On Rewriting Your Own Story (Blog #86)

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Four years ago I completed my first and only triathlon. At the time I was working out pretty hardcore with my friend Jim, who’s pretty hardcore himself. I mean, the man’s retired, has competed in dozens and dozens of marathons and triathlons, and even today could probably benchpress in pounds the number of calories I drank in beer today. All this he does with one lung (he’s beat cancer three times), so he’s not exactly the person you want to call when you feel like whining or skipping a workout. Anyway, when the above photo was taken, Jim and I were exercising–lifting, swimming, biking, running–probably six or seven days a week. I don’t think I’ve ever sweat so much in all my life. It’s a wonder I didn’t die of evaporation.

I think I ran two 5Ks that spring. They both started around six or seven in the morning, so there’s actual, documented proof that I was awake and functioning before noon. So there. Since the mornings were cool, I decided “my thing” would be wearing knee-high colored tube socks. Looking back, I might as well have just worn a fanny pack that said “virgin” in pink sequins.

Here’s a picture from my first 5k, taken right before the finish line. I’m especially proud that I was able to turn up the heat at the last minute and smoke those little toddlers’ butts. I like to think they ran straight for their mothers and started sobbing.

Maybe sometime between the first and second race, I started having a funny sensation in my right hip. Not knowing what it was, I pushed through–kept up all the workouts. Before summer hit, I was in more pain than I’d been in before or have been since. I’m not exactly sure how to describe it, but tying my shoes made me want to cry. Getting in and out of the car did too. It felt like a knife shoved into my hip, knee, and ankle, all at the same time, and it went on for months. Now I know that it was sciatic pain, a pinched nerve due to the structure of my body and inflammation in my hip. But then, even though I talked to several professionals, it remained a mystery.

So I quit swimming. Quit biking. Quit running. Quit working out my lower body.

Eventually the pain got better, manageable. Then I found a chiropractor who made it disappear within a couple of weeks. It was like a miracle (that you have to pay for). So I started swimming and biking again, but I couldn’t run because anytime I tried, the pain came back. That means that for the last four years, I’ve had to be really be careful when it’s come to that hip. It also means that I’ve also eaten a lot of carrot cake–you know–as a way of apologizing to my body for all that exercise I put it through.

I joke about stuff like this, but I can’t tell you have fucking frustrating my right hip issue has been. Even before the sciatic part, things were out of whack. Some days it just kept me from doing things I enjoyed, like racing against five-year-olds. Other days it straight-up hurt like a sonofabitch.

Cut out what’s not working, add in something that is.

Today, like last weekend, I spent the afternoon and evening at the Arkansas New Play Festival in Fayetteville. Having had a long week, I’d planned to skip the final play, Comet Town, since I saw it last Saturday. HOWEVER, I spoke with the playwright this afternoon, Rick Ehrstin, and he told me that they’d changed the play a lot since last week, cleaned it up quite a bit. (This is part of the point, I’m learning, of the festival, since it features plays that are in “the works.”) So I decided to stay, a choice that had mostly to do with Rick’s play and a little to do with the free beer being served.

Of course, the main points in the play stayed the same. An alcoholic man hires a woman to take care of his father, who has dementia and thinks planes flying over his home are comets and sounds from his basement are his dead wife. But so many little things changed. Last week there was a part in which the alcoholic complained about a previous caretaker who’d stolen from the family. This week it was gone. The effect for me was that the character instantly softened up a little, became more likable.

The author said that in one form or another, he’s been working on the play for years. As a writer, I know it’s easy to get stuck in or married to certain ideas, so I love that he’s been able to be flexible, cut out what’s not working (kill your darlings, it’s called), add in something that is. So this evening I’ve been stuck on this idea of rewriting a story, taking an idea that’s maybe been the same for years and effectively going back to the drawing board with it.

A few weeks ago I started running again, gingerly. Mostly, I’ve been walking, but running some, adding in a little more distance each week. Tonight after I got home from the play, I ran the farthest, nonstop, that I have since Jim’s Summer of Exercise Heaven and Hell.

Five and a half miles.

(Take all the time you need to stop clapping and sit back down.)

We can rewrite our stories if we want to.

Really, I don’t know whether that’s a big deal or not, but I do know that it’s a big deal for me, and it’s a big damn deal for my hip. I mean, it’s tight. I can feel that. But in the last four years, I’ve learned enough about what’s going on that I think I can work with it. And whereas I’m happy–thrilled–about being able to run again, it occurred to me tonight that before I could even run to the end of the block, I had to rewrite the story I was telling myself about my hip first. What I mean is that for quite a while, I’ve been saying that I couldn’t run, that I was done running forever because my hip couldn’t get better. Thankfully, somehow, I’ve changed my mind about that. Now I believe it can get better. It may not be where I want it to be yet, but it’s already better than it was.

I guess we all tell ourselves stories about what we can and can’t do. Obviously, sometimes there are actual limits. I’m not saying pain isn’t real. When my dad was a kid, he thought he could fly like Superman, but found out he couldn’t when he jumped off the carport. So there’s that. But so many times the limits are in our heads. I can’t be successful. Good things happen to other people. I’ll never meet the right person.

