The Puzzle of Our Lives (Blog #711)

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I was grouchy all day yesterday, critical of myself and others. This is often the first sign that I’m not feeling well, that something is off in my body. Sure enough, I woke up sick this morning. And whereas it wasn’t full-blown awful, it was the start of another sinus infection. Shit, I thought, I just dealt with this two weeks ago. Like feeling sorry for yourself makes any difference. Life does what it does.

This afternoon I saw my chiropractor and massage therapist, who both worked on my shoulders, where I apparently have a pinched nerve. Thankfully, I think whatever they did helped. The random pains I’ve been feeling haven’t been coming as fast and furious since I left their office. “Come back later this week,” my chiropractor said. “Let’s get this done and over with.”

Let’s get this done and over with. And all god’s people said Amen. Along these lines, after I left the chiropractor’s office, I ordered more of the probiotic powder I use to help my sinus infections (online) and bought some more kimchi (at a grocery store), which I also use to help my sinus infections. (What I had at home had expired.) As these two products have worked reliably in the past, I plan on hitting them hard for the next few days, in addition to eating well and trying (trying) to get plenty of rest. Fingers crossed. Let’s get this done and over with.

I spent this evening at the local library. I’ve been meaning for almost a year now to go back and re-read all my blog posts, and since I’m coming up on two solid years of blogging, I figured now was a good time to start. Oh my gosh, y’all, I talk a lot. Tonight I re-read forty-two blog posts (in no particular order), and it took me just under three hours. So this project’s going to take a while. But already it’s been the best thing, a reminder of my good and bad days, the people I love and love not-so-much, and where and how I’ve grown. Every day I sit down at this computer and am literally two feet from the screen. Then, it’s one post at a time, one day at time. My point is that it’s easy to lose perspective, to get so close to your own life that you don’t see what’s happening. So I’m looking forward to standing back and getting a bird’s-eye view of these last two years.

It’s important, I think, to get some distance from yourself every now and then. In the midst of a problem–a simple sinus infection, let’s say–it’s easy to hyper-focus on whatever is bothering you and lose sight of the bigger picture, to forget that our hurts and hangups are often only one piece of the puzzle of our lives. This is the benefit of journaling. When you put your life on a page, it automatically creates some space between you and your internal narrative. Likewise, a good (objective) friend or therapist can offer a different perspective from you own, one that’s probably more accurate, one you might like better. So often I think of myself as sickly and weak, but my therapist says, “From my viewpoint, you’re young, healthy, and strong.”

“Um, did you say I was young?” I reply.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"That love inside that shows up as joy or enthusiasm is your authentic self."

On Measured Effort (Blog #710)

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Last night, thanks to the time change, I got five hours of sleep instead of six. Color me not impressed. My body’s been off all day. Currently it’s ten in the evening, and I’ve been ready to go back to bed for twelve hours. Fingers crossed I’ll be asleep by midnight.

One can hope.

This morning I woke up early to teach a swing dance workshop in Fayetteville. It went well. God bless everyone who got out of bed to attend and listen to me say, “one more time” over and over again. One more time, I’ve probably said that more times that I can count. That and, “five, six, seven, eight.” Today a student, making reference to a basic step we covered in class, said, “I already know that.” I remember thinking something similar when I was a new dancer; I wanted to learn the cool shit. But the older I get, the more I find myself going back to the basics–taking clean steps, being on the beat, doing the same thing over and over again.

I say this a lot as a teacher, but the only way to really learn is to go slow. There’s so much going on when you dance, you mind and body need time to become aware of what’s happening and integrate the information. Granted, as a student, I hate that. I want to zip through new dance patterns like everybody else does. I’ve been learning to knit recently, and I can’t tell you how eager I am to knit a blanket. But my first project was a pot holder, and my next one’s going to be a cap. That’s the deal; with anything, you have to start small and work you way up. You can’t just dive into the deep end without learning how to swim first. Yesterday I said my therapist thought the universe was trying to get me to slow down (because I injured my knee a few months ago). If she’s right, it’s a hard lesson to learn. After the workshop today, there was a dance, and I wanted so badly to really cut loose. But I forced myself to stick to the basics, to go slow.

