important to be gentle with any process that involves people–and that includes me.

It’s hard to say where a kindness begins or ends.

I guess at the end of the day, we’re all wearing out and wearing down. Our bodies are no better than a pair of jeans or an old ventriloquist’s dummy. Maybe you could throw yourself in a freezer and make yourself last a little longer, but you’re gonna need those toilet safety bars sooner or later. Basements flood, shit happens, and one day you, your 10,000 hours, and everything they produced will all be over. Perhaps the exception to this is the love we extend to others, the space and pizza we share on our porches, the holding of hands while we dance, and the encouragements we offer. Maybe these thing go on and on, traveling in time both backwards and forward, since it’s hard to say where a kindness begins or ends.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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It's enough to sit in, and sometimes drag ass through, the mystery.

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Insides and Outsides (Blog #182)

It’s two in the morning, and I just got back from an almost three-hour walk. A friend of mine recently said this sort of thing was dangerous, but I’ve yet to have a problem. Most the town is well-lit, there aren’t any cars out, and so far the animals have left me alone. Plus, it’s Van Buren. That being said, I did have a shirtless guy follow me for about two blocks tonight, so I kept glancing back over my shoulder–not because he was shirtless, but because it’s odd for me to see others when I’m out (and maybe I’m paranoid). Well, the guy must have read my mind because he said, “I’m not following you–I’m just going the same direction you are.” I said, “No problem–have a good night,” but thought, Oh, thank god, he doesn’t want to kill me.

I mean, who wants to die in stretch pants?

This afternoon I read part of one book, finished another (the creativity workbook I’ve been reading for three months), and started another. Then while I was walking, I listened to a lecture, an interview, and the first several chapters of a book on tape. I loved all of it, but my brain is currently mush, so don’t ask me to tell you what any of it was about. I don’t think I could even tell you what my name is at this point. Also, after walking so long, I have a kink in my back and my feet smell like a jock strap. I really wish burning calories didn’t have so many side effects.

Now the house is mostly silent. Mom’s got chemotherapy tomorrow, so she’s sleeping, or at least trying to. Normally she’d be up and the television would be on. I usually think of it all as a distraction from writing, but now that things are so quiet, all I want to do is sleep. Oh, yuck, there’s a big bug, maybe a beetle or a cockroach, crawling across the living room floor. Okay, it’s gone now. (Out of sight, out of mind.) Anyway, maybe I can find a point here somewhere, wrap this up, brush my teeth, and go to bed.

Maybe.

For lunch today–okay, fine, it was breakfast at noon–I met a friend at Friday’s. When I got home, my Dad said, “You ate at Friday’s on a THURSDAY?” I said, “Dad–duh–it’s ALWAYS Friday at Friday’s.” Besides brunch (we’ll just call it brunch), I really can’t convey just how underwhelming the day was. I went to Kinko’s and the post office, and–if it’s not already obvious–I didn’t get laid at either location. Later, in the middle of book number one, I took a nap. Of course, if you’re older than thirty-five, you know–this was actually the most exciting part of my day. Well, that and the meatball sub I had for dinner.

And did I mention I live with my parents?

In other news, my car, Tom Collins, is no longer a Christian. If it’s even possible, he’s lost his salvation. More accurately, I took it from him. I’ll explain. When I got Tom Collins a couple months ago, the previous owner had put a “Jesus fish” (ichthus) on the back. Well, I like Jesus just fine, but I’ve never been one for putting bumper stickers on my cars or advertising my spiritual life on the back of my vehicle. (If you do, that’s fine.) Plus–and I’m not kidding–the ichthus symbol was once associated with the goddess Venus and used to represent the vagina, and I’d hate for anyone in traffic to get the wrong idea about me. Anyway, did you know you can take those things off with hair dryers?

Jesus fish decals, not vaginas. (I think those are permanently attached, but I’ve never personally tried to remove one.)

Now that we’re talking about vaginas (and I can’t believe we’re talking about vaginas), I saw a lot of them last night on an episode of Embarrassing Bodies. According to the medical show, most women who have them don’t even look at them, let alone examine them. Y’all, I learned all sorts of things–what a vulva is (it’s not a car I myself would want to drive), how I would give myself a vulva exam–if I had one. Granted, I’m not sure what I’ll ever do with this information, but I still think it’s interesting. Actually, the big takeaway for me was just how shy and non-intimate most people are about their most intimate parts. So many women don’t go for pap smears. Overall, so many people live with unnecessary health problems because they’re essentially embarrassed about their bodies and afraid to talk about them.

Let’s stop that.

Early in my self-help journey, I read a quote by Louise Hay that said, “The anus is as beautiful as the ear.” Sure, it’s not something you’d likely put on a refrigerator magnet or bumper sticker, but I’ve come to see a lot of wisdom in that statement. As a society we’ve said that certain parts of the body are okay and others aren’t. The truth is that all parts of the body are lovely, mysterious, and full of wonder. Likewise, it’s easy to think that certain emotions or experiences are more “okay” than others. You know, there’s just some things we don’t talk about it. But if I’ve learned anything in therapy, it’s that it’s okay to talk about anything (with the right person). In fact, it’s healthier to get it out than to keep it in.