The good news, I think, is that those are just stories we tell ourselves, and we can rewrite our stories if we want to. Cut out what’s not working, add in something that is. Maybe that doesn’t mean you’re out running a marathon tomorrow, but maybe it means that you start changing your ideas about what’s possible, considering a different ending than the one you had in mind. I’m quitting my job. I’m leaving this town. No more knee-high tube socks! Or maybe instead of being so hard on yourself, you simply look in the mirror and say, “I’m doing the best I can.” Just like that, your story’s main character softened up a little, became more likable. Even if nothing else changed, surely that one rewrite would have you feeling like you’d just crossed a finish line, arms lifted in celebration, two crying children somewhere in the distance.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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All emotions are useful.

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The Night David Sedaris said, “Come Back to Bed” (Blog #76)

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Today my friend Marla and I went on a writer’s pilgrimage to see David Sedaris in Tulsa at an event put on by Magic City Books. I can’t tell you how much fun I had. I mean, I really can’t. I’ve been sitting here trying, but it’s not working, probably because I only slept five hours last night, just got back from Tulsa an hour ago, and my brain is mush. But I’ll keep trying.

I woke up at noon today and had about an hour to get ready. Even though I knew the event would be outside and that it would be warm, I decided to wear jeans instead of shorts because I thought they looked cuter, and you never know when you’re going to meet Mr. Right or when David Sedaris will be so impressed with your pants that he’ll invite you to join him and his boyfriend for dinner. But thinking that I’d definitely sweat in the jeans, I slathered some of Dad’s Gold Bond Lotion all around my private parts. After I did, I thought, There’s probably a reason that stuff is in a green bottle, which is about the time my balls woke up. At first the eucalyptus just felt like a cool breeze on a spring morning, but then things stepped up a notch, and it felt like I’d used a peppermint suppository.

Marla and I got to Tulsa early, so we grabbed a great parking spot and walked a few blocks for lunch. Along the way we found two pink unicorns painted on a set of double doors, so we stopped and took a picture. I still I have no idea what was on the other side of those doors, but I can only imagine it was fabulous.

I broke all my food rules today. It felt great. For lunch I had a sandwich with white bread, creamy soup, and coffee with Irish Creme, immediately followed by a cookies-and-cream donut so big that it’s really a wonder I didn’t instantly become a diabetic. I even licked the bag it came in. Then Marla and I set up our chairs on the lawn where David was supposed to speak and went to a bar that I knew about because a guy once stood me up there on a night I had two tires blow out. (I was not impressed.)

The bar itself was really cool, and while Marla and I waited, I had two beers. Then we went back to the lawn to wait for David. Because my bladder is an overachiever, I had to pee for the second time in fifteen minutes, so I ended up buying a cup of coffee at a coffee shop because only paying customers could get the restroom code. Peeing is a patron’s privilege, apparently. (Say that five times fast.)

For the presentation, David spoke for forty-five minutes, mostly reading from his diary entries, many of which are in his new book, Theft by Finding. One of the stories he told was about a friend who–upon seeing a complete stranger on his or her cellphone–would often walk up beside them and say loudly, “Come back to bed, I’m freezing.”

When the talk was over, David moved across the street to an art gallery to sign books, and a long line began to form. Marla and I had pre-purchased books, which allowed us a spot in “Group A,” but we were still at the back of that section because–once again–I had to use the restroom. (To the guy whose kid’s asshole absolutely exploded in his pants, my heart goes out to you for all the hard work you did cleaning him up. In the future–for chafing–your son may benefit from Gold Bond Lotion, but I don’t recommend the kind in the green bottle.)

One thing I love about David Sedaris is that he takes a lot of time with his fans and doesn’t rush them off. It makes for a long wait–Marla and I waited over two hours–but I think it’s well worth it. Hell, at one point we saw a middle-aged woman sporting a sash that said, “Miss Emollient–Dark as a Turd.” Where else does that happen? I still don’t get it, so I assume she was seeking attention. But who isn’t these days? Anyway, the line snaked around once it got inside, so as Marla and I neared the autograph table, I was right next to this guy who had a PBS shirt on that said, “Be More.” (No pressure, right?) Honestly, it took everything in me to not say, “I’m doing the best I can, damn it!”

At the autograph table, David signed Marla’s book, “To Marla–You make me want to live again.” With others he drew cartoons–an ax with blood on it, something resembling a shovel. I have another signed book of his in which he drew an airplane–a crop duster, it says–a reference to a joke he’d made that night about a particular variety of farts. This is something I love about David, the fact that after all this time he’s still having fun, finding a way to make each person in line feel special.

I got to spend a few minutes with David and ask him a question about a statement in one of his books, as well as a couple of things he said in his talk tonight. I’ve been trying all evening to decide how much to say about it, since even though he’s probably already forgotten the conversation, it feels special to me and I’ll probably be processing it for a while. In short, David said that he doesn’t like to talk about his feelings, but instead likes to talk and write about experiences and opinions.

Fresh off three years of therapy (and writing a blog about it every night lately), not talking about my feelings feels foreign to me, so I almost said, “Oh my god, I know a good therapist.” But then I figured he probably knows one too and has a good reason for not talking about his feelings, especially to total strangers. Like, if I’d said, “WHY DON’T YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT YOUR FEELINGS, DAVID?” it probably would have sounded like, “Be More,” and he could have easily responded, “I’m doing the best I can, damn it.”