One friend I danced with noted that my steps were “measured.” She was right–I was super careful this afternoon during the workshop and especially this evening on the dance floor. And whereas that was frustrating as hell, it’s what my body requires. And it’s not awful. Actually, I wish I had gone slower when I first started dancing. I wish my steps had been measured back then. That is, I wish I’d taken more time to move slowly and deliberately, to really focus on my technique, to not develop bad habits.

Alas, I didn’t become interested in the technical, finer details of dancing until much later, when I started teaching. And even though being a teacher has taught me the value of not being in a hurry, I still often am. I start a project, like this blog or rehab-ing my knee, for example, and I want to get to the end. I see those motivational posters that say, “Life’s not a destination, it’s a journey,” and feel like vomiting. I want to do that fancy dance move, I want to be published, I want my knee back. Get me across the finish line already.

Hell, just get me to bed.

Your relationships won’t get better until you do.

It occurs to me that everything I’m really proud of–my dancing ability and knowledge, my relationships, my work in therapy, this blog–has come from measured effort. Not that I’ve been measured (or patient or calm) every minute of every damn day with any of these things, but I have been measured enough to be 1) intentional and 2) consistent. That’s what I’d say to anyone wanting to learn a new thing or grow themselves in some way–be intentional and consistent. That is, act on purpose. Obviously, you’re not going to accidentally become a good dancer, nor are you going to slip on a banana peel one day and have a completed novel fall out of your brain on your way down. Likewise, your relationships won’t get better until you do. It takes a decision. After that, it takes dedication. Simply put, you have to keep showing up.

Even if you’re not in the mood. Even if you only got five hours of sleep last night.

I say this for myself more than for anyone else. I constantly struggle with knowing when to push myself (for example, when to lose sleep in order to write this blog) and when to back off. Today in class I talked about how Lindy Hop has “built-in” times to rest. That is, certain steps take up more beats in the music, which gives the dancer time to breathe and not feel hurried. So I’m trying to recognize that these times exist in my life too, that it’s important to be measured or intentional about slowing down as well.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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So perhaps perfection has little to do with that which changes and everything to do with that which doesn't. For surely there is a still, small something inside each of us that never changes, something that is timeless and untouchable, something inherently valuable and lovable--something perfect.

"

On Being Productive Enough (Blog #709)

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Well shit. Tonight is daylight savings. And whereas I’m thrilled about there being more sunshine in my life, I’m not thrilled about losing an hour of sleep, especially since I’m getting up early tomorrow to teach a swing dance workshop. That being said, it’s fabulous to be employed, so I’ll set my alarm and soldier through like the adult that I am. I can always sleep in on Monday. Still, it’s eleven now, basically midnight, so I need to finish this lickety-split and start winding down.

So far it’s been a wonderful weekend. Last night (Friday), I had dinner with a friend then went to see a local (kids) production of The Wizard of Oz. At dinner I had my first cup of coffee in over two months, since Christmas Day, the day before my knee surgery. I quit because I was really overdoing it, drinking caffeine all day then wondering why I wasn’t getting a good night’s sleep. Anyway, my cup of joe was fabulous, and I managed to limit myself. No refills.

Let’s say this together–“I am capable of moderation.”

This afternoon I hung out with my friend Justin. The weather today was gorgeous, so we went for a long walk downtown by the river. As per usual, we discussed all things deep and shallow. After our walk, we grabbed a quick dinner, then Justin took off to other plans. Then I went to help another friend with a television remote control problem and ended up learning about a technology called CES, which allows a device that’s connected to your television through an HDMI cable (like Apple TV or a DVD player) to turn your television on or off. That was the problem, the remote was turning the television off, but then the television was coming back on (because Apple TV was telling it to).

Some electronic devices are so bossy.

Since my friend doesn’t use Apple TV anymore, we simply unplugged it, and that solved the problem. But there’s a lesson here somewhere. Something about how we give some people the power to turn us on or turn us off, how we let certain others push our buttons and get us all riled up when we could just unplug them.

Bye, Felicia.