How exactly I went from a long walk and smelly feet to Jesus fish and vaginas, I’m not quite sure. Maybe this is what happens when I read and listen to so many different things that my mind starts to resemble Malt-O-Meal. But I know that I often get hung up on what’s outside–how I look, how other people look–and I’ve often made the mistake of judging a book by its cover. But the truth is you can’t judge a person’s insides by their outsides. Just because a guy has his shirt off doesn’t make him a punk. Just because someone has a fish on their car doesn’t make them a Christian. Lastly, just because something is wrong with your body or feels embarrassing doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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For I am a universe–large–like you are, and there is room here for all that we contain. An ego, of course, is small, and it is disgusted and humiliated by the smallest of things. But a universe is bigger than that, much too big to judge itself or another, much too big to ever question how bright it is shining.

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The Mystery of It All (Blog #181)

When I first started blogging almost six months ago, the average blog took anywhere from four to six hours to complete. I’d sit at the laptop staring at a blank page and just wait for an idea to show up, sort of like I do now with boyfriends. It was exhausting. Thankfully, the process has gotten a lot easier. Now the average blog takes two hours–about an hour and a half to write, maybe thirty minutes to edit. Honestly, it’s still tough, trying to take an average day and turn it into something funny or profound. Sometimes I’d simply like to eat a damn cheeseburger without having to turn it into a mystical experience. Recently I turned down the opportunity to spend the night with a delightful man so I could come home and blog. Tonight I had dinner with perhaps the most honest friend I have, and he said, “Couldn’t you just take off one night in order to get laid?”

I mean, it’s not like I haven’t thought about it.

Still, I’ve come to love the experience. More often than not, I really have no idea what I’m going to sit down and say. More accurately, I have no idea what’s going to be said through me. But I’ve found that if I just start typing, something shows up. That’s why so many blogs start with, “It’s one in the morning, I’m tired, and I can’t stop smelling my armpits.” I’ve found if I just start with the facts–the honest truth–then it’s like a roller coaster ride. Suddenly I’m off and running, and the twists and turns are just as much a surprise to me as to anyone else. Yes, it still scares the shit out of me. I constantly think, What am I going to say next? Despite this fact, I’m learning to trust the process, the mystery of it all.

There’s something about the end of September. For six years, I hosted Southern Fried Swing (a Lindy Hop convention) at this time of year, so all the memories are popping up on Facebook. I can just feel it in the air. It seems like I should be decorating the venue, picking up instructors from the airport, meeting with the band, eating cinnamon rolls from Calico County, and–of course–dancing. It’s the way I used to feel every summer, that I should be at summer camp, teaching kids to canoe and singing “Picking Up Paw Paws.” Now it feels like something is missing, something that I really loved and was good at.

Today, instead of working on Southern Fried Swing (or, as one friend calls it, Chicken Pot Pie), I drove to Fort Smith to pick up a bunch of “cancer hats” for my mom. Since she’s bald, she’s been wearing a sailor’s hat at home to keep her warm. Honestly, it’s not cute–she looks like Gilligan. Anyway, my sister talked to a family friend who’s had cancer, and she and her mom (also a cancer survivor) rounded up some more fashionable options for my mom. As the gay child in the family, I’m not sure why I didn’t think of this first.

After picking up the hats, I went to Walmart to get gas for Tom Collins (my car) and decided I needed to replace my wiper blades. I mean, the ones I’ve had have been “okay,” but not great. Well, anything feels like an expense these days, but I’m going on a road trip in a couple weeks, so I figured it would be a good investment. So I bit the bullet and got two for the front and one for the back. Y’all, either I’m getting smarter or wiper blades are designed better than they used to be. Usually it takes me half an hour, a manual, and a gallon of holy water to change wiper blades, but I changed all three of those suckers in less than five minutes this afternoon.

It really is the little things.

Tonight on the way to dinner, I tested out the blades, and–wow–they were worth every penny. I can see clearly now. When I got home, Mom checked out the hats I picked up this afternoon. She tried a couple of her favorites on, then Dad came in the room and tried a couple on. Ever the selfie opportunist, I threw one on too and took a picture of us. It just lasted a moment, but–at least for me–the whole cancer problem seemed lighter. Maybe I just felt closer to my family.

Also, maybe I should start wearing pink more.

Naturally, I have a lot of plans for my life, things I’d like to see happen. The truth is that life, like writing, is a mystery. You start out having no idea how it’s going to go, or maybe you think “this” will happen, but things simply unfold as the do. Maybe you spend six years doing the same thing every fall, and then one year it’s over, nothing left but memories and old photos. Sometimes I think it’s easy to get stuck in the past, to wish for what was. But whenever I do that, it feels like looking through a windshield that won’t quite come clean, as if looking backwards prevents me from seeing clearly what’s right in front of me. Maybe what’s in front of me is a mom with cancer, or maybe it’s an ordinary day. Either way, life does seem to be getting easier, and I’m coming to see every day and even myself as a black page, full of possibility.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Who’s to say that one experience is better than another?