Thinking about it now, what I love about David’s answer is that it seemed vulnerable and honest, which is pretty remarkable considering the fact that he’d just met me (again for the first time). So I just looked him in the eye, smiled, and said, “Thank you,” and Marla and I walked out. I was so thrilled about getting to spend even a few moments with one of my writing heroes that I accidentally stepped on a stranger’s foot. (Sorry, lady.)

When we got outside, Marla made a joke, and I said, “What’s that?” and she said, “It’s what he wrote in your book.” So I opened the book, and there it was–“To Marcus, Come back to bed, I’m freezing.”

There was a lady working the event tonight whom I overheard a couple of times anxiously telling people in the line, “It’s a long wait, but it’s worth it.” When we got close to the table, she said, “See if you can’t hurry.” Well, we didn’t, and I can only assume that she felt pressured, maybe sensing that some people in the line were upset by the holdup. But I didn’t sense any of that from David. Marla told me that he’s been known to spend nine hours signing books. Personally, I wasn’t upset about waiting, and if I had been, I simply would have left. (My therapist says leaving is always an option.)

It all makes me wonder if David’s so patient because he waited so long to be published. Maybe it’s because he’s doing something he really loves and that makes it easier to go above and beyond with people you don’t even know. Either way, it encourages me to be more patient with what may come in my life, to not put so much pressure on myself or anyone else by thinking, Be More, Be More–Talk about your feelings! Rather, I can remember that I’m doing the best I can, damn it. In fact, we’re all doing the best we can. Especially that guy whose kid shit everywhere.

Realizing this, I think, is like having a lover come back to bed. Suddenly there’s no need to rush, the world feels safer than it did before, and if ever so slowly, that which was freezing begins to warm.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"I believe we're all courageous, and I believe that no one is alone."

Nothing Stays the Same (Blog #74)

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I’ve effectively become a nocturnal creature, right up there with the owl and the opossum, but–I think–better looking. Lately my daytime activities have been limited to waking up in the afternoon, drinking a cup of coffee, and reading a book while sunbathing in my parents’ backyard in my underwear, all the while watching the sun go down along with my standards.

This evening I stepped on the scale, which is something they tell you never to do when you first start a diet, but that didn’t stop me from doing it, thinking, You’re not the boss of me. Of course, there’s a reason they tell you not to do that because one day you’ve lost four pounds, and the next day, even after starving yourself and immediately taking a good shit, you’ve gained it all back.

I remember taking a philosophy class in college, and there was this story about a ship that was in constant need of repair. One day one board was replaced, and the next day another, and then before long, none of the original wood was there anymore. The question was–is it the same ship, or is it a different one? Fifteen years later, I’m not sure I have an answer, but I think about the question a lot whenever I’m on a diet. Like, there goes three pounds of me–am I still the same person?

I spent several hours this evening reading a book called Closing Time, which just came out today and was written by my friend and local author Anita Paddock. It’s about a double murder that took place in Van Buren in 1980 and the family that survived the ordeal. I was riveted, especially since the murders happened in my hometown, in a shopping center I’ve been to or driven by a hundred times.

Not to make everything about me, but I learned tonight that the murders also happened three days before I was born. The funerals of the victims were actually on my birthday. So the entire time I was reading tonight, imaging the horrific experiences of the victims, their family, and the city, I was also imaging the (I’m assuming) joyful experiences of my parents and my family, how dramatically different a day they were having. Things like this always strike me–the way one life can be falling apart at the same time another is coming together.

In the middle of my reading the book, my Dad asked me to come into the kitchen “to look at something.” Having overheard part of a conversation he was having with Mom, I knew it had to do with his body. This sort of thing is pretty common in our family, like, Look at this rash, or, Smell my armpits, or, Do you think this ingrown toenail is infected? It’s something I’ve gotten used to, especially after seeing my dad and aunt use an electric sander (the kind you buy at the hardware store) to remove the calluses from each other’s feet more times than I can count. Just another Sunday afternoon.

Usually I’m up for whatever’s asked of me. Need me to remove a splinter? I’m a witch with a needle. Need me to peel the skin off your sunburned back? Sure thing, I could use more for my collection. Need me to pop a zit or boil you can’t quite reach it? Absolutely! Even better if splashes a little or smells like cheese–we’ll put it on YouTube. Just let me get my goggles.

But when I got to the kitchen tonight, Dad opened his mouth wide and showed me one of his teeth, a molar. He said a while back he was chewing on an M&M and something happened, meaning his tooth freaking split open the way a piece of firewood does when it’s hit with an ax. And then he used his tongue to wiggle the broken tooth around, playing with it like a kid that’s just discovered his pecker, kind of proud of himself.

“Okay, I’ve seen enough,” I said.

And then–AND THEN–he asked me to pull it.

“Just get the tweezers.”

“Hell, why don’t I get the needle-nose pliers out of my toolbox?”

“If you think that would work better.”

He was serious. For a moment, I actually considered it. I had this short vision of me reaching into my dad’s mouth with a monkey wrench, maybe propping my foot against his stomach for leverage, and then counting to three. Laying the tooth in his arms like a doctor who’s just delivered a newborn baby to its mother, the whole time Mom complaining about the blood on the carpet.

“I’m sorry, if it were a zit, I’d say yes. But I’m not going to pull your tooth. Tie a string around it and slam the door. I draw the line at anything having to do with an orifice.”

