A Mixed Bag (Blog #174)

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Yesterday morning, after three days of yard work and finding a possum in my bed the night before, I called waste management in Fayetteville to schedule a pick-up for all the tree branches piled by the curb in Ray’s front yard. Stuff like this makes me nervous because I usually feel as if I’m an imposition. My side of the conversation always sounds like, “Uh–I’ve got these–tree branches–I’m sorry if having trees makes me a bad person–but these branches fell and are dead–and could you–maybe, possibly, if you’re not busy–come get them?” At least that’s how it feels on the inside. Anyway, the nice lady at the trash department said sure, they’d come get them in a couple days, so long as everything was by the curb and nothing was over twelve feet long or more than so many inches wide.

Check, check, check.

“Oh, and one more thing,” she said. “There can’t be anything ABOVE the pile for fourteen feet.”

I thought, Shit. There’s a tree AND a power line over the pile of branches–the REALLY BIG pile of branches that’s not going to move itself.

Did I say shit?

After all the yard work/hard work, the thought of moving that pile was more than I could handle, so I decided to run some errands and give it a minute. Since I had sinus surgery in February, I’d been meaning to drop off a cookie cake for the doctor and his office. I mean, they were amazing and my life is a hundred times better than it was before. Y’all, if you haven’t tried breathing, you should–it rocks. Anyway, I’d been trying to come up with a cute saying or something clever to put on the cookie cake. Like, I did this once before for my dermatologist’s office after the little warts that had been on my face for over a year FINALLY disappeared. That cake said, “I’m happy to report that I can’t find a wart.”

Cute, right?

Well, despite the fact that I’m a writer and an all-around creative guy, I couldn’t come up with squat for the sinus doctor. Uh, gee, it’s nice to breathe. Nobody knows noses like you do. (Strike one, strike two.) So this weekend I gave up and decided I didn’t have to be cute and that I should just go ahead and order the damn cake and have it say, “Thank you.” (Short and to the point.) So I picked up the phone, dialed the number, and–I’m not kidding–exactly as someone answered, the idea showed up.

I said, “Yes, I’d like a cake that says, ‘Thanks (exclamation point). You’re a breath of fresh air.’ And please don’t spell ‘you’re’ wrong.”

All that to say that after finding out those branches were piled in the wrong spot, I delivered the cake to my doctor’s office. Afterwards I was starving, so I stopped at Village Inn, ate breakfast, and drank a lot of coffee. Y’all, it’s amazing what pancakes and caffeine can do. I thought, Okay, that pile of branches isn’t so big. I can move that.

Fortunately, Jesse helped. We got it done in less than an hour. After we picked up the scraps and swept the sidewalk, it was like magic, as if the pile of branches had never been there in the first place.

Here’s the new pile, on the side of the house. Hopefully it will also disappear before the week is over. Also, if I never see a pile of branches like this again, it’ll be too soon.

Today I’ve been smelling my arm pits a lot. I decided to try again with better eating, so I went to Walmart earlier to buy groceries, and every now and then I’d sneak my nose over by my shoulder, lift my arm as if reaching for something on the top shelf, and sniff. As I’ve said before, they used to smell like–I don’t know–bleach or ammonia, anything but a turn-on. Well, I’ve been using a deodorant cream I read about online, so twice a day I’ve been smearing it under my arms and everywhere else that doesn’t see the sun. I don’t want to speak to soon, but I think the cream is working. It has boric acid in it, so as a bonus I don’t have any cockroaches on my–well–you know. That being said, the cream has its own distinct odor, so I keep trying to sort out all the aromas. Honestly, I feel like a child picking at a scab.

Leave it alone, Marcus.

The first time I blogged about my mom having cancer, I discovered a mouse in the house. Since then, we’ve all seen the mouse running around, putting his feet up on the divan, smoking cigars, and generally making himself at home. Mom says there’s more than one. We’ve had traps set out, but nothing has worked. I’ve been so overwhelmed by the whole thing, it’s been easier to give the little assholes a high-five than reset the traps or try something different. But tonight at Walmart I thought, I can do this, and bought new traps. Then when I got home–get this shit–one of the mice was actually stuck on a glue pad behind a chair in the living room.

And it was still alive.

Squeaking.

I’m just going to say it.

Dad pulled the mouse off the glue pad, the mouse bit Dad’s finger, and Dad put the mouse down the garbage disposal (and turned it on).

It was kind of awful.

I still have a mixed bag of feelings about it.

Dad’s finger should be fine.

Just a while ago my mom and I had a long talk about cancer and depression. She has both and says depression is worse. I don’t have either, but I believe her. All of it is tough to watch, but that’s life. Today our neighbor brought Mom a scarf to wear on her head, and Mom said she was planning to Google how to fashion it. Pulling the scarf out of the sack, I tied it around my head like a bandana. Mom said, “Or I guess I could just ask my gay son.” Then she laughed, which was wonderful to hear.

Some days, most days, are a mixed bag. We cry, we laugh, we quit, we start again. That’s life.

I don’t know why life works the way it does. You spend months with warts on your face, a smell in your arm pits, or a mouse in your house, and then one day it’s gone like a pile of branches that’s been picked up, cleaned up, and moved somewhere else. Or maybe you spend half a year trying to think of something to say on a cookie cake, and the moment you let go is the moment the thing shows up. I guess all of us deal with problems of all shapes and sizes. One minute we look at whatever it is and think, I can’t–it’s too much. Then we eat breakfast, maybe go for a walk, and we realize we can. Some days, most days, are a mixed bag. We cry, we laugh, we quit, we start again. That’s life. In the process, we find out we’re stronger than we thought we were, and perhaps this is at the heart of healing.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"It's really good news to find out that the world isn't as scary as you thought it was."

Strange Bedfellows (Blog #173)

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A couple nights ago, Jesse, the neighbors, and I were on the porch drinking. At one point Jesse and I went inside, and Jesse swore he saw “a critter scamper across the kitchen” and into my room. Well, we looked around, even picked up the air mattress, but didn’t find anything. Later when I went to bed, I thought my room smelled funny, but you know how your nose gets used to smells after a few minutes. I thought, Jesse was just drunk, but figured if he did see something “bigger than a mouse but smaller than a raccoon,” whatever it was would be in the closet. (Been there, done that.)

So I shut the closet door and went to bed.

Yesterday Jesse continued to stand by his story, but neither Ray or I saw anything. “The house does have a funk about it,” Ray said. “It has a certain patine.” Last night after blogging, I looked in the closet, didn’t find anything, and shut the door again. When I didn’t see anything in the room either, I turned down the lights, crawled in bed, grabbed the extra pillow off the floor, and settled in to look at Facebook. That’s funny, I thought. I think the pillow moved by my head. Like, I could have sworn something shifted by the right side of my face.