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The School of Life (Blog #180)

Today started in a sleep-deprived fog. By that I mean it started before noon. Last week I rescheduled a chiropractor appointment for four in the afternoon today, and I was so proud of myself. I thought, I can sleep in, not set an alarm, it will be glorious. Then a few days later the ladies I’m working with on a group dance routine asked if we could meet today on their lunch hour. Well, shit, so much for sleeping in. Really, it was a matter of priorities. As dedicated as I am to my night-owl routine, I’m also dedicated to getting paid, since these hair products aren’t going to buy themselves. So, in a haze, I woke up, took a shower, and went to work. Talk about being an American.

It almost felt patriotic.

Thankfully, the ladies were worth getting out of bed for. They’re working their tails off and have made a lot of progress. As a teacher, it’s rewarding. Plus, they’re funny, and it always helps when people are pleasant. Once I had a married couple get in a fight with each other and walk out. There was even a bit of arm waving along with raised voices–the whole bit. Awkward, but at least I had the rest of the hour to look at Facebook and pick my nose. Anyway, when the ladies were packing up today, they asked what I had going this afternoon. “Oh, I’ll probably read a book,” I said, then started explaining that I’d gotten a new book yesterday at the library even though I was already in the middle of five or six others. I always say this sort of thing like an apology, as if it’s something to be embarrassed out. I think, God, Marcus, get your act together. Can’t you read one book like everybody else? Well, one of the ladies said, “You’re a reader,” like, that’s what readers do.

Oh, yeah, I forgot–I’m a reader.

For lunch I went to Tropical Smoothie Cafe. This is a place I’ve recently fallen in love with, except for the fact that it’s consistently butt cold and the music they play is terrible. It’s always knock-off versions of popular songs, something that might happen if Justin Bieber and an elevator had a baby together. Not pretty. All that being said, I’m somewhat addicted to the Chai Banana Boost (with peanut butter), so I force my body to endure the frigid temperatures and “today’s pop music meets the ukulele” in order that my taste buds may be delighted. Anyway, I remembered when I got there that the restaurant offers a deal on Tuesdays–a smoothie, a pita sandwich, and a side for seven dollars. I can’t tell you how excited this made me. I felt like I’d just won the lottery.

Who, me?

Ironically, this evening my dad was flipping through a coupon magazine he got in the mail, and as he was practically getting wet over the buy-one-get-one meal deal at Village Inn, I thought, This is so embarrassing. Last night I went to the gas station to pick up a pizza for my parents, and they sent me with a discount card they bought from some high school kid who I imagine was raising money for a new band uniform–you know–the kind with the hat that looks like a toilet bowl cleaner turned upside down. Well, a discount card seems more legitimate. I mean, it’s plastic–like a Mastercard. But a coupon you cut out of the newspaper? It just seems so–ordinary.

I realize this is all very judgmental and hypocritical of me.

After lunch I sat in my car and read the book I got yesterday–The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman. The sun was coming through the glass, the insulin from lunch was kicking in, and I could barely keep my eyes open. Sometimes when I feel like this, I think of my bed and start singing that song by The KinksSo tired, tired of waiting, tired of waiting for youuuuuuuu. Anyway, I read for a while then headed to my chiropractor/massage appointment. My chiropractor said I was practically back to where I was before the car accident, so we’re backing off of weekly appointments.

In one sense this news is freeing because it feels like a graduation. In another, I’ve come to like going to the chiropractor. Today all the staff was up front, and everyone knew my name. It was like Cheers without the alcohol. Although I guess there was a Keurig in the waiting room. Plus, there was Christian music on the speaker system, so maybe was like a bar–Christian bar–one where the smell of coffee and the sounds of praise waft through the air simultaneously, all while you get rubbed on and have your back cracked. Anyway, maybe I’m codependent, but I just like being there. Today I used the restroom, and there was a special dedicated bluetooth speaker on a pedestal in the bathroom. It was turned up really loud, so I got to listen to worship music “on high” while sitting on the toilet. It was–what’s the word?–uplifting.

After the chiropractor’s, I came home and took a nap–hard. I think I slept for a few hours and only woke up because my dad was on the phone with my aunt, practically shouting about the plot of some television show they were both watching. “Everyone thinks she’s innocent, but she’s really a whore and a murderer. Just you wait and see.” Or something like that. I was in the middle of a strange dream at the time, and the combination wasn’t the best way to wake up.

Tonight I finished reading The Ocean at the End of the Lane. Honestly, I’m still not exactly sure what the book is about. As a writer, this disturbs me. But as a reader, parts of the book are pretty magical. It centers around an old man who goes back to visit his hometown, where, as a seven-year-old, he knew a mysterious girl who said the pond at the end of her road was actually the ocean. Toward the end, the old man, in referring to how he’d grown up, asks one of the central female characters if he’d “passed.” She said, “You don’t pass or fail at being a person, dear.”