My mom kept saying he should see a dentist, but Dad said, “Marcus, just get me the tweezers.” Fine. Honor you father and mother. So I went to the bathroom, grabbed a pair of pink tweezers and the alcohol, and came back to the kitchen and cleaned them.

“You don’t have to clean them,” Dad said.

Oh, of course not. I guess if you haven’t been to the dentist in ten years, you’re probably not too concerned about bacteria. So I handed the man the tweezers and walked away, washing my hands of the matter like Pilate did with our lord and savior. Five minutes later, there was a third of a tooth on the kitchen table–where we eat for god’s sakes. I mean, what’s on the table goes in your mouth, not what’s in your mouth goes on the table.

Just because you can’t see it, doesn’t mean it’s not true.

Tonight after The Great Tweezer Tooth Extraction and after I finished reading Closing Time, I went for a jog. Here’s what I love about running after midnight, what I love about being a nocturnal creature–it’s cool, it’s quiet, and it’s usually just me and the moon, something I often take for granted. You know how it is, you’ve seen it before. But having been out the last few nights in a row, I’ve watched the moon progress from being full to less full. Every night, a little part of it disappears. It’s like it’s on a diet too.

I have a few different routes when I walk and jog, but tonight I went to the track and ran laps. The repetition usually bores me, but at night it encourages me to look at the sky. Huffing air, moaning more and more with each lap, I thought, The moon’s waning, and I’m whining. Plus, I kept noticing that every couple of laps, the moon would move. I’d look up at the spot it was the last time I saw it, and it wouldn’t be where I’d left it. (I’ve had this same experience with my keys.)

So I kept thinking that nothing is ever where we leave it. Of course, you can put your keys on the kitchen counter, and they’ll be there tomorrow, but they won’t be at the same place in the universe as they were the day before. In truth, like you, they will have traveled remarkable distances. Just because you can’t see it, doesn’t mean it’s not true.

Nothing stays the same for even a moment.

Personally, I know that I often get hung up on things not changing. I want my weight to be consistent, my health to stay the same, my keys to always be on the counter. But if I could catch even a glimpse of a universe–just one universe–moving, I’d realize that’s impossible. Nothing stays the same for even a moment. Weight comes on and goes off like the phases of the moon. Teeth rot just like wooden ships do. And even on days when people mourn the death of those lost in the most tragic of circumstances, a baby takes his first breath, a mother smiles, and the moon still rises somewhere in the sky.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Even if you can't be anything you want to be, you can absolutely be who you were meant to be. Don't let anyone else tell you differently.

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Moving Small Universes (Blog #62)

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This morning I woke up on the couch with Bonnie on the other end jumping up and down like a five-year-old saying, “It’s food truck day! It’s food truck day!”

So–of course–I got up and got dressed.

There’s a park in Nashville with a full-scale replica of the Parthenon. Random, I know, but it’s been around for over a hundred years. I don’t know if this part is seasonal or not, but they have a small fleet of food trucks at the park on Wednesdays. And really, that was all we had planned today. That was the only reason I got out of bed.

Here’s a picture of me on the way to the food trucks. Bonnie took it and said it belonged on Hot Dudes Reading on Instagram. Food trucks and compliments–now there’s a way to start a day!

Here’s the Parthenon. My dad told me that he saw it when he was younger, which is weird for me to think about. (So I won’t.)

By the time we got to the food trucks, I was so hungry that I didn’t take any pictures, so use your imagination for that part. (I had a grilled cheese with barbecue chicken.) We went for a walk afterwards. Here’s a picture of Bonnie sitting in a tree along the way.

Lest you get all excited and wish that you could have tried it, Bonnie said she was sitting in ants. (Ouch.) Todd said, “Aren’t you glad they weren’t fire ants?” (Double ouch.)

This was just before we left. And yes, it was as beautiful as it looks.

When we got back to the apartment, we all took naps, and when we woke up, Bonnie and I ate apples and peanut butter and had a conversation that started with, “Todd’s playing video games tonight. What do you want to do?” and ended with religion and spirituality.

I saw a post on Pinterest today, a quote by Alexandria Hotmer that said, “If we would just take a moment to look around, we would find that the universe in constant communication with us.” I can’t tell how much I love this idea, the notion that the universe is conscious, alive, and intelligent. The older I get, the more I think and believe that life is particularly interested in each of us, moving small universes in order to get our attention. So I told Bonnie that I was personally always looking for signs.

About seven-thirty this evening, Bonnie said there was a Train concert in town tonight. I said, “Oh, when does it start?”

“Thirty minutes ago.”

Then Bonnie added that there was an unrelated post on her Facebook page that said, “Life’s short. Buy the concert tickets.” Well, how much more of a sign do you need? So we bought the tickets. Even better, we landed some great seats at a great price.

On the way to the show, I kept thinking that I hated missing the opening acts–Natasha Bedingfield and O.A.R. I mean, I’m that guy who will just about pee on himself at a movie theater because he doesn’t want to miss a thing. But what do you do? It was either show up late or not show up at all.

When we got there, O.A.R. was finishing their set, and even after Train started, it took me a while to get settled and get present. I kept thinking about what happened before I got there. But then everyone stood up, and Pat Monahan started singing “Calling All Angels.” Even now, if you put a gun to my head and asked me to list all my favorite songs, that one wouldn’t make the list. But for some reason, when the music started, I closed my eyes as if I were praying. The first verse started, “I need a sign to let me know you’re here.” All I can say is that it felt like the universe itself had moved to get my attention. And when Bonnie put her hand on my shoulder, I started crying.