This weekend I’ve broken a lot of my personal rules. In addition to having coffee last night, I also had dessert–white chocolate raspberry cheesecake, which is the next best thing to live-in lover as far as I’m concerned but is also loaded with calories. Then tonight after my friend and I fixed their remote control problem, we went to Braum’s and I had a chocolate malt. Again, it was basically orgasmic, and fattening. Now I’m considering breaking another rule. Since I’m pressed for time, I’ve almost convinced myself to skip my knee rehab exercises for the first time since surgery. Surely that’ll be okay.

Surely.

The last time I spoke to my therapist, she talked about my knee injury. “That was seriously rando,” she said. (That’s short for random, Mom.) Then she added, “If I had to guess, I’d say that happened because the universe wants you to slow the fuck down.” This was said just after we’d discussed how much I should be pushing myself–to get better, to write more often, to be productive. “You’re productive enough,” she said. So I’m trying to let that sink in, the idea that it’s okay to slow down, slow way down, that it’s good and necessary to break your own rules occasionally because–hello!–there are no rules here. Life, it seems, is meant for being lived in the moment, not from a calendar or rule book.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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No good story ever ends.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Pressure, it seems, is necessary to positive internal change. After all, lumps of coal don't shine on their own.

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On Good Lighting (Blog #707)

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I spent this afternoon and evening helping a friend put their living room back in order. They recently had it painted. And whereas most of the work was already done, I helped hang a few photos and installed those rolly switch thingies on a couple lamp cords. The rolly switch thingies were the hardest part. In theory it’s a simple operation, but as you know, dear reader, theory and reality are two different things. At least tonight they were. It took over an hour–and not a few curse words–to get the switches installed.

Recently my friend Kim told me that if someone asks you to help them and you think it’s going to take three hours, assume that it will take six, then decide if you want to help or not. Well, the point is the same for redecorating your living room or any sort of repair project–it always takes longer than you think it will. Thankfully, my friend and I had a great time visiting while things were slowly getting done. We chatted and laughed; we ate dinner. When the food arrived (we ordered in), my friend said, “Okay, everything stops.” And it did–we put aside every half-done project and sat down at the dinner table.

The point–few things in life can’t wait until after you eat.

After dinner we finished up in the living room, then I helped my friend with a couple computer problems. Then we returned to the living room because something was bothering us. I’ll explain. When I moved one of the rolly switch thingies from low on a particular lamp cord to up higher, I had to splice the wire where the rolly switch thingy had been before and wrap it with electrical tape. Since the cord was hanging off the back of a pedestal table, you could see the repair, tape and all. Ick, gross. Anyway, we ended up moving lamps around, switching out the one on the pedestal table with another that sat on top of a wine rack. This ended up being the perfect thing, since the wine rack had a back that hid the unsightly cord.

Well, this started something, so we switched out two other lamps–one in the computer room for one in the living room. However, I personally found myself in a quandary–I liked the new lamp in the living room but thought it made the room look too white, too bright, too stark. At first I thought this was because of the shade. The old one had a red shade, and the new one had a white linen one. But then I thought to simply change the bulbs, since the too bright lamp had an LED bulb, and the other one had an incandescent. Voila! This did the trick. The previously too bright lamp immediately took on a warmer, softer tone, and the white linen shade now appeared more tan, khaki.

Again, this started something, so we began changing out all the light bulbs in the living room lamps (there were a lot of them). One by one, we pulled out LED bulbs and put in incandescent ones. And just like that, the entire living room became warmer, calmer, friendlier. It was like the room itself heaved a collective sigh and relaxed its shoulders.

Energy efficiency be damned!

After we finished this project, my friend pulled out an old photo of me. It’s at the top of tonight’s blog, and I think it was taken when I was about twenty-five, when I opened my dance studio. I know for sure it was taken at the studio; I’d recognize that wall anywhere. Anyway, I love that photo. Not because I think I looked THAT much different when I was twenty-five, per say, but because the photo was taken by a large glass window and I had good lighting (fabulous really), like my friend’s living room has now. Yes, good lighting makes all the difference. So many times we cast our problems in this stark, bright light. Ick, gross. We think, I can’t do anything about this. But even if that’s true, even if our problems refuse to budge, it is possible to shift our perspective. Like changing a light bulb, we can change the way we look at things. We can take what once seemed unbearable and turn it into something warmer, something softer, something we can work with.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Nothing is set in stone here.