As I’ve thought about it, this line brings me a lot of comfort. You know, you grow up in school and you’re always getting graded on something. A’s and B’s for this, gold and silver stars for that. As an adult, it’s easy to walk away with the idea that everything in life is pass or fail. Maybe you think it’s better to get up early than to stay up late, or that finishing a book is good and not finishing a book is bad. Personally, I have a small hang up with using coupons, as if I’ve “passed” life because I have so much money that I don’t need them. But the truth is that life doesn’t work that way. Some days you’re tired and some days you’re full of energy. One minute you’re blissed by your tastebuds and the next minute you’re pissed that you’re eating lunch inside a meat locker. Come graduation day, you’re excited to move on but also terrified. It’s simply the way life is, and all of it’s ordinary. What’s more, I’m certain, is that no one who matters is passing out grades.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

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As It Turns Out, I’m Normal (Blog #179)

I got up early today, I have to get up early tomorrow, and I just spent the last hour watching The Voice with my parents instead of writing. We also ate gas station pizza. Today I had lunch with my friend Ray, and he asked if I ever wanted to say, “Fuck it,” and skip a day of blogging. “Only every day,” I said. “Recently I thought, Maybe I could just double up tomorrow and sleep for a change.” Ray said, “That seems like a slippery slope.” I agree, so this is it, this is my life. I write when I’m happy, I write when I’m sad. Most days, I write when I’m tired. I guess this is how parents of infants feel–sleep deprived–putting something (or someone, rather) before themselves. At least my laptop doesn’t require diapers and my blog doesn’t throw up on me.

Now that I think about it, I throw up on my blog.

Last night, unable to go to bed “early,” I started a new Netflix series at three in the morning. The show is called Embarrassing Bodies, and it’s about three British doctors who set up shop in the middle of town so everyday people with medical problems can walk in, sit down, strip down, and get some damn answers. Last night’s episode was about skin disorders, and people showed up with acne, warts, psoriasis, itchy penises, and oversized vaginas. Y’all I was raised in church. I saw more skin than a teenager sees on a porn site. Except for the part when they gave a man a breast reduction and actually cut his nipple off, I couldn’t look away. It was fascinating.

Today I saw my therapist and told her about recently being at a party and comparing myself to other people. I said, “I mean, there is a part of my brain that gets that just because someone is pretty doesn’t mean they have their shit together.” Seriously, my therapist got out of her super comfortable chair she rarely gets out of, gave me a high-five, and did a victory lap around her office. (I thought I was going to have to hand her a water bottle.) But when she sat back down, she said, “When you see someone who’s all put together on the outside, they’re most likely NOT put together on the inside because we only have so much energy to spend on ourselves. The more effort a person puts into impression management, the less effort they have to work on their interior.”

I said, “I’m glad I can recognize that looks aren’t everything, but whenever I’m in those situations, there’s still a part of me that feels like everyone else is a handsome adult and I’m just a teenager with zits on my face.” Then she said, “So why can’t it be both? Why can’t you feel both ways? Our society is so obsessed with black-or-white thinking, but life is gray. It’s okay to feel two things at once.”

Oh. Phew. That’s good to know.

This afternoon I went to a bookstore, bought a book called The Dream Giver by Bruce Wilkinson, then went to the library and read it. I also checked out another book, even though I’m currently reading several others. This is a little game I like to play with myself–always thinking I’ll read more than I actually will. Anyway, The Dream Giver is written from a Christian perspective and–in part–is told as a parable. Specifically, it’s about a guy named Ordinary who is a Nobody but wants to be a Somebody and see his Big Dream come true. What I loved about the book is that it says we all have dreams we are born with, things we were meant to do or be. It also says that dreams are always outside your comfort zone, there will always be obstacles and challenges, and–at some point–you’ll definitely, most certainly, and without-a-doubt feel like giving up.

Uh, accurate.

Here’s a seemingly random picture of me, my friend Jake, and his girlfriend, Karyn. They both live in Canada, and we had lunch recently when they visited. The reason the picture isn’t random is because Jake is the one who told me about The Dream Giver. (Thanks, Jake.)

Last night on Embarrassing Bodies, person after person sat down with the doctors and said, “I’m so embarrassed by this skin tag on my butt hole,” or, “I’m so embarrassed the skin on my legs has cracked and bled for the last twelve years. I never go to the beach.” Watching the patients, I was filled with compassion. I thought, It’s okay, you’re only human. Along those lines, the doctors were wonderful. In almost every case, they said, “This thing you’re worried about is really common. We see it all the time and we have an answer.” But the line that got me was, “People shouldn’t feel ashamed or embarrassed because we’re all basically the same.”

Honestly, I think this is often what I’m looking for–the confirmation that I’m “normal” or “not alone.” Just seeing one episode of Embarrassing Bodies has already made me feel better about my body. As for my interior, I love that my therapist said it’s okay to carry around two feelings at once. I don’t have to feel just one way–I don’t have to be any different than I am in this moment. Talk about a relief. And in terms of my dreams, it’s good to read about other dreamers, dreamers who have gone before me. Once again, they say, “You’re okay.” Sure, there will be days when you want to throw in the towel, quit writing, eat pizza, and watch The Voice. That’s normal. There will even be days when you think moving back home–or whatever–is a setback. Don’t worry. It’s really just an opportunity to rest and find out who you are and what you’re made of before the journey really picks up.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Growth and getting far in life have nothing to do with where you’re physically standing.