Honestly, I can’t tell you exactly what it was all about, but I know that I’ve shoved down a lot of crying over the years, so I’m grateful for anything that helps bring up the tears. Plus just this afternoon I was saying that I like to look for signs, and that’s exactly what the first verse was about. The second first started, “I need to know that things are gonna look up,” and if that’s not a prayer, I don’t know what is. So by the time the chorus said, “I won’t give up if you won’t give up,” it really felt like God and the universe were answering.

I guess some people would say that I was talking to myself–that God didn’t have anything to do with it. But when all the stars align to bring you to a place at just the right moment, and in that place there’s hope, and in that moment there’s healing–well–just what do you think God is?

The rest of the concert was beautiful. I cried again during “Bruises,” which is a song that I love but until tonight has never caused me to cry. I guess there’s something powerful about live music, speakers that force you to feel, drums that practically beat your heart for you, and friends that touch your shoulder right when the singer says, “Please don’t change a thing, whatever you do.”

When the concert was over, Bonnie and I walked up and down Broadway, and we both bought lapis rings made by a local artist. (I adore lapis.) When I got my ring, I was still thinking about the concert. Pat sang “Marry Me,” and a couple got engaged on stage. Of course, I don’t have anyone right now, but sometimes I have dreams at night about getting married, which I understand can represent the marriage of the self, the joining together of all your fragmented parts. So tonight I put the ring on my marriage finger because I’m promising myself that I’m going to put myself back together. Even when no one else is here for me, I’ll be here for me.

Here’s a picture of Bonnie’s ring. You’ll have to stop staring at the burgers in order to see it.

My ring pretty much looks the same as Bonnie’s. Since we didn’t take a picture of it, here’s this instead.

Really, I shouldn’t have eaten the whole burger. Or all of the fries. But I did. And since I’m not a quitter, I ate a brownie and ice cream dessert that came in a glass bigger than my head. It wasn’t a pretty scene, but it sure was tasty.

Here’s a picture of Bonnie and me with our awesome waitress, Jenna. Jenna moved to Nashville in February and recently got a tattoo of her girlfriend’s name below her breast, by her lungs because “she’s the air that I breathe.” Stories like this one make me wish that I talked to strangers more often.

After dinner, after midnight, we walked around downtown for over an hour, basically so I could pay for my food transgressions and ask forgiveness for everything I’ve ever thought about people who wear pants with elastic waistbands. As we walked, I thought about how glad I was that I let life take me to the concert tonight, that I didn’t insist on staying home because we couldn’t be there for the whole thing. Clearly, we didn’t need to be. Personally, I’d show up late again just to be there for that one song, just to be in the moment, to let go ever so slightly.

As Bonnie said, “It was like church.”

There’s a story about a young avatar, an enlightened child, to whom the town elders in an effort to trick him said, “We’ll give you an orange if you can tell us where God is.” But the boy knew the truth. He said, “I’ll give you two oranges if you can tell me where God is not.” So more and more, I believe that divinity is all around me, hiding behind a drum’s beat or a song’s lyric sung at just the right moment. And I believe that God is moving small universes to communicate with me and with all of us, answering prayers and sending signs in unplanned moments, the touch of a friend’s hand, and the very air we breathe.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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If you want to find a problem, you will.

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Finding True North (Blog #55)

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This evening I went for a walk and ran into my friend Ralph. Ralph’s a local artist, and his work is all over Fort Smith. If you live here, you’ve probably seen it. The huge mural at the entrance of Mercy Hospital–that’s Ralph’s work. The signs for St. Luke’s Lutheran Church and Hannah Oil and Gas–those are Ralph’s work. The sundial on the campus of the University of Arkansas Fort Smith–again–Ralph’s work, as are the marble floor depicting the inner workings of a motor in the Baldor Building and the glass sculptures that hang from the ceiling in the Health Sciences Building. The list goes on.

Six years ago, when I first started working for Do South Magazine in Fort Smith and was published for the very first time, my first article was about Ralph. He’s one of those people who never fails to inspire. He’s worked in the creative arts for so long, he’s become this fountain of knowledge and ideas that never seems to stop flowing. Plus, he has a terrific sense of humor and looks like Santa Claus. What’s not to love? Lucky for me, he lives right around the corner from my parents.

As Ralph and I were catching up tonight, I told him that I was in a transitional period in my life. He said that sometimes you have to “get off the merry-go-round,” step back, and take another look at things. I told him I thought that was the perfect phrase, get off the merry-go-round. Ralph said, “Yeah, I mean, we’re all on one.” (Right?) He said that as an artist, it’s easy to get stuck, so you have to seek out new perspectives, maybe take the painting (or life) you’re working on and turn it upside down.

I told Ralph that I recently made a special trip to the university campus to look at the sundial he made. Sundials, and the fact that most of them have a saying related to time on them, are talked about in the S-Town Podcast, so I wanted to check one out. Ralph said that although several things on the campus faced magnetic north, the sundial was the only thing that faced true north. (I’m not ashamed to say that I just had to Google the difference. And if you don’t know either, true north refers to the imaginary line that stretches into the sky and represents the earth’s axis, that center the earth revolves around. Magnetic north is the thing your compass points to.) Ralph said that in order for sundials to work, they have to face true north, not magnetic north. He also said that the sundial at the university weighs six thousand pounds and has a time capsule inside of it.