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On Attention (Blog #706)

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This afternoon I ran errands with my friend Bonnie. We picked out some yarn for my upcoming knitting project, a beanie. The next step will be to find a pattern, then I’ll be off and knitting. Out of my way, Grandma. The last thing Bonnie and I did was eat at Village Inn. I made a mistake and looked at the calories in my favorite meal there–the California Skillet. (It was a lot.) Oh well, I was already committed; I ordered and ate it anyway. I did, however, manage to keep myself from eating the entire stack of pancakes that came as a side. Way to make good choices, Marcus. But then (because it was free slice Wednesday), I ordered and ate an entire piece of pie. Out of my way, willpower.

At some point today I got a headache. It started this morning but was low-level, nothing too threatening. However, as Bonnie and I went here and there, the tension in the back of my head grew and grew. Alas, by the time I got home it was ugly, so I took a nap in hopes that it would go away. And whereas the nap was lovely, the headache remained. I hate it when that happens. So when I woke up, I took some pills. Now I’m sipping hot tea, and I think it’s backing off–a little. Ugh, it’s really difficult to think or pay attention to anything else when your head is pounding. However, I’m learning that this is important to do.

I’ll explain.

Lately I’ve been reading about attention. One of the ideas that fascinates me is that most of us, most the time, are focused on one thing–a headache, a writing project, a television program we’re watching. However, despite the fact that we’re essentially tuned to one channel, our minds and bodies are receiving signals from countless sources. For example, yes, I have a headache now. I’m aware of that fact. But if I slow down for a minute, I’m also aware of the temperature of my skin, the coolness of the air as I breathe in through my nostrils, and a number of different sounds–the music in my earbuds, the clack-clack-clack of the keys on my keyboard, and the talent show competition on the television in my parents’ living room.

One of the points of the material I’m reading is that when we focus on one thing to the exclusion of others, it makes that thing seem bigger than it really is. I do this with health problems (well, most problems) a lot. Consequently, they get blown out of proportion. Not that a headache is fun when it’s going on, but even then, it’s not the only thing happening. In terms of perspective, I could say, “Today sucked. I had a headache.” Or I could widen my viewpoint and realize, “Today was super. I spent time with a friend. I ate a piece of apple pie. I took a nap.” And not that this makes my headache magically disappear, but it does help restore a certain amount of balance to my reality.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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There’s nothing you can do to change the seasons or hurry them along.

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Boys, Frosting, Food, and Clothing (Blog #705)

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Today has been fabulous and makes me glad to be alive. I can’t say why it’s been fabulous exactly, but I’ll try. This morning I woke up early, like eight-thirty, and began the day in quiet and solitude. This suites my personality, a slow, hushed start and a healthy breakfast. The menu today: scrambled eggs with turkey, spinach, and green onions; a side of pineapple; and hot lungwort tea. Lungwort’s supposed to be good for your lungs and decreasing mucus. Personally, I just like the way it sounds–lungwort. It’s so–medieval. I feel like a wizard every time I say it.

The reason I got up early was to see my therapists. Yes, I have more than one. It takes a village. First I saw my mental health therapist, the one this blog is named in honor of, my shrink. A few months ago I had a dream about a giant snake in a swamp, and recently I had another dream about a giant snake on land. The second snake tried to bite me, and I was terrified but ended up controlling it. When I told my therapist about these dreams, she said, “What do you think of snakes?” I said, “I think they’re strong and powerful.” Then she said, “Then that’s you. You’re the snake–you’re strong and powerful,” which made me want to cry. Weird how we don’t want to recognize our own best qualities, how we’re afraid of ourselves.