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The Tiniest Seeds (Blog #178)

Three and a half years ago I met my therapist–my first and only therapist–for the first time. I haven’t been keeping track, but I’m guessing I’ve sat in her office roughly a hundred times. By anyone’s standards, I’ve come a long way. The journey has–without a doubt–changed the course of my entire life for the better. In one way or another, the things I’ve learned about myself and the world around me in that office impact me positively every day. I think about this stuff constantly. Hell, I started a blog about it. (You’re reading it.)

Tonight’s blog is number 178. That’s five days shy of half a year–almost six months of daily writing and self-reflection. Even for someone obsessed with mirrors, it’s a lot. Aside from going to therapy, however, I’m coming to believe it’s the best the thing I’ve ever done. Little by little, I’ve come to understand myself more, come to understand others more. Word by word and post by post, I’m growing in self-acceptance, balance, and authenticity. I have a tendency to get wrapped up in the outer–the number of readers I have, the number of likes I have on Facebook, the amount of money I have in my wallet. But when I think about what’s inside and what really matters, I’m forever grateful for that first trip to see my therapist, that first blog post on March 31, 2017. I didn’t know it at the time, but these two things would change me from the inside out.

About a month ago my therapist suggested I buy a plant, so I did. Honestly, I don’t have a green thumb. I mean, I can water plants and keep them alive in a pinch, but I don’t talk to them, pay them much attention, or buy them pretty things. Plants, after all, aren’t twinks. Consequently, I’ve never had a plant that lasted very long. But this time around, I intend to do better. For the last few weeks, I’ve watered the plant as instructed, kept it in a good spot, even gazed at it fondly once or twice. I haven’t named it yet, but I’m thinking about it. Maybe Grant–Grant the Plant.

That sounds good.

As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve been listening to an audio series by Caroline Myss about archetypes. The theory is we all have them, and they play a huge–huge–role in how we live our lives and the way in which our souls develop. Whether you realize it or not, you speak the language of archetypes constantly because your soul speaks in symbols. This is the way dreams work too. Anyway, as an example, recently my mom said, “I know you’re not a caregiver.” Well, she was right. It’s not that I can’t be caring, but don’t ask me to be a nurse (like she is), or watch over a sick relative. I simply don’t have the caregiver archetype. But if you need to learn how to dance, how to write, or–say–what an archetype is, I’m your guy because I do have the teacher.

With that background laid out, last week Caroline was discussing the gardener archetype. She said some people just have it–the green thumb. They can make something grow no one else can because it’s IN them. They respect the spirits of plants, and the spirits of plants respect them and respond to them. If this sounds like you, you’re probably a gardener. If it doesn’t, you’re like me–something besides a gardener. Anyway, when I heard all this, I immediately thought of my Aunt Tudie. She LOVES gardening–she’s great at it–always has been. Oh my god, I thought, she has the archetype!

So tonight I took my “therapy plant” down to my aunt’s house to repot. I recently bought a bigger pot for it so that it will have room to grow, along with some peat moss. Y’all, this plant is already becoming an expensive little son of a bitch. But that’s okay–it makes oxygen, which I’ve heard is important.

Watching my aunt work tonight was nothing short of beautiful. It probably wasn’t a big deal to her, but it was to me. You know how you tend to take your relatives for granted? Like, Oh, that’s just my aunt. As if someone’s life stops when you’re not in it. Well, I guess I’m guilty of this. Maybe I’d just never paused long enough to watch my aunt do the thing that she loves. Tonight she slowly removed my plant from its old pot and gently tugged at the bottom roots. Then she added the peat moss to the new pot, put the plant in, and lightly packed down the dirt with the care of a mother rocking a newborn to sleep.

“Have you always loved plants?” I asked.

“Oh yeah,” she said, “I’ve always had my hands in dirt. I love watching things grow–the way something can start as the tiniest seed and then absolutely blossom into the biggest thing.”

After my plant was potted, my aunt pointed out the new growth on top. “Oh, I hadn’t noticed,” I said.

“See how they’re drooped down? That means they need more water. But the fact that they’re there means the plant is doing well on your kitchen table.”

Then she noticed the dust on the leaves, so she took a spray bottle, misted the leaves with water, and used her fingers to clean them off–one by one. Y’all, it may come across strange on “paper,” but I started crying. The way my aunt held those leaves–there’s not a person alive that wouldn’t want to be held that way. She was so tender. Personally, I won’t forget it for a long time–the night I recognized my aunt for who she is–a talented, skillful, and kind gardener.

It’s not a little thing.

Sometimes it’s necessary to “repot” yourself.