How cool is that?

I know that things haven’t always been easy for Ralph. Making a living as an artist in Fort Smith, Arkansas, is, I’m sure, challenging at times. But somehow Ralph has managed to do something he loves and make it work, and the community is better and more beautiful because of it. Ralph said that sometimes you wonder if people notice, but they do. And even when they don’t, I think, the true artist continues.

Ralph said that when the day’s over, you want to be able to say to yourself, “Today was a good day. I did something that brought me joy.” So it’s worth it, he said, to find your true north.

As Ralph and I said goodbye and I went back to my walk, I started thinking about how cool it was to run into him, about the fact that it wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t gone to the bathroom one more time before I left the house. And it’s not like I was having a terrible day and Ralph turned it around, but sometimes my therapist says that the universe sends us signals, little incidents that let us know we’re on the right path. Personally, I know that lately it’s felt like I’m walking around blindfolded, so it helps me to think of happy accidents like running into Ralph as God’s way of saying, “You’re getting warmer. Keep doing what you love.”

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

There’s a principle in talk therapy that a therapist’s job isn’t necessarily to dole out advice. Rather, they provide a quiet and safe place for the client to talk and, maybe for the first time, actually hear themselves. I guess the idea is that we all have inner wisdom. We all know what’s best for us. We all have our true north. But oftentimes our lives are so hectic, so chaotic, and so loud, that we can’t hear ourselves, and it’s easy to step off the path. But therapy can be a way to return, a step in the right direction. Likewise, so can meditation or art, anything that invites getting still, stepping back, and seeing things in a new way.

Personally, I think my therapist has been like a sundial for me. When things have been really hard, when I’ve called her on the phone crying, she’s said, “I’m your rock.” And it’s not that she’s perfect. She’d be the first to say she’s not. But, like a sundial, she’s lined up and she’s solid. She’s not going anywhere. And whereas she’s not going to get caught up in my drama, she is going to show compassion, and she is going to reflect the truth back to me.

Most of this evening, I’ve been thinking that my talk with Ralph was mostly about creativity, about how I recently got off the merry-go-round that’s been my life for over ten years and now I’m taking a new look at things. But as I think about it in this moment, I think I started getting off the merry-go-round a few years ago when I started therapy. Since then, there’s been consistently less drama in my life, and my perspective has changed dramatically. Truly, like one of Ralph’s paintings, my life has been turned upside down in the best way. Everything looks different than it did before.

Of course, my therapist gets a ton of the credit, but I think my progress has been largely the result of becoming more authentic. When you’re trying to be authentic, the path you’re on is the right one because being authentic is the path. Being authentic is true north. Line yourself up with that. And sure, there will be times when the sun shines brightly upon your face, and others when the seasons will change and you’ll be left in the shadows. But guaranteed, you’ll be facing the right direction, and that’s what matters. And there you will stand off the merry-go-round–like a sundial that is steady and strong–giving no more thought to a sun’s setting than to its rising. After all, that is the way of all time.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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A mantra: Not an asshole, not a doormat.

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Well, This Is the Pits (Blog #53)

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I’m just going to say it—I think I have a yeast infection—probably everywhere on my body that doesn’t see daylight, but mostly in my armpits. (I’m sorry if this is gross to talk about.) I think it started in December when I was prescribed antibiotics for a sinus infection, but it took me a while to figure out what was going on. Well, in February, when I seriously cleaned up my diet and started taking some supplements I found in the feminine hygiene section of the natural food store, it went away.

It felt like a miracle. You know, a miracle that doesn’t last very long, since the stuff came back sometime during the last month while I was taking two additional rounds of antibiotics for cellulitis and an upper respiratory infection. I mean, I’m assuming it’s a yeast infection—I’m not a scientist—but that would make sense.

I’ve really tried to have a good attitude about the whole thing, fight the good fight, and keep a stiff upper lip. This last week I’ve been taking some of those feminine hygiene supplements and watching my diet, but I’m not being nearly as strict as I was before because diets take a lot of mental energy and frankly, damn it, I’m tired and am starting to wear down. So it’s more like I’m fighting a mediocre fight and keeping a stiff-ish upper lip.

Do they make Viagra for upper lips?

Sometimes the universe can really kick you in the balls.

Sometimes I think the universe can really kick you in the balls and make you drop to your knees. Maya Angelou says there are times when life makes you cry uncle, and on days like today, I’m just about there. This morning I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, and to make matters worse, when I rolled over, I could smell my own armpits. It wasn’t sexy. (I don’t know why I’m worried. It’s not like anyone else has their nose down there.) Anyway, every time I smell myself, it’s the most frustrating thing because it feels like (or smells like) things are never going to get better.

After I took a shower, in the midst of trying to accept the fact that I’ve become a traveling playground for fungi, I put my phone on the bathroom counter and applied athlete’s foot powder to every crevice of my body. Still irritated about my phone because the charging port is broken, I then put the powder back on the counter, and it fell over, spilling the powder on my phone’s speaker, filling up a hundred little holes with white dust.

Uncle.