My therapist and I also talked about my future. I’ve been thinking lately I should get into an additional writing routine, force myself into a chair and bang my head against the table until a book falls out. My therapist, however, suggested that I don’t do anything until we talk again. “Reduce yourself,” she said. “Give yourself a break.” Then she added, “In the meantime, think about boys, frosting, food, and clothing.” So that’s what I did the rest of the day. First I ate a cream cheese bagel, then (after physical therapy) went shopping for clothes. And whereas I didn’t buy anything, I had a wonderful time looking. Well wait, I bought a new tape measure at the hardware store because my old tape measure broke recently. Anyway, the point is that I did NOT think about my future, even while I was eating a brownie tonight.

I’d like to emphasize I only ate the brownie because, well, doctor’s order’s, and I try to be a good patient.

At physical therapy, I got to jog (on a treadmill) for the first time since my knee injury and subsequent surgery. Well, okay, it was more like a fast walk (3.3 miles per hour), but it mimicked a jog. My physical therapist said this was the point, to simply get the motion. “It feels awkward,” I said. “That’s normal,” he said. Likewise, when I said that the hardest exercise I do is lowering myself down onto a step, he said, “That’s the last thing to come back. It just takes time.” Still, despite this fact, I see a lot of progress. Today I broke a sweat balancing on a Bosu ball, but the balancing was easier than two weeks ago; I didn’t have to use the bar in front of me to keep from falling over.

And did I mention I’m jogging!

While driving around today, I listened to a podcast about willpower. The speaker, Kate Galliett, said that willpower is depleted 1) by our feeling overwhelmed and 2) by our making a lot of decisions. That is, if you have to make a hundred choices at work during the day, in the evening you’re probably not going to have the mental reserves required for eating broccoli instead of cake, unless broccoli is already a habit for you. If it’s not, you’ll say, “Fuck it, I’m too tired” and reach for the red velvet. What I found most interesting, however, was that Kate said ANY decision you make depletes your willpower–including what statuses to like or not like on social media. Or what clothes you’re going to wear every day. This is why Steve Jobs had a uniform (or why you might want to set out your clothes the night before). Think about it–if you can only make so many decisions each day, why not save them for what’s important–your job, your health, your relationships.

Not necessarily in that order.

Honestly, I’m not sure why my therapist wanted me to “reduce myself” for a bit in terms of my writing routine and rather think about boys, frosting, food, and clothing. But my guess is that she knows I tend to wear myself out and thinks it would be wise to first sit down and get clear about what’s really important and what I want to accomplish. Because I do use my willpower a lot–to write this blog every day, to rehab my knee, to read a hundred books, to do half a dozen things I don’t always talk about here. And the podcast I listened to was right–willpower is a limited resource. Granted, it can replenish itself, but not if you keep pushing, pushing, pushing. At some point, you’ve got to chill out. You’ve got to give yourself a break.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

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On Playing the Long Game (Blog #704)

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Lately I’ve been thinking about The Long Game. In terms of business, Amazon is playing a long game. That is, they’re not in a hurry; they’re not going anywhere fast. This is why their prices are so competitive; they don’t have to make a profit right this very minute (although they probably are). I’ve been thinking there are a lot of advantages to The Long Game, to not being in a rush or not being a fly-by-night operation. Take this blog project, for instance. Because I consistently do a little bit at a time, over time it adds up to a lot–a lot of words, a lot of sentences, a lot of paragraphs.

A lot of damn navel-gazing, if you want to know the truth.

The Long Game has been on my mind because I’ve recently undertaken a number of projects that can’t–no way, no how–be completed in a day, a week, or even a month. For example, rehab-ing the knee I injured three months ago–that’s a six-month project at least. Or running a half marathon, a goal I initially set a year and a half ago before I got so sick and then the knee thing happened and have just this last week recommitted to–that’ll take some time to get ready for, especially since I haven’t jogged in months and have never run more than eight miles (like Eminem).

This afternoon I went to the gym and did the elliptical. While bouncing up and down, my long hair kept getting in my face. This afternoon while my chiropractor was doing ultrasound on my neck (I apparently have a pinched nerve–yippee), he gave me a ponytail holder to pull my hair back. And whereas I appreciated the thought, my hair isn’t quite long enough for a ponytail. Or maybe I just don’t know how to bunch everything right. Anyway, while on the elliptical I kept thinking about cutting all my hair off. But then I remembered The Long Game, that in just another month or two it won’t be so awkward and I can pull it back if I want to.