Before I left, my aunt showed me a plant she had potted beside her carport. On top were buds that had dried out, and she picked them off and tossed them in the yard. She said next year there would be flowers everywhere, and she figured that out by trial and error. I’ve thought a lot tonight about the seeds we plant, sometimes when we don’t even know it. I guess that’s what I was doing when I started therapy three and a half years ago. Once my therapist told me that everything I ever needed was already inside of me–if she did anything, it was only to provide an environment in which I had room to grow. So I’m reminded tonight about the importance of environment, self-care, and kindness. Sometimes–it seems–it’s necessary to “repot” yourself. As I continue to write every day, I’m reminded to treat the process and myself with respect, trusting that as even the tiniest seeds are planted and cared for, they’ll absolutely blossom and grow into the biggest things.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We're allowed to relabel and remake ourselves.

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We Can All Dance Together (Blog #177)

Tonight I went to a birthday party for my friend Al. For the last couple months, Al and our friend Donna have been taking dance lessons and preparing a surprise routine for the party. Honestly, they’ve worked their butts off. Anyway, the party tonight was in Fort Smith at the old Shipley Baking Company. Unfortunately, it no longer smells like fresh bread, but it’s an awesome venue. I kept wishing I still hosted swing dances, as it would have been a great option for Southern Fried Swing, the mostly annual Lindy Hop convention I use to organize.

As Dad says, such is life.

Here’s a picture of the outside of the venue. The neon sign says, “Bakery,” which you can sort of make out, but sort of not because apparently my phone camera was drunk tonight. Anyway, the former bakery is open-air, which worked out super, since it’s fall. Granted, it’s Arkansas, which means it was humid. But there were fans strong enough to blow the wig off a drag queen, so the only people breaking a sweat were those of us on the dance floor. Not that I went around checking everyone’s armpits, I’m just guessing.

As if the place itself weren’t cool enough, Al served up a fantastic taco bar and free drinks. Talk about being in heaven. I was one happy camper. Funny enough, most the week I’ve been fretting, thinking that I needed to find a friend or date to go with me. I mean, I sort of tried, but finally said, “Fuck it. I’m used to doing things alone.” But trying to find a companion did make me think about my circle of friends. I’d like to tread lightly here because I think of myself as having wonderful friends, wonderful one-on-one friends. However, I don’t think of myself as having a group of friends, a “tribe” if you will. I used to have the dance studio, but it’s different leading a group and being part of one. Plus, I feel like I could do better about having friends in the gay community. I only feel mildly sorry for myself about this whole matter, but–going forward–it’s something I’d like to work on.

You know, we all have fantasies, but I imagine if I ever did find a group of homos (that’s short for homosexuals, Mom) to hang with, maybe we’ll be like the Sharks or Jets from West Side Story. We wouldn’t have to get in fights, mind you, but we could at least roll up our sleeves, do a little singing, surely a little choreographed dancing. Maybe–just maybe–we could have t-shirts that said, “We put the GAY in gang.”

Something like that–I’m still thinking it over.

The reward is really in the thing itself and how you grow in the process.

Anyway, the party tonight was a smash. When Al and Donna performed their dance, it was tough for me to get outside of teacher mode. I kept running the routine in my head. Next up is one basic, then a girl’s turn, then a guy’s turn. You know how you want your friends to succeed. Well, they did–they nailed it. Later Al and I talked about all the hard work they put in–all the time and effort for two minutes on the dance floor. As I think about it now, I guess it’s like everything I’m putting into this blog. I think about it “paying off” one day, but the reward is really in the thing itself–the learning, the practicing, and how you grow in the process.

The universe is a funny place. After all my fretting about having someone to be with and talk to tonight, Al introduced me to a group of his friends from Kansas City, a literal bunch of stellar men. Al said, “You should get to know them.” Well, the next thing I knew, we were all standing around eating tacos, talking, being–you know–friendly. When the party was over, we went back to Al’s house, chilled out. Uh, a few of us may have danced to the Dream Girls soundtrack. (It all happened so fast.) Now that I think about it, I guess it was all very Sharks and Jets–minus the rolled up sleeves.

I can’t tell you the number of insecurities that come out whenever I’m in a new setting, especially if there’s dancing. Part of me is always comparing, sizing everyone up, wondering what other people are thinking. I usually think anyone who is attractive, wealthy, or talented has EVERYTHING figured out. (I realize this isn’t logical.) Anyway, maybe you’re like this in some way. If so, you know–it’s exhausting. I’m glad to say it’s a lot better for me than it used to be. Just since starting this blog, I’m more comfortable in my own skin than I ever have been. Like learning to dance, progress happens bit by bit.

At the venue tonight there was a sign, I’m assuming leftover from the days of sourdough and rye. It said, “Waste is our biggest competitor.” This could be taken a number of ways, but my mind went to all the time and effort I waste comparing myself to other people, worrying about shit that almost never happens, and generally being afraid of my own shadow. Obviously, all that takes a lot–a lot–of energy, energy I could be using to connect with others, imagine all the good things that could happen, and dance with rather than run from my shadow.