There’s a saying in the self-help word—no feeling is final—so I keep thinking that my bad mood about everything going on with me will eventually pass (or I will). Wayne Dyer says, “In all of nature, no storm can last forever,” so I’m reminding myself that I’ve been through storms before, especially storms dealing with health issues I didn’t think would go away. A couple of years ago, I had little warts on my face (also not sexy), and I made monthly trips to the dermatologist for over a year. The doctor kept saying that one day they’d go away, and one day—they did. It just took a lot of time and a lot of patience.

So I know the yeast thing will level out at some point. This morning I felt like quitting, but this afternoon I went to the natural food store and talked to one of those weird natural food store people about what’s been going on. I thought, I can do this—I can try something else.

The lady at the store said my body was worn out (and all God’s people said Amen) and recommended a probiotic with at least 50 billion (!) bacteria, but she said it had to be refrigerated, so I said I’d have to come back when I wasn’t on my way to the library to use the free Internet. But the lady also said that I could up my garlic, to which I replied, “UP YOUR GARLIC, Lady!”

Okay, I didn’t actually say that.

Lastly, the lady said that I could apply coconut oil topically. So while I was at the library, I looked up coconut oil and garlic for yeast infections because I was intrigued. Honestly, I’m not sure the Internet was a lot of help, but I did come across an interesting article about a woman who put a clove of garlic up her who-ha in order to get rid of a yeast infection. (I guess that would also be a creative way to ward off vampires.) Anyway, I’ll try just about anything once, but I draw the line at vegetable suppositories.

So this evening before I went for a walk, I got out the coconut oil and rubbed it under my armpits. And actually, for a while, things didn’t smell so bad. But that was a few hours ago, and as I sit here in my tank top, I keep getting a whiff of myself and am not amused. It smells like a dead animal. And by it, I mean me. (Things not to put on a dating profile.)

However, I’m determined to get this problem figured out, and that’s one of the reasons I believe in the soul. (Bet you didn’t see that coming.) What I mean is that no matter how hard life kicks me in the balls and no matter how frustrated I get about it, there’s a part of me that never seems to be fazed, and I don’t think that sounds like the human ego. I don’t think that sounds like anything made of flesh. Maybe stardust. Of course, if it is the soul, it’s just a whisper, a still, small voice reminding me where I came from and what I’m really made of. “Keep going,” it says. “You’ve got this. The storm will pass soon enough.”

[My friend Matt from summer camp did the drawing, at least his wife and I think he did. I’m assuming that was the year I taught tennis, so I would have been sixteen. Apparently I’ve been having rough days for a while now.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Better that you're true to yourself and the whole world be disappointed than to change who you are and the whole world be satisfied.

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Stepping in Shit (Blog #47)

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For the last few weeks, I’ve had this problem, weird thoughts that have been coming out of nowhere. I’ve been thinking—and only thinking—about doing push-ups. Strange, I know. Who can say where crazy thoughts like these come from, but they’ve been showing up quite a bit lately. Honestly, I’d hoped they would go away. (Get thee behind me, Satan.) But alas, that has not been the case. So this afternoon, I gave into them, a strategy that has always worked well with thoughts about eating chocolate cake.

Y’all, push-ups are not nearly as fun as chocolate cake. Not by a long shot.

Thankfully, I didn’t get carried away. I did two sets of ten, threw in some crunches (which felt more like “squishes”), and called it good. I figured I didn’t want to be sore tomorrow (or ever). When I was doing the push-ups, my arms literally shook, so that probably means they weren’t intended to be used like that. Besides, it’s been eight hours and I don’t have pecs yet, so what’s the point anyway?

I’m probably like five years away from being one of those coupon people.

This evening I taught a dance class, and when I got home, more of those weird thoughts showed up. (They brought their friends!) I kept thinking I needed to run up and down some bleachers. So when I went for my walk this evening, I started off by jogging to the high school, and it actually felt good. But I forced myself to slow down because I have a hip that gives me problems whenever I act as if I’m twenty-three and don’t stretch first. (I’m probably like five years away from being one of those coupon people.)

When I got to the high school, I found the bleachers and took off to the top, which went well. But coming back down was awkward, and it was dark, and I kept picturing myself tripping and ending up with a new nose, so I stopped. For the rest of my time outside, I just walked, although I did stop at an elementary school playground and do four—that’s right, four—pull-ups.

In the past, my tendency has been to do something all or nothing. Like if I weren’t going to the gym for an hour, it really wasn’t worth it. But lately I’ve been thinking about how little things can add up, so all day I’ve been telling myself that I can start small with working out and add on—a little here, a little there. After all, something is better than nothing. (Please note that this theory does not apply to men who have comb-overs. In that case, nothing is better than something.)

When I got home and took my shoes off, I realized that I’d stepped in shit. (Yippee.) My shoes have really deep grooves in them, so the shit was everywhere, and there were little rocks in the shit, and all I could think was, Shit, shit, shit. This is how the universe rewards exercise. (There’s a great story about Saint Teresa of Avila, who was riding in a carriage and got thrown out into the mud when it hit a rock. She looked up at heaven, shook her fist, and said, “If this is the way you treat your friends, it’s no wonder you have so few of them.”)

Amen, sister.

So I cleaned the shit and the rocks out of my shoes with hot water, left them in the sink to dry, and did some yoga stretches in hopes of taking care of my hip. (The above photo is me in double pigeon, which is probably the type of shit I stepped in.) As I sit here now, my shins are sore, and I’m thinking about grabbing an ice pack for my hip. Honestly, I’m not sure I was cut out for running anything other than a fever. I mean, my feet are flat. There’s not a lot of support down there.