Calm down, I thought. It’s just the air mattress settling. So I put my phone away, closed my eyes, and–holy shit–the pillow moved again. Y’all, I said every curse word I know, immediately levitated out of bed, and threw on the lights. By this time I was thinking the mystery critter was under my pillow, but when I looked at the bed and saw the pillow moving like a Jim Henson puppet, I realized it was IN my pillow.

I wish I were kidding.

I kept thinking, Just pick up the pillowcase and take it outside. Come on. You can do it. But then I imagined something from a Stephen King novel and pictured myself bleeding, so I did what any self-respecting person would do–I threw another pillow on top of the critter pillow, screamed for Jesse, and asked, “Do you feel like being a man?” Well, fortunately he did. Grabbing the pillow, he walked out of the room and woke up Ray for the big reveal, then we all headed to the porch–at one-thirty in the morning.

Having blogged every day for nearly six months now, I’m starting to recognize a story when I see one, so I grabbed my phone and recorded Jesse coaxing the animal out of the pillow case. Ray and I were backed up against one side of the porch, and Jesse and the pillow creature were in the middle. It took a moment, but eventually a head popped out–a baby possum head. Oh my god, I was in bed with that. It could have bitten my face off. As Jesse pulled back the pillow case more, the entire possum lay there on the porch, I guess playing dead like a–well–possum. Meanwhile, Ray named it Beauregard and said they should keep it as a pet.

Did anyone miss the part where I was in bed with a real, live possum? I’m still shuddering just thinking about it. (Here’s a link to the video–UNedited for language.)

Just after I stopped filming, Beauregard scurried off the porch and into the bushes, but Jesse–who likes animals and clearly has different standards for bravery than I do–put on a pair of gloves, picked him up, and brought him back to the porch. Then Jesse and Ray started looking up information on Google. They found out possums “have a bad rap” and aren’t as scary as everyone thinks they are. Like, it’s really rare for them to get rabies, and some people keep them as pets, even though it’s illegal in many places or at least requires special permission. But none of that swayed me–I kept thinking, Oh hell no. I told Ray, “I’ve been saying I wanted someone to sleep with, but I can see I should have been more specific.”

Still, I guess Jesse is some sort of Florence Nightingale for rodents because he made Beauregard a home out of a box and gave him food and water. (I keep calling Beauregard a he, but he may have been a she. Gender is so confusing these days.)

About this time I went inside to look around my room and put things back in order. My sheets were completely off the bed, and if you didn’t know better, you’d think I’d been ejected off the mattress. So I made my bed again, checked all the other pillows for possums, and–thank god–didn’t find any. What I did find, however, was the reason the room smelled so funny. Beauregard had shit on the curtains. (Reason number 27 why NOT to pool your curtains on the ground.)

Taking down the curtains, I found Ray in the kitchen and asked him what to do with them. “Throw them away,” he said. Then he gave me a Glade candle to help with the odor, so I left it burning in the room while I headed back outside. I guess no one sleeps in Ray’s neighborhood, since when I got to the porch, the girl and boy from next door were there. Y’ALL, SHE WAS PETTING THE POSSUM LIKE A KITTY CAT. Maybe I would have thought this was cute–even wanted to try it–if Beauregard hadn’t caused me to jump out of my skin, but all I could think was, I just can’t–I just can’t even with the pillow possum petting.

About the time Jesse put Beauregard in the pocket of his sweat shirt, I went to bed. Before I crawled under the sheets, I checked the pillows once more, blew out the candle, and thanked the good lord my face was still in tact. Eventually, I fell asleep.

This morning Beauregard was gone. Jesse said he figured he crawled out through the handle holes on the side of the box. Ray said Beauregard stayed long enough to shit all over the box just like he had the curtains. We all decided all the yard work probably shook up the little guy and that he came in under the back door, since it’s currently missing a threshold and there’s a nice-sized gap at the bottom.

Follow for a change.

When I looked up the spiritual meaning of possums online, it said they represent the path of least resistance and being able to lay low while the universe works “behind the scenes to fulfill your dreams.” They also remind us that it’s okay to be passive. And whereas I’ve spent plenty of time being passive in my relationships over the years (and am working on it), I tend to be anything but passive in the rest of my life. Rather, I prefer being active. Often I describe myself as a “get shit done” kind of person. I mean, my last three blogs have been about literally bleeding to transform Ray’s yard, and whether it’s transforming a yard, opening a dance studio, or starting a blog, my primary thought is usually, “I’m going to make this happen.” But I’m reminded tonight–by a passive pillowcase possum of all things–that life requires balance. I don’t have to make everything happen. What’s more, I can’t. As much as I hate to admit it, there are things beyond my control, things like who reads this blog or–apparently–who ends up in my bed. So perhaps, thanks to Beauregard, I’m being encouraged once again to surrender, to let go even more, and, after all these years of leading, follow for a change.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You can be more discriminating.

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I Wasn’t Having It (Blog #172)

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Today was a day of small miracles, if there is such a thing. This morning started with therapy, and my therapist gave me two new labels. When we discussed a boy, she said, “He’s beneath you. Come on–you’re a diva.” Then later we talked about the fact that I work my ass off in and out of therapy, and she said, “You’re a boss–you just don’t own it. But you’re a fucking boss.” I mean–diva and boss–I’ll take both those labels. Still, I’m hoping being a diva doesn’t require me to buy high heels or start getting pedicures on a regular basis. That might be more than I can handle, especially since I’ve always thought of myself as “gay from the ankles up.”

Last night after I blogged, a couple of Ray and Jesse’s neighbors came over and hung out on the porch. Jesse told them that I’d done a ton of work in the backyard, and I said, “It’s a work in progress, but it’s a lot better.” One of the neighbors said, “Sounds like someone is a perfectionist,” and I said, “Nailed it!” Then he said, “Well, it takes one to know one.” I told my therapist about this exchange, and she said, “That’s the teeter-totter some of us are on. We want praise but don’t know what to do with it.” Later she said perfectionism is actually pretty useful when cleaning up a yard or remodeling a house, but it becomes a problem when it’s your “daily driver.”

After therapy, I went to a couple lumber supply companies in search of a threshold for Ray’s door. I told the guy at the first place that I needed one that was pretty wide, but he said they didn’t carry anything. When I asked if he knew of where I could find what I needed, he suggested Googling it. (Gee, that’s helpful.) I said, “Thank you,” but rolled my eyes when I walked out and thought of the time my therapist told me I don’t tolerate stupid people very well. Fortunately, the guy at the next place knew what to do, so a specialty piece is on order and should be here this week.