I told my mom tonight that I’m almost always happy to write this blog late at night when the rest of the world is quiet and it’s just me and the clicking of the keyboard. Sure, I’m tired plenty of nights, but I consider this a sacred, mysterious time worthy of being tired for. But tonight in the company of both new and old friends as I was invited to crash on a couch and wake up to a pancake breakfast, I almost convinced myself I could pull double blog duty tomorrow. Still, now I’m at home, it’s five-thirty in the morning, and I’m keeping the promise I made to myself–I won’t fall asleep until this is done. So rather than thinking about what I may be missing out on, I choose to be grateful for what’s happened, is happening, and could happen. Honestly, I’m coming to think of all of life as sacred and mysterious, a place where friendly faces can show up out of nowhere and make you feel welcome, a place where outdated beliefs can fall away and we can all dance together like something you might see in a movie.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"We all have inner wisdom. We all have true north."

Worthy of Celebrating (Blog #176)

For the last couple months I’ve been working with a group of ladies who are preparing for a talent show. We meet every week or two, they actually practice in between (image that), and the performance is in a few weeks. Anyway, we met tonight, and after we exchanged pleasantries, I went right into work mode. “How’s practice been going?” I said. Well, I was listening, but I was turned away, plugging my phone into a speaker. But then I turned around, and all three of the girls–outfitted in party hats–started blowing those irritating little noise maker things.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” they said.

Talk about a surprise. (My birthday was last week.) All I could do was smile and laugh. I mean, there are days when I seriously doubt whether or not it’s worth it to wake up before three in the afternoon in order to go to work, but today was not one of them. And did I mention there were cupcakes–like–fancy cupcakes with fruit, candy, chocolate, and chocolate? Of course, I just started a diet a two days ago, but when Jesus gives you fancy cupcakes, you eat them with gratitude, damn it. Oh, and there was singing! I tried to record it, but–not surprisingly–my phone was in selfie mode. Anyway, here it is.

This evening I shared the cupcakes with my parents, and my Dad asked how the ladies knew it was my birthday. I said, “Probably Facebook–it tells you every time someone goes to the bathroom.” Or who knows? Maybe it was the blog. I forget that people can (and do) read it. Today my mom told my aunt on the phone, “I learn more about my son on the internet than I do living with him.” Fair enough, Mom, but it’s hard to have a conversation when The People’s Court is turned up so loud. (“DID YOU SAY SOMETHING?!”)

But I digress.

After dance rehearsal with the girls, I ate a cupcake before getting in my car. My all-or-nothing personality tried beating me up for not following my diet one hundred percent, but–really–that part of my personality is a serious stick-in-the-mud asshole. So I just looked at him and said, “These are birthday cupcakes from Jesus–back off!” The other temptation I faced was to screw the diet completely and go out for fried chicken and margaritas. But tonight I stayed strong–I didn’t eat fried chicken. Rather, I cooked a healthy meal at home.

And then ate another cupcake. (Thank you, lord.)

About the time the ladies were getting ready to wish me happy birthday, one of my aunts and I were texting about potting soil. My therapist recently recommended that I buy a plant, so I’ve been talking to my aunt about how to repot it. (She has a green thumb.) Anyway, you know how some people–like my therapist–don’t like to text, so they pick up the phone and literally call you? (The nerve.) Well, that’s what my aunt did tonight. There I was playing Shania Twain on my phone, these ladies were killing it on the dance floor, and all of a sudden we were interrupted by my ringtone.

Of course, my aunt had no way of knowing. Later, when I was eating my first cupcake, I listened to the message she left. I assumed she was talking to my father, unaware she was actually leaving a message. (Technology is hard.) “He’s texting me but not answering his phone–Marcus Coker, answer the damn phone–I guess I’d better watch what I’m saying, it might be recording it.”

Why yes, yes it is.

After a while, I called my aunt back. She didn’t answer at first, then she did, so I said, “Answer your damn phone,” and we had a good laugh about the whole thing. Then she told me what I needed to repot my plant, and I went to Lowe’s and got it.

Tonight I added the card the girls got me to the others I’ve received this year. On the outside the card said, “Yes, this birthday card is late.” Then on the inside it said, “Pick up the pieces of your shattered life and move on.” Funny right? There’s something about an actual card, the fact that someone took the time to pick it out. I guess it makes you feel–special. Just today I got another card in the mail. It was from my friend Marla and said, “I’m so glad you were born.” Then Marla added, “Thank goodness your parents had unprotected sex!”

After dinner I went for a walk and listened to Caroline Myss talk about creative archetypes. She said our tendency as humans is admit what we can’t do rather than admit what we can do. Like maybe you make something, and someone says, “That’s gorgeous,” but you say, “Oh, this old thing, it’s nothing.” But that’s not really true–it’s something!–and you made it. I know I often do this with the things I make. What’s more problematic, perhaps, is the fact that I do this with myself. One of my birthday cards this year said, “You’re an amazing person and friend,” and part of me thought, They’re just being nice.