Fuck it. Pass the chocolate cake.

My tendency in moments like these, after I’ve just stepped in shit and my body isn’t what I want it to be (tight hip, flat feet—no pecs!), is to get frustrated and say, “Fuck it. Pass the chocolate cake.”

But—

I have been wanting to get in better shape lately, firm things up a bit, so all those weird thoughts are probably there for a reason. They’re probably the answer I’ve been looking for. Caroline Myss says thoughts that won’t let go (like “go to the gym,” or “call that person back”) are actually our intuition, or, if you will, our guardian angel. And she says that if you don’t listen to your guardian angel when it comes to little stuff like going to the gym, you’re probably not going to get much help when it comes to big stuff like your career and relationships.

If this theory is true, I can only assume that my stepping in shit this evening was my guardian angel’s way of trying to be funny, which probably means he doesn’t have a lot of friends either.

I read a quote by Winston Churchill recently that said something like, “Success consists of going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm.” As I see it, that means that sometimes you step in a lot of shit. You set out on a new career, and it doesn’t go like you think it will. Or you go for a jog, and your body hurts. Maybe you literally step in shit. So maybe you have to course-correct, but that doesn’t mean you have to give up on your dreams, and it certainly doesn’t mean you have to give up on yourself.

No.

You can keep going because there is a way to get from here to there, and if anyone can find it, you can. Plus, we are all supported in more ways than we will ever know. So just a few small steps in the right direction, and before long, you’ll be so far from where you started. Indeed, if you could only see it, you already are.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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One day a change will come.

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the long road to resurrection (blog #40)

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When I sold most of my possessions several months ago, one of the few things I kept was a mid-century modern crucifix that shows Jesus with both hands nailed above his head, kind of off to one side like Martha Graham or Jerome Robbins. It’s part of a “traveling alter” I set up wherever I move, and whenever I joke about it, I call him Rock Star Jesus, sometimes Jesus Christ, Superstar. Personally, I don’t think that’s blasphemous, although I probably would have at one time. Plus, I didn’t keep the crucifix because it’s a good joke. It actually means something to me.

There’s a story in the Acts of John that Jesus danced with his disciples the night before his crucifixion. When one considers that the cross represents surrendering personal will to divine will, this becomes a beautiful image. Jesus had so completely given up his own will, so surrendered to the father whom he trusted, that he could actually find joy in giving up his life.

That’s why I like Rock Star Jesus. He reminds me to surrender—joyfully.

Tonight I went for a walk around the neighborhood. I drank a lot of coffee this evening and felt like I needed to burn it off. It sort of worked, but about halfway back, the coffee really started working, and I thought, Uh-oh. Anyway, up until the coffee kicked in and I started power walking, it was a lovely midnight stroll. The full moon hung in the sky, the smell of honeysuckle drifted across the cool air, and I was kept company by the sounds of the crickets and the bullfrogs.

As I walked, I thought a lot about a book my friend Marla gave me last year called Learning to Walk in the Dark. The book is by Barbara Brown Taylor, a former Episcopalian minister who left the church, as I understand it, in favor of a more-encompassing form of spirituality. In short, Barbara proposes that although the term dark is almost exclusively associated with things that are bad or wrong or scary, almost all of us would agree that the times in our lives we have labeled dark are also the times that our souls have grown the most. So even though the dark is often unfamiliar and uncomfortable, it’s just as necessary to our spiritual path as the light is.

Tonight as I walked up my parents’ street, the street I grew up on and have walked more times than I can count, I tried closing my eyes. This is something I often tell followers to do while dancing. It helps put your focus more on what your feeling and less one what you’re seeing. But whether your dancing or walking along the road, it’s hard to do. I found tonight that when I’d close my eyes, my ears would immediately tune in to sounds I hadn’t noticed before—a train going down the tracks, my shoes striking the pavement, a church bell in the distance. But I could only go maybe a dozen steps without opening my eyes.

Going down a familiar hill, I tried putting one foot on the road and one foot on the grass. I can keep my eyes closed longer this way, I thought, I can see with my feet. But still, my eyes kept popping open.

It’s hard to trust what you can’t see.

Shortcuts don’t really get you where you want to go.

Last September, Marla and I drove to Little Rock to see Barbara Brown Taylor speak as part of a lecture series at an Episcopal church. This is the sort of thing writers really get off on. It was like going to a rock concert. For over an hour, I sat on the edge of my pew in absolute wonder at Barbara’s ability to not only write and speak beautiful words, but also to accurately and compassionately comment on what it means to be human.

Go read the book (after you read this blog).

When Barbara finished lecturing, she opened the floor up for questions, and I jumped out of my seat and headed for the microphone in the middle of the room. First I thanked her for being there, then I brought up the story of Jesus dancing, and then I asked how a person could take joy during the difficult times in life. Barbara said she wasn’t sure that most of us have the same spiritual DNA that Jesus did, so it’s difficult. But then she said, “Obviously you’re going somewhere with this, so what do YOU think?”

So there I was stood, in a room full of people, thinking, Oh crap, I wasn’t prepared for this.

But I said, “Well, I’m really fascinated by this idea that Jesus