I’ve been saying for a while that most everything takes time. More than trying to convince you of this fact, dear reader, I’m trying to convince myself. Thankfully, it’s sinking in. This evening I taught a dance lesson at my friends Todd and Bonnie’s house. It was for a couple getting married in a few months. Tonight was their second lesson. And whereas they’re catching on quickly and doing well, learning to dance doesn’t happen in an hour. It doesn’t (really) happen in a hundred hours. It takes thousands. It’s a long game. If you truly want to do it, at some point you have to get okay with that fact.

After the dance lesson, Bonnie helped me finish my first official knitting project–a potholder that says HI. I sort of  finished it last week, but I didn’t know how to “bind off” or wrap up the last row. Anyway, Bonnie taught me tonight, and now it’s done, kind of. Bonnie said there was ONE MORE step–blocking, which means soaking the project in warm, slightly soapy water, then letting it air dry in order to get the “waves” or unevenness out. Here’s a picture of the warm-water-soaking.

Here’s a picture of the air-drying, which is what’s happening as we speak (don’t you feel included?).

I’ve blogged before about making a few mistakes while working on this project, about how they sort of drove me crazy. However, as I finished tonight, I fell in love with my mistakes. After all, this is my first knitting project. It’s like my first child. I’m a proud papa. I think my kid is beautiful. (Don’t make fun of his birthmarks, or I’ll kick your ass.) But seriously, I think those mistakes are like the scars on my knee. They tell a story. Also, like the mistakes my dance students made this evening, they’re an important part of the learning process.

Bonnie says my next project should probably be a beanie, a cap. For sure, I’m excited to get started and to get finished. However, I really am getting okay with The Long Game, the idea that most things worth doing–working out, learning to dance, learning to knit, um, sorting out your past or healing your body–take committed and sustained effort. Not that you have to do whatever it is every day, every damn day (this blog even by my standards is excessive), but you do have to keep showing up. That and, I think, give yourself more time than you think you need. Say, I’m going to take a year, maybe two, to do this–get myself in shape, learn a new skill, write a book. Tell yourself, I’m going to play The Long Game.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Nothing is set in stone here.

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On Simple Pleasures (Blog #703)

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Today I was supposed to go to Tulsa to see friends, but this morning decided not because of the weather. Last night it sleeted and snowed in Oklahoma. And whereas the roads would probably have been clear(er) this afternoon, my gut said no. Weird, because I usually don’t get in a twist about weather conditions. But since I had knee surgery, I’m especially cautions of slick surfaces. That’s the last thing I need, to make it all the way to Tulsa just to slip on a restaurant sidewalk. What’s the saying? Better safe than sorry.

In lieu of traveling today, I stayed home–fixed myself a nice oatmeal breakfast, then spent the afternoon reading a book by Robert Sapolsky called Behave: The Biology of Humans at Our Best and Worst, about why people commit acts of aggression and violence. Apparently the answer isn’t simple; the book is over 700 pages. Also, it’s dense. I’m on page 62, and so far all I’ve taken away is a vague understanding of what a neurotransmitter is. Well, that’s not true. I’ve also learned about the prefrontal cortex (PFC), which is the part of my brain apparently responsible for my eating kale salads. That is, the PFC helps us choose what is “best” over what is fun, expedient, or titillating. It’s the reason we set our alarms to go to work or the reason we don’t hit on the hot guy at the gym, even if we fantasize about it (a lot).

By the way, the PFC doesn’t fully develop until a person’s mid to late twenties, which explains a lot and is one of the reasons my therapist recommends my dating someone over thirty.

Earlier this evening my PFC, always doing its job, took me to the gym. Dad went with me. I’ll spare you every little detail, but I cycled then followed along with a yoga video on my laptop, which I brought with me. However, I couldn’t do everything the video asked me to, like rest my weight on my left knee. I’m getting really excited to start using my body like I used to, but I figured better safe than sorry. So I modified. As the yoga instructor said, “We work with the bodies we have.”