Some things, it seems, are a process.

Back at Ray’s house I swept the sidewalks, gave myself at least one blister, and started to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Just as I was going around the house to hose off some sidewalk dirt, a couple guys in a truck pulled up and asked if I needed the tree branches around the roof cut back. Well, Ray had stopped by from work, and we ended up hiring them to trim the trees and–and, and, and–move all the tree branches I’d piled up around the house to the front. They actually offered to haul it all off (for an additional fee, of course), but said we could save money by calling the city.

First I’m a diva and then help with yard work. Miracle, miracle.

Ray said he was initially skeptical of the guys in the truck, but we both agreed they ended up being a god-send. They worked for two or three hours, did what they’d said they’d do, and saved me and Ray a ton of work. Oh, and they bought me a Gatorade, so we’re pretty much friends for life. Also, when I cut my leg on a ceramic pot, the guy’s puppy licked the blood off, so that was sweet. And gross. Yeah–dog spit–it was sweet and gross. So tonight I went to Walgreen’s and got some Bandaids and antibiotic ointment.

After the guys left, I continued to pick up shit and tie up loose ends. Then Jesse and I replaced the section of wire fence that got crushed when a tree fell on it. That was my last chore of the day, and when it was my turn to swing the hammer, my arms were like, “Seriously?” But we finished–Jesse, me, and my tired arms. Go team.

When Ray got home from work, we all decided we were fungry (that’s Ray’s word for “fucking hungry”), so we walked to the food trucks on College and ate at Big Sexy Food. Jesse got a super-duper grilled cheese, and Ray and I both got hamburgers topped with macaroni and cheese. Talk about another miracle. And they actually branded the burger–like you would a cow. How cool is that? And look at the free koozie that comes with every meal. Seriously, it’s good I don’t live a block away from this place because I’d be there all the time and I’m assuming their food is not–what’s the word?–healthy.

But OMG does it taste good.

When we got back to the house, Ray offered me the use of his bathtub, which, y’all, is big enough to host a dinner party. Oh my gosh, it was glorious. That being said, the hot water and bath salts quickly awkened every cut and scrape on my body (ouch), then proceeded to suck what little life was in me–out. I felt like a rag doll. When I finished, Ray said, “You’ll sleep well tonight,” and all the fibers of my being said, “Amen.”

Recently I met a woman for the first time, and she was totally awkward and weird. She was a friend of a friend of a friend or whatever. (I’m intentionally being vague because everyone knows everyone these days.) But we were at dinner together, and in the context of my eating a lot of food, she said, “You’re a big guy.” Well, she’d been rude earlier in the evening, so I did something rather out of character and said, “Watch it, lady.” The she started to back pedal and said, “Well, I’m short–I meant you’re tall. How tall are you?”

My face stone cold, I said, “I’m as tall as I am.”

You know when someone crosses a line. You may not want to admit it, but you know.

Today I told my therapist this story in the context of small victories, speaking my truth, and not being a people-pleaser. She said, “Way to go. You weren’t having it.” I’ve thought about that phrase today–not having it. For the last few years, I’ve actively worked toward “less bullshit, more peace,” and so much of that journey has been about what I’m willing and not willing to put up with. Less and less, I’m willing “to have” someone else’s bad behavior. Likewise, I look at Ray’s yard and the gigantic pile of brush by the curb and realize we weren’t having that either. Those branches’ days were numbered.

Currently my body is saying, “We’ve had enough yard work.”

Whether it’s with an overgrown yard or a bad relationship, I think we all need to get fed up now and then and say, “I’m not having it.” Of course, like all the work around Ray’s house, putting your foot down is usually a process–two steps forward, one step back. But I think we all know when something needs to be done. We all know when someone crosses a line, even though we often let it slide in the name of social graces or being “nice.” But you know. You may not want to admit it, but you know. Personally, I’m learning that being authentic and true to yourself, even in everyday interactions, is its own kind of small miracle, right up there with macaroni and cheese hamburgers–less tasty perhaps, but certainly better for you.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Sometimes we move with grace and sometimes we move with struggle. But at some point, standing still is no longer good enough.

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Complete in This Moment (Blog #171)

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I hate to assume what God thinks about anything, but people do it all the time, so I really don’t think God intended me for manual labor. I mean, it’s not the worst thing in the world, but I think I’m better suited for television. I’d even be willing to be a donut taster, if that’s a thing. But after two days of working in my friend Ray’s yard–all while wearing unattractive velcro shoes and smelling like a mixture of sunscreen, Deep Woods Off, and any dog shit I may have stepped in–I definitely don’t want to make a career out of picking up sticks and weed whacking. All that being said, I’m grateful that my body was able to function today without the aid of crutches or pain killers.

So that’s something.

Fortunately, Ray’s not a hard taskmaster, and I got to sleep in until noon today. Finding some coffee in the pot, I woke up slowly and was ready to work by one, which is when it started raining–a lot. Of course, rain is a real bitch when you’re trying to work in the yard because yards are outside. So instead I worked inside tightening up cabinet doors with power tools, and Ray said I’d make a good lesbian if my hair were only shorter. Then I went to Lowe’s and Home Depot in search of the threshold piece we need, which neither place had. Apparently Ray’s threshold is wider than normal because it’s older construction. That means a trip to a specialty store tomorrow or ordering something custom.

Shortly after I got back from The Fruitless Threshold Search of 2017, it stopped raining, so I raked the front yard and bagged up all the junk. On the one hand, I think it was easier because everything was wet and stuck together. On the other hand, everything was wet and stuck together. But I got it all done. Now I just need to clean the sidewalks, which I’m hoping will be dry enough tomorrow to sweep off. Granted, this plan is contingent on my body not staging a complete rebellion.

I spent the rest of the work day in the backyard, which at first glance appeared to be in need of a machete and a machine gun. My main project was to tear down a contraption where Ray used to keep chickens and a pig named General MacArthur. I thought it resembled an Army bunker, but it was basically was a pen made of t-posts, PVC pipe, chicken wire, and enough zip ties to make for a really kinky Friday night. (That’s a sex joke, Mom. Some people like to be tied up. Don’t worry–I’m not one of them.) The other goal was to repair a section of fence where a tree fell. Essentially, it showed up uninvited and screwed things up real good. (I’ve dated people with this pattern of behavior.)

Here’s a picture of the fallen tree and jacked-up fence. Notice the animal pen in the background.

I told Jesse these projects were a pain in the ass–or, more accurately–a pain in my ass. I was able to break up some of the limbs from the dead tree to pile on the side of the house, but the tree itself was about the size of a junior light pole. (Thank God for those peanut butter crackers I ate this afternoon for energy.) The 2×4 holding up the wire fence was obviously broken, and since the wire was crushed, I tore that out too. But the 2×4 along the ground where the wire attached was covered with ivy, so I had to tear that mess out in order to attach new wire. Then I moved on to the animal pen, and I can’t even find the words. Maybe it gave me PTSD because I’m sweating just thinking about it. The t-posts wouldn’t budge, and everything else came apart about as easily as chewing gum comes out of my nephew’s hair. I said, “Fuck,” a lot. But here’s a picture of the day’s progress. More shall be done tomorrow, since I quit today when it started raining again and someone said, “Tacos.”

I don’t think the picture really does these cuts and scrapes on my forearms justice. I didn’t take a picture of the fallen tree debris, but here’s a picture of the destroyed chicken house/pig pen and all the wreckage from the rest of the backyard. Ray said, “I’ve never seen someone with so much energy.” I said, “That’s not energy–that’s determination.” Honestly, I felt like it was Man vs. Nature, me against inertia. I told Ray, “I’m exercising my self-will over your property.”

Today I’ve thought a lot about all the things that are beyond my control. My original plan was to fix the threshold, mend the fence, and finish the backyard today. But then it rained–and rained again later–so there was only so much I could do. Additionally, some of the chicken wire was buried under a wall of rocks, the t-posts were at least two feet in the ground, and I’m only one person. (This is really hard for me to admit.) I’d love to say that everything will be “perfect” before I leave tomorrow, but I just don’t know. Even if the weather and my body cooperate, there will still be huge piles of brush left, since we don’t currently have a way to haul that off.

My therapist says I have an issue with “completion.” I like things “finished.” (I have it on pretty good authority that Jesus felt this way too, since his last words during Round 1 were, “It is finished.”) If I work in a yard, I want it to be “done,” and if I break up or have a fight with someone, I want us to be “okay.” Of course, this isn’t the way life works. You can’t always clean out a jungle in a weekend, and some relationships take time to mend, if they mend at all. But perhaps this is the gift of time, which teaches us to slow down, not work so hard, and let things unfold as they do. For surely there is wisdom in falling rain and growing ivy, just as there is wisdom in cutting back bushes and mending fences, wisdom that reminds us life is bigger than what we can control, nothing is ever truly done, and all things–including us–are complete in this moment.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Some things simply take time and often more than one trip to the hardware store.

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Doing Something Even If It’s Wrong (Blog #170)

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It’s two in the morning, and after a full day of yard work/hard work, Daddy is officially tired. For the last two hours, I’ve been sitting on the porch with my friend Jesse, drinking beer and generally enjoying myself despite the fact that my entire body has been saying, “What the fuck, man?” all day long. I just took a shower, and now I’m a different skin color. Despite all my efforts under the water, I’m pretty sure I still have black boogers inside my nostrils. You know how it is when you work in the dirt. Now I’m sitting at Ray and Jesse’s dining room table, which is odd, since I’m used to writing in a bed or a chair. But it’s nice because I can rest my elbows in front of me and keep my head from hitting the keyboard.

Okay, I think that’s enough for tonight. I’m should have just enough energy to walk ten steps to the bed in the next room.

When I got to Ray and Jesse’s, we spent some time making a plan and making a list of needed supplies. Then Ray and I went to Lowe’s, filled up the back of his SUV with mulch and such, and returned to the house. For a while, I stalled. Honestly, I was overwhelmed by all the work to do, especially the side of the house, Hellcat Alley. At one time it was a beautiful garden. Ray is an Old Catholic priest, and the garden is designed in the shape of a cross with a quadrant on each side. But as I understand it, one day Ray came home and said, “I can’t do this anymore,” and the garden went to hell in a handbasket. I think a similar thing happened about twenty years ago with my father and his fashion choices.

Here’s a picture of the Back Forty before I started.

I used to work at summer camp with a guy named Trey. Trey was southern in the best possible way and was always saying things like, “Don’t skinny dip with snapping turtles,” or, “Well, spit on the fire and call the dogs–I’m home.” One day after all the kids in his cabin had finished eating lunch, Trey’s assistant counselor, Hardy, just sat at the table, basically with his thumb up his butt. Trey threw up his hands and said,” Hardy, do something even if it’s wrong.”

So not knowing exactly where to start with Fayetteville’s Jungle, I told myself, Do something even if it’s wrong, and primed the weed eater. Headphones in my ears, weed eating to the beat, I felt like a dancing Rambo in the Amazon. Three and a half hours–and a mower, a yard rake, and several bags of trash–later, we started to see signs of progress. The plan is to put down mulch in the four quadrants around the cross, and we got the black tarp/mesh stuff laid down today, along with what mulch we had. The rest of the mulch comes tomorrow–seventy more bags. I swear, there’s a reason so many high school students work in the lawn care business. Their backs actually function.

About the time I moved on to edging and mowing the rest of Ray’s lawn (not pictured), a couple in a really cool car drove up. Turns out it was a 1966 MG, and they’d just come from a British car show. Anyway, they saw the portable storage unit outside the house, said they’d always loved the property, and were wondering if I was moving in. I said, “No, I’m helping some friends move out, but the house is for sale if you’d like to talk to the owner. I’ll go get him.” They said, “We don’t want to keep you from your work.” I said, “Believe me–I don’t mind the break.”

So while Ray showed the couple inside, I took a selfie with their car because that’s not weird or creepy.

I worked on the rest of the yard until I ran out of daylight, so tomorrow I’ll finish raking the front yard and move on to the back. The back used to be a literal pig pen and chicken coop, and there’s a section of the wire fence that’s been crushed by a fallen tree, so that should be fun. But don’t worry, I brought my anti-inflammatories. Anyway, tonight while Jesse went for Chinese take out, I started work on a rotten threshold in the kitchen. (Have tools, will travel.) Here’s a picture of the threshold after I tore out the rotten wood. EEK.

Unfortunately, neither I nor Ray own a circular saw, which means I had to cut the 1×8 and 2×8 I used with a hacksaw. This after I spent all my energy in the yard. Poor planning on my part, I admit. Anyway, when I started, I had only one hand on the saw. Then I had two hands on the saw. Then I started praying. Dear God, please part this board in two. I know rivers are more your thing, but maybe you could branch out just this once–for me.

Here’s where we are now. The threshold piece we bought at Lowe’s today wasn’t wide enough to cover the new wood, even though we got one of the widest options. So I’ll go back tomorrow in hopes that they’ve stocked a new item. Since I’m assuming that will not be the case, I may need to return to the lord in prayer and ask for just one more favor.

Here’s a door-frame pun I just thought of. In a hurry to cross my threshold? Go ahead–step on it!

I crack me up.

You know you’re tired when there’s delicious Chinese food in front of you, but raising your fork to your mouth is so challenging that you consider simply going hungry. I thought, If my friends weren’t here, I’d lay the side of my face on this table and shovel my General Tso’s Chicken into my mouth with my bare hands. Yeah, that sounds like a good plan. But whatever would I do with this Egg Drop Soup? (Somehow I managed with my utensils.) Fortunately, the food perked me up, at least enough to drag my ass to the porch for a couple of hours. And I guess being tired (and a few beers) isn’t the worst thing for writing, since I’ve hit a thousand words in forty minutes. That’s serious record time.

But how to end this?

It takes forty years in captivity for seas to part.

So many times today I thought, This is too much, I don’t know what to do. I guess behind those thoughts was another one maybe you’ve heard before–I can’t. My experience with thoughts like these is that they don’t just apply to yard work. Thoughts and beliefs like these, I guess, are rather like the sunglasses I wore all day today–they make everything darker. That means that when I consider writing a book, getting published, and realizing some of my dreams, those thoughts show up just like they did today while I was moving rocks around and wondering if the weeds I just whacked were poison ivy. Even with this blog, sometimes I think, I can’t do this anymore. But I’m reminded that doing something, even if it’s wrong, is better than standing around with your thumb up your butt. After all, blogs and books are written one word at a time. Stories in a leather-bound book and before-and-after pictures may lead you to believe that miracles happen in an instant, but it takes forty years in captivity and many small steps in the right direction for seas to part.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Normal people don’t walk on water.

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Cheering Each Other On (Blog #169)

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Currently it’s before midnight. Mom and Dad are watching television, I’m doing laundry, and the most interesting thing we’ve talked about all day is how much dog hair the vacuum cleaner sucked up earlier this week. I mean, I saw the evidence in the yard this morning–it looked like a toupee. Anyway, it’s not exactly a Friday night to be envied, but I’m planning on getting up early tomorrow, and that’s why I’m writing now and not watching Netflix with my imaginary boyfriend.

Speaking of which.

For my birthday two different friends sent me a GIF of Zac Efron blowing a kiss and winking at the same time. One of them posted it on Facebook, which–I often forget–my mom is a member of. So the next day my mom referenced the GIF and said (and I quote), “I bet you could look at that all day.” (Take all the time you need to stop laughing.) I said, “Aren’t you cute?”

See what I missed out on by staying in the closet so long?

I’m planning to get up earlier than normal tomorrow in order to do yard word for a friend. I can’t say I’m looking forward to it, mostly because I’m used to getting up about the time the sun is going down, and it’s pretty difficult to weed eat a lawn by the light of the crescent moon. Plus, yard work is hard work. The older I get, the more drugs it requires. Most importantly, I don’t really have the clothes for it. When I had my estate sale last year, I got rid of all my yard work and painting clothes, said, “Fuck this shit,” and haven’t looked back since.

Until today.

Leave it to a homosexual to get hired for yard work and wonder what he’s going to wear. I actually thought about going to Walmart tonight to buy some crappy clothes that I wouldn’t have to worry about messing up. But then I remembered I have a pair of shorts that are falling apart and a four-dollar v-neck t-shirt I’m really not in love with. I thought, Okay, but what am I going to do for shoes? Well, my dad’s feet are smaller than mine, but–on a long shot–I asked if he had any old shoes that would fit me, and he did. Turns out it’s handy to have an aunt who works at a hotel where she periodically gets to raid the lost and found.

So, to the–I’m assuming–elderly gentleman with slightly wide feet who left your velcro shoes in Van Buren, thank you. My fashion standards have officially be lowered. As for you dear reader, if you happen to see me in said velcro shoes this weekend, please pretend you don’t know me.

Tonight I taught a dance lesson to a student who can be pretty tough on themselves. I mean, as a dance instructor, it’s pretty common to hear someone say, “I’ll never get this.” In response, part of me is always cheerleading at work, saying, “You can do it,” so it usually feels like I’m one pom-pom away from sleeping with the quarterback. (Wouldn’t that be nice?) Sometimes people think all my encouragement is bullshit, just an act to earn a dollar, but it’s not. Almost without fail, people exceed their own expectations (and I get to be right). Often less than fifteen minutes after doubting themselves, they’re doing the thing they just said they couldn’t.

I say, “See, you did it!” (Raw raw sis boom bah!)

“Yeah, but I won’t be able to do it again.” (GOOOOOOOO team.)

As a teacher, self-talk like this is hard to hear. Having worked with hundreds and thousands of students, I absolutely know that anyone can learn to dance. At least they can learn to dance better. In over fifteen years of teaching, only once have I thought, How did you walk up the stairs? Here’s your money back. Use it to go bowling. But even that couple, who only came to one class, could have improved. It would have just been a matter of desire, practice, and time. And really, it hurts to see capable, talented, intelligent students put themselves down and not believe in themselves.

So.

A couple days ago one of my friends sent me an email. In short, he said that after reading several of my blogs, he walked away with the crazy notion that sometimes I don’t think I’m good enough or good-looking enough. He said, “If I’ve misjudged that, I apologize.” Uh, no, you read that right. My friend then shared something a friend of his once shared. He said, “If you could only see yourself like I see you, like many other people see you, you’d never think another negative thought about yourself again.” Then he added, “You are more than your body.”

I haven’t written my friend back yet, but his email has been such a beautiful reminder to be kind to myself. Just today I’ve felt not good enough, not good-looking enough, and overwhelmed because–I don’t know–pick a reason. Some days, some years, you’re single, living with your parents, carrying a few extra pounds.

I don’t know why it’s easier to see beauty and potential in someone else than it is to see it in yourself. I have friends that I could easily forward that email to, people I think the world of and love without condition, and I can Hip Hip Hooray all day long for my dance students. But sometimes it’s difficult to extend that unconditional love and can-do spirit to myself. Still, it’s getting better, and I’m grateful we’re in this together, holding each other up, cheering each other on, and blowing each other kisses–whatever it takes to remember how beautiful we all are–even in velcro shoes.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Help is always on the way.

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The Pulse Fixes Everything (Blog #168)

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There’s a principle or technique called pulsing used in swing dancing that’s not used in any other dance I’m aware of. Pulsing, essentially, is bouncing. It comes from slightly bending your knees, keeping your weight on the balls of your feet, and kind of hopping up and down. If you watch swing dancers who know what they’re doing, you could look only at their heels, and they’d be going up and down. Or if you focused only on their heads, it’d look like they were on little pogo sticks. Since swing music is typically upbeat, the pulse compliments the rhythm of the music. Pulsing helps you connect with your partner, gets you moving around the floor more easily, and makes you look alive. I once had an instructor tell me, “If there’s a problem with your dancing, pulse. The pulse fixes everything.”

Since first learning to swing dance in 1999, I’ve learned a lot about pulsing, rhythm, connection, and patterns. I’ve critically observed thousands of other dancers and taken hundreds of classes. Through all of this, I’ve learned about the physical body and the way it works. But since closing my dance studio last year and having a car accident a couple months ago, I’ve had the opportunity to learn about the physical body in a whole new way.

Flexibility makes you a better, healthier dancer.

Over the years people have said, “Oh, you’re a dancer, you must be flexible.” Well, honestly, I never have been. Strong, maybe. Flexible, not so much. A couple years ago, for fun, I took a modern dance class. You know, Martha Graham stuff. I just wanted to do something different. The class was taught at a local dance studio as part of a college course for theater students, and I got to audit it because I know the studio owner. I was the oldest one there and mostly awkward, but I had a great time. Anyway, one of the main things that stood out to me was the fact that every class started with stretching. Why? Flexibility makes you a better, healthier dancer.

Duh.

At the same time I was taking the modern class, I was practicing yoga. Between the two activities, I realized just how tight my hips were. Actually, they’re still tight, but they’re better than they used to be. Today I had coffee with a friend, and when we talked about dance, I said the one thing I wished someone had told me all those years ago was to stretch. Sadly, swing dancers rarely talk about stretching, except in the context of doing aerials. But I’ve never taken or taught a class that included stretching, and I’m starting to believe it’s something we’re missing as a community of dancers. After all, swing dancing takes a lot of energy and a lot of work. It’s part of the reason, I think, that the average swing dancer is only twenty or thirty years old. Constantly pulsing isn’t for sissies and is rough on the body. So if you don’t have a practice in place to take care of yourself and stay limber, you’re going to quit swing dancing and start foxtrotting instead.

Lately I’ve wanted to talk to more swing dancers about any aches and pains they may be experiencing because I’ve realized that many of the problems I’ve had with my body over the last fifteen years have been directly related to swing dancing. I assume plenty of dancers have done a better job of caring for their bodies than I have, but I also assume that plenty of other swing dancers are like me and simply haven’t been taught how to do it. Of course, most of us know something about stretching muscles, but I’m learning more and more about stretching fascia or connective tissue, and that’s really the thing that’s made and is making the biggest difference for me.

Tonight after a couple days off from yoga and stretching, I watched and worked through a video on stretching my lateral lines, basically the fascia on the side of the body. The video instructor, Dylan Werner, said that if you have to make a sudden movement, say catch your balance, it’s your fascia that’s doing the work, since fascia is much more responsive than muscles are. For this reason, having healthy fascia is “the fountain of youth,” meaning it’s our fascia that makes us flexible–or not.

In the best and worst cases, fascia locks our bodies into certain positions and keep us there. Here’s a picture of me taken about a year and a half ago. It’s dated spring of 2016, but I think it was actually the previous winter. Anyway, notice how my neck kind of scoops forward. It was like that for years. Rather than being directly over my shoulders, my ears are over my chest. Also, my back is rounded more than is typical, my shouldesr are slumped forward, and my hands are in front of my hips.

Fortunately, things have gotten a lot better. I just took a break from typing, and here’s where I am tonight. I’m picky as shit, and it’s not exactly where I want to be, but it’s serious improvement–ears over shoulders, less curve in my mid-back, chest out, hands by my side. Honestly, this wasn’t possible two years ago. People used to tell me to “stand up straight,” but I couldn’t. My fascia wouldn’t let me.

Obviously, the body can change. For the longest time, I didn’t even know I had structural problems, just that I had headaches and a hip that hurt. Once the issues were pointed out, I believed I was just stuck that way. Of course, I was stuck that way, but I didn’t think it could ever get better. Well, it’s getting better–it already is better.

Whether you’re a swing dancer or not, if you’re having a problem with your body, I believe there’s hope. And whereas I’ve always wanted a quick fix or “a miracle” to fix my body, it hasn’t worked that way. Over the last year, I’ve seen a number of body workers, massage therapists, and chiropractors, in addition to yoga and other practices I’ve done at home. In swing dancing, if you’re not pulsing, we say you’re flat, as in standing still. So for me healing has been a matter of pulsing, continuing to move and search until I found something that worked. The pulse fixes everything. Then it’s simply been sticking with it, trusting that my body will find its rhythm as I find mine.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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All the while, we imagine things should be different than they are, but life persists the way it is.

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They Say It’s My Birthday (Blog #167)

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Today is my birthday. Traditionally, I love my birthday, and this one has been no exception. That being said, it started off rather rough because 1) I didn’t sleep much last night, 2) I woke up with a crick in my neck, 3) I woke up to Dad talking loud on the phone because not only does his phone suck, but he’s yet to figure out that you don’t have to shout into technology in order for it to function, and 4) My website wasn’t working when I woke up. I thought, Shit, shit, shit, tried to fix it, and failed. Skipping food, I decided I’d have to deal with it later.

Seriously, technology is bullshit. I’m sure Dad would agree.

I’m glad to say that things quickly calmed down, since the first official thing I did today was get a massage from my friend Ron. He’s awesome. A few times he actually stood on my back and worked on me with his feet. The whole time I was thinking, Damn, I have a lot of tight muscles. Normally this fact would really frustrate me, and I’d start internally shouting at myself, RELAX! But today I thought all my tightness was a reason to practice self-compassion. This is the body I live in, and it’s obviously under a lot of pressure. Be gentle, Marcus.

For lunch (or, more accurately, breakfast), my friend Bonnie took me out for Mexican food and dranks. (That’s how kids these days say “drinks,” Mom.) Our waitress was pretty funny, and she asked if Bonnie and I were married. I said, “No, she’s married, but not to me.”

“So you’re having an affair then, an adulterous affair?”

“No, we’re just friends,” I said, then thought, I’m a homosexual!

Later the waitress kept teasing and said, “You’re telling me nothing’s going on here? I mean, she’s wearing strappy shoes, and you’ve got on those nut-hugger jeans.”

Nut-hugger jeans.

I said, “Shit, I’D be wearing those strappy shoes if she’d let me.”

After Mexican food, Bonnie asked I was having cake today, and I said, “I hadn’t planned on it.” So just like that, we decided to go to another restaurant for chocolate cake and coffee. Talk about decadence. In lieu of a boyfriend for my birthday, Mexican food and chocolate cake will do just fine. (Also, they’re cheaper and don’t talk back.) Look at this thing. I’m pretty sure it’s the reason God made insulin and Levi’s made my stretchy (nut-hugger) jeans.

After all the sugar and caffeine, I went to the library for a couple hours with the intent of fixing the blog and writing today’s post. Well, best laid plans. I spent the entire time trying to fix the site, which I finally did. Rather, someone with my hosting company’s technical support team did. Seriously, the person is my hero. Apparently, the site has something called a security (SSL) certificate, which verifies me as the site owner. The certificate expired last night, so although the site was reachable with HTTP in the address bar, it wasn’t reachable with HTTPS in the address bar, which is how all the links I share are designated. The certificate was set to auto-renew, but the process hadn’t completed, so the tech guru expedited things. Within thirty seconds, the site was up and running again.

I considered it a birthday miracle–second to insulin, of course.

This evening I met my friends and former roommates, Justin and Ashley, and we all rode together to Fayetteville for dinner with my friends Ray and Jesse. I’d shown up in a t-shirt, but Justin and Ashley were looking super fly, so I changed into a button-up and jacket I’d thrown in my car just in case. Here’s a picture of the three of us together before we hit the road. Justin’s one of my oldest friends, and I can’t tell you how lovely it is to spend time with him and his sweet wife. It’s like resting in your favorite chair–comfortable, something that just gets better with time. Perhaps you have friends like these, people who stick with you through the ups and the downs and all the changes. I hope so.

Tonight the five of us ate at Vetro 1925 off the square in Fayetteville. It was the perfect thing–easy, relaxed, delicious, full of good company. Ray and Jesse gave me a leather-bound journal. Ray said he wasn’t great at gift giving, but I thought it was just right, especially since Ray loves words like I do. As I flip through all the blank pages, I see lots of potential and I wonder what ideas will be born on them. After dinner we all went back to Ray and Jesse’s house, sat on their back porch, and philosophized and told stories until my birthday was over. It was exactly what a special day should be, spent in the company of dear friends and delicious food.

Throughout the day, I’ve been overwhelmed by the number of messages and well-wishes I’ve received. I used to date a guy, and sometimes when we were out, he’d say people were looking at me, in a good way. But–really–I usually don’t notice that stuff, since I’ve spent most of my life feeling a bit invisible. So whenever someone says, “Oh hey, you’re cute,” or, “I read your blog,” part of me is always surprised, and I guess it’s the same thing with my birthday. Every year I hear from people who I would have assumed didn’t even know my name. It’s really a humbling thing, one of the times I’m glad to say, “I was wrong, and thank you.” Because I don’t think it’s a little thing for someone to take a moment out of their busy day and say, “Happy Birthday,” or, “I notice you and hope you are well.” It’s not a little thing at all.

On the ride back to Fort Smith tonight, Justin asked me what I’d done in the last year that I was proud of, and I said, “I’m proud that I closed my studio, sold most of my possessions, and started a blog where I’ve written every day for over five months.” Honestly, the answer surprised me, since I’ve spent a lot of time the last year wondering whether it’s all been worth it. I have no shortage of fears associated with this time in my life, and when I think about being back home again, “proud” isn’t the first word that springs to mind. But talking to Justin, I realized that all the changes over the last several years have taken a lot of courage and faith in both myself and something larger than myself, and that’s not a little thing either.

Whether if happens on your birthday or not, I think we all need days like the one I’ve had today, days when we’re recognized and celebrated by both others and ourselves. It seems we put so much pressure on ourselves, but the truth is that all of us are courageous simply for being here. Life–perhaps you’ve noticed–isn’t for sissies. Also, although each of us walks a different path and carries mysteries only he or she can answer, we still have each other, people to help take the pressure off, cheer us on, and remind us where we’re succeeding. People say, “Growing old sucks,” but I disagree. Sure, sometimes I wake up with a crick in my neck, but the older I get, the kinder I am to myself and others and the more gentle I become. For this and many other reasons, I’m grateful for each passing year, and I’m excited about all my blank pages.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"Kindness is never a small thing."

Stuff You Can’t Touch (Blog #166)

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Recently I started listening to music while blogging. In the past it’s been too distracting, but since I live with my parents and people make noise, it’s been easier to choose the distraction of music over the distraction of Days of Our Lives. Currently I’m listening to Mama’s Big Ones, the greatest hits album of Mama Cass. It’s one of my favorite things in the entire world. If you ever want to get me into bed, play this record on vinyl and ask me to dance. I’ll be a sure thing. Also, it wouldn’t hurt if your name were Zac Efron.

This morning I had blood drawn as part of a routine checkup. I don’t mind being stuck by a needle, but it always fascinates me that my life force can just be drained out like that, part of me neatly divided into four little glass bottles, shipped off to a lab, and translated onto a sheet of paper. This man has high cholesterol. Once I had a mortician tell me that when someone dies, they drain the blood and pour it down a hole in the floor. There you go–down the tubes–into the sewer. It’s weird, something I can’t quite wrap my brain around.

Usually before giving blood, I try to clean my diet up during the preceding weeks, but this time I was all, fuck cholesterol–it’s just a number. But then I still did what I usually do after the blood was drawn–eat and drink like a college freshman. Granted this makes no logical sense, but it always feels like I have a free pass for a day or two, at least until the tests are completed and I have to face the facts.

This evening I taught dance at Todd and Bonnie’s house, then we sat on their porch for several hours and swapped stories. I’m writing this blog as if it were the day before my birthday, but since it’s after midnight, the big day has arrived. (Happy birthday to me.) So to kick off the celebration, Todd and Bonnie served up beer, and later Bonnie and I did shots of American Honey out of plastic food containers because their kitchen is being remodeled and sometimes you have to improvise. Honestly, it was the perfect and healthy pre-birthday dinner–you know–the kind where healthy means substituting alcohol for quinoa and chocolate chip cookies for grilled chicken.

Hey, I’m a dance instructor, not a dietician.

Tonight Todd and Bonnie and I somehow started talking about how incredible (almost unbelievable) it is to be alive. Todd’s been working on his family tree, and he said if any of his ancestors hadn’t gotten together and decided to have a kid (or–in his family–twelve), he wouldn’t be here. I said, “Yeah, if some other sperm had made it to my mom’s internal finish line first, I could easily be a totally different person. Crazy. (And I can’t believe I just said “my mom’s internal finish line.” I’m blaming the American Honey.)

Sometimes I forget that so much happened before I showed up on the planet, so much that bares a direct influence on where I was born, what my life is like, who I am. There’s a popular thought in the New Age culture that says our souls pick our parents, actually choose the circumstances we’re born into. Like, that looks like a challenge–send me in, Coach. Sometimes I think this idea is a load of crap. Other times I really like it. It helps me find meaning in both the mundane and the difficult as well as connect with that steady part of myself that’s able to weather any storm. I think, Maybe I didn’t know exactly what  I was getting into but knew I was stronger than any circumstance. I don’t have facts to back this theory up, but that last part feels especially true to me.

Regardless of how it happened, thirty-seven years ago my mom was in labor. Just before nine in the morning, I was crowning and being welcomed to the planet. When I got home tonight, I listened to Mama Cass sing “There’s a New World Coming” and danced in my driveway under the half-full moon. The air was cool, the way it always is this time of year when the seasons start to change. I love the air in fall. It always feels so light and fresh, so crisp and clean. Dancing, I thought, What a great time to be born, what a great time to be alive. I’m so glad to be here.

Now it’s four in the morning, and it’s not looking like I’ll get much sleep tonight. I have a full day planned tomorrow, and I’m sure you’ll hear all about it. With any luck, I’ll blog in the afternoon so I can celebrate in the evening without having to worry about cutting the festivities short. But it already feels like a great day, and in this moment, I’m grateful for all the days that have come before. I’ve waited my entire life to turn thirty-seven (it’s just a number), and a lot of good people had to get together in order for this new world to come. For surely each of us is an entire world, and surely all of creation celebrates when one of us is born, just as it grieves when one of us dies and is poured down a drain. Surely we are all connected in a great mystery and made of the same strong stuff, stuff you can’t touch but feels like the beginning of fall or dancing under the moon.

[I know it’s shocking, but I didn’t take a selfie today, so–all things considered–the above photo was the closest thing I could find that seemed appropriate. It was taken at a Great Gatsby fundraiser I co-hosted on my 33rd birthday, four years ago. ]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Go easier on yourself.

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The Weight of Perfection (Blog #165)

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Currently the muscles in my neck are so tight that my jaw is twitching. I wonder if that’s normal, or if it has anything to do with all the caffeine I drank today. I really meant to take a nap, but sometimes your day doesn’t turn out like you think it will. That is to say, sometimes your life doesn’t turn out like you think it will. (Am I right or am I right?) This morning I got up early to go to therapy, and when the conversation turned to age–specifically, my age–my therapist said I wasn’t allowed to complain about being “old” until I was on “the other side” of forty.

I don’t know who makes these rules.

Today my therapist and I talked about insecurities. I feel like I sprinkle them around this blog every day, every damn day, so I’m not sure I’d like to list them again as bullet points. In fact, I would not, but suffice it to say that all of them center around looks, talent, money, and love-ability. I mean, that covers the bases, doesn’t it? The whole thing came up in the context of hypothetical relationships. That is, I’m not currently in one, but I’d like to be one day, provided it doesn’t turn out to be a shit-show like some of my previous ones. You know how it goes. Anyway, my therapist said that she sees “all kinds” of people–the beautiful, the talented, and the rich. “WE ALL have the same insecurities,” she said.

Seriously–that’s good to know.

I spent a couple hours this afternoon with another therapist, my friend Deborah. She owns Anchored Hope Counseling in Fort Smith. She and I were just catching up, but if you need to go there as a client, don’t hesitate. You’ll know you’re in the right spot, since they have anchors EVERYWHERE. She said, “We may have overdone it.” I said, “Yeah, you really went OVERBOARD.” (Waka, Waka.)

This evening I taught dance, then I spent about an hour feeling sorry for myself. I didn’t really mean to do this, but I think it crept up on me because I’m tired. Not that it matters–it happened. The mood probably started when my therapist and I talked about my wanting to be in a relationship one day, a conversation that highlighted the fact that I’m–well–not in one now. I realize for some this may be an enviable position, since the grass is always greener. But after dance, I called to make dinner reservations for my birthday, and the reservation was for an odd number, meaning I’m going to be the only person there without a significant other. So unless the dessert menu is truly exceptional, it’ll be one more birthday I go to bed alone.

As I was processing all this, I really was trying to be grateful and see the bright side, but it was a losing battle, so I eventually cried. What pushed me over the edge was thinking about seeing Deborah this afternoon because she’s a “touchy” person. I mean, she’d make a joke, reach over, and touch my arm or shoulder. Well, I’m not a touchy person. I usually show affirmation through words. (Surprise.) But I kept thinking that positive touch really is healing, and it’s something most of us don’t get enough of. Deborah probably didn’t think anything about it, but I realized that when you’re experiencing loneliness, an affirming hand can really make you feel both “seen” and “okay.”

Y’all, crying really is great. You should try it. I mean, you don’t have to sob and boo-hoo, although that’s okay too. Personally, I only cried a few tears, but now I feel so much better. It’s easier to see that I’m not the only single person on the planet, I have a lot to be grateful for, and if it’s meant to happen, it’ll happen. All that from a few tears! Well, all that from a few tears, several tacos, and a chocolate chip cookie, since I believe in combining different forms of therapy.

This afternoon at her office Deborah showed me a collection of mixed-media art she calls The Sisters. The Sisters are basically five different women, each in her own frame, each with her own inspirational saying. They’re pretty awesome, and my favorite was the one with this woman in–honestly–a rather frumpy, mismatched outfit. Beside her it said, “She released the weight of perfection and decided to become herself.”

The weight of perfection–isn’t that powerful? I mean, I think we could stop there and call it a night.

Life is never just so. Honestly, it’s a big damn mess most of the time.

But really, when I think about wanting to be in a relationship and even all my insecurities, I know my desires and fears are all centered around this idea of perfection, that I’d be happier if life were just so. Of course, this is a heavy burden to carry around, and life is never just so. Honestly, it’s a big damn mess most of the time. We want something, we get it, then we don’t want it anymore. We get worried people won’t love something about us, but the truth is that people love us not in spite of our so-called flaws, but because of them. This is a lesson I’m being reminded of over and over again–no one is alone, we all have the same insecurities, and all of us are not only worthy of being seen, but also more than okay just as we are.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"Why should anyone be embarrassed about the truth?"