This is something I’m working on. One of my affirmations lately has been, “I’m willing to accept gifts from the universe,” and I’m learning that includes compliments, cupcakes, and birthday cards. That includes little celebrations. Of course, if you accept someone else’s celebration of you at face value–if you don’t dismiss it in some way–that means you have to also accept the idea that you are worthy of celebrating, that YOU are something. For me, coming around to this idea–sometimes–is like my aunt trying to figure out voicemail. The struggle is real. But days like today help–every encouraging note and cupcake helps to remind me that I’m here, we’re all here, and we’re all worthy of little irritating noise makers, dancing, and all good things, including family members who answer their damn phones.

[Jonelle, Sharon, Nesa–you rock. Thank you, thank you, thank you! Aunt Tudie, I love you.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

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Raising and Lowering My Standards (Blog #175)

Currently it feels like everything is catching up to me. Earlier this week I spent four days working in a friend’s yard. Now the cuts on my arms and legs are starting to scab over, and the blisters on my hands are forming new skin, but my body is definitely still in shock from all the activity. As if that weren’t enough, I decided to cut out coffee and junk food yesterday. On the one hand, I’m really proud. On the other hand, I’ve already been tempted to self-sabotage with a piece of bread or chocolate cake–oh–fifty-six times today. Also, I’ve wanted to yell at every person I’ve come in contact with.

I’m sure that’s all very normal.

I don’t know exactly where I’m going here. This morning I ate a healthy breakfast, then did yoga for fifteen minutes and meditated for thirty. Getting back into yoga is a slow process. There are days when my body is right there, other days when it’s right there giving me the finger. Today is a finger day. My mood is cranky, my brain is full of fog, and my brain is full of fog. Did I just say that? See–this is what happens when a man is separated from his biscuits and joe. It’s not pretty.

In all my years of teaching dance, I’ve only come across a couple “naturals,” intelligent people who picked it up–mentally and physically–super fast. But one of them was X. He learned quickly, practiced often. Conversely, there was Y, a leader who took longer to find the beat than I’m taking to find a husband. In terms of skill, Y was the exact opposite of X. All that being said, X quit taking classes, for whatever reason. Y, however, kept coming. Week after week, he was there. Eventually he found the beat and made wonderful progress. As a teacher, I was proud of Y. Still, I would have loved to see X stick around–he had a lot of talent. What X didn’t have, however, was the interest or perseverance that Y had.

I guess this story is on my mind tonight because I don’t feel like I’m a natural at healthy eating or doing yoga. I feel less like X and more like Y. I’m thirty-seven now, and it might be time to admit that I may never have a six-pack or the flexibility of a junior-high cheerleader. Also, I know I’ve blogged a number of times about starting to eat better over the last six months, and there’s part of me that hates to bring it up again. I’ve obviously fallen off the proverbial sugar wagon here, and the last thing I want to do is become one of “those people” who’s always starting a diet or whatever.

We all know what happened to the boy who cried carbohydrates.

But–even though I’m not a natural–I am interested and do have perseverance, so I’m willing to “try again.” I guess the latest fuss is because a friend is going to take some pictures of me in a couple weeks. I told her I’d like some professional photos to start promoting my business page on Facebook. (If you haven’t liked it, please do so.) Anyway, I know two weeks isn’t enough time to become a Greek god, but it’s at least enough time for my pants to fit. Hey, if this last year has taught me anything, it’s the value of lowering my standards.

Ironically, I’ve been thinking tonight’s blog was about raising your standards. In dance and other endeavors, I’ve seen a lot of people quit. Maybe they get busy or run out of money, maybe it’s harder than they thought it would be. Once my friend Kara told me, “I don’t think we ask enough of ourselves,” and I think she’s right. Recently I had a student say over and over that they were a slow learner, that they couldn’t do any better right here, right now. Tonight in improv class, as part of a skit, I asked a girl to twerk. Ideally, I think she would have at least tried, but she pretty much left character and said, “I can’t. I can’t twerk.” Anyway, more often than not, it seems we argue for our limitations rather than our capabilities, and that’s where I think we could raise our standards.

We could at least try.

In my case, I’ve been raising my standards by telling myself that I can eat better, can do yoga, can get outside my comfort zone and go to an improv class. My therapist and I have been working on my negative thoughts about money, and I know I can do better. I don’t have it all figured out, but I have figured out that just because I believe something doesn’t make it true, so that’s where I’m starting. I’m willing to be wrong (for a change) and let go of old beliefs. Honestly, I think we’re meant for change. I don’t think any of us came to this planet to say, “I can’t” decade after decade and never try anything new.

God, wouldn’t that be boring?

In regards to lowering my standards, I’m learning that “I can do better” doesn’t mean “I have to do perfect.” It’s okay to start, fall down, and start over again. It’s okay to go slow and be bad at something. It’s even okay to let the process exhaust you and turn you into a grouch for a while, since even if you’re interested in and willing to persevere at something new, old habits usually go down swingin’. I guess new skin doesn’t form right away. Rather, the old has to fall off first. This, of course, leaves things raw and rough for a very necessary while, perhaps so we can grow and remember what we’re capable of.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Normal people don’t walk on water.

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