We work with the bodies we have. Amen.

I don’t have much else to say. I’m excited to hit “publish” and, I don’t know, watch a movie. Historically I’d be bemoaning what didn’t happen today, thinking I could have gone to dinner with my friends instead of to the gym (woo, exercise). But lately I’ve been trying to find joy being right here, right now, whether that means breaking a sweat or sitting at home in my sweat-pants. I’ve been trying to bask in simple pleasures–a good story, a hot cup of tea–hell, walking, which I’ve found is especially enjoyable if you haven’t been able to do it in a while.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Even a twisted tree grows tall and strong.

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My “Too Much” Gene (Blog #702)

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Last night I went to bed at two, a little sooner than normal, in order to wake up early this morning to help my friends Todd and Bonnie pack. (They’re getting ready to move.) And whereas I’d hoped to doze right off, I tossed and turned for over two hours. I finally fell asleep about four-thirty. For thirty minutes. (Not funny, Mr. Sandman.) I lay awake until six, at which point I drifted off into blissful sleep. When the alarm went off three hours later, I was like, What the hell? You know how it is when your brain and body are exhausted, the way it takes concentrated effort and three repetitions of The Lord’s Prayer to simply put on your socks. That was me this morning. Foggy. I swear, if someone had seen me stumbling around trying to tie my shoes they would have said, “His cornbread ain’t done in the middle.”

Speaking of bread, Todd and Bonnie provided donuts for breakfast. Oh my gosh, y’all, I only had two (I’m not a complete animal), but they were delicious. This is why one should periodically eat healthy. Sweets taste even sweeter, and whole milk tastes even, um, whole-er when you haven’t had them in a while. Anyway, all of it did the trick, perked me right up. For fifteen minutes. Thankfully, I didn’t have to be fully awake to work, just awake enough to move furniture and bubble wrap a few other things.

Since Todd and Bonnie had invited several friends and relatives to their “packing party,” things went quickly. “Many hands make light work,” Bonnie said. No kidding, we were done in less than three hours–just in time for pizza. That’s how Todd and Bonnie got all of us there, by the way; they promised us carbohydrates for breakfast and lunch (and they delivered).

Confession: I ate four pieces of pizza.

This afternoon my regular gym buddy (my dad) went to work out with my aunt, so after I got home from packing I went by myself. And get this shit. The girl at the front desk, who’s almost always there when I am, greeted me when I walked through the door by saying, “Your father was here earlier!” Oh my gosh, y’all, talk about embarrassing. People are associating us together! (Also, they’re apparently not buying my “he’s my roommate” story.) Anyway, my neck and shoulder have been giving me hell lately, so I didn’t do any upper body work today. Rather, I did knee rehab. My physical therapist cleared me to start using the elliptical machine, so for twenty minutes I pretended I was a gazelle prancing through the grasslands of Africa.

Granted, a gazelle probably wouldn’t grip the stationary handlebars for fear it would fall over, but it probably wouldn’t have broken its knee trying to jump over another gazelle’s head either.

Now it’s nine-thirty, and my brain and body are mush. With any luck, I’ll be in bed and passed out before midnight. All afternoon I’ve been thinking about something my friend Corban, who helped Todd and Bonnie today, said. We were packing an antique rocking chair, and he was really going after the legs with the bubble wrap. He kept going around and around with the stuff. Finally I said, “That should do it,” and he said, “My ‘too much’ gene may have taken over.”

My “too much” gene. Is that perfect, or what? I completely relate to having it. When given a task, I almost always feel like I have to knock it out of the park no matter what. Consequently, I often wear my mind and body down in my attempt to overachieve. Honestly, it’s probably why my neck and shoulder hurt–because I got obsessive, because I did something “too much.” God knows I’ve gained weight in the past not because I ate too much donuts and pizza one day, but because I ate too much donuts and pizza too many days. Too much, too much. So again, this is my reminder to myself to slow down and take the middle path, to trust that moderation can get me where I want to go, to let my “that’s enough, that’s more than enough for now” gene take over.

Surely I have one of those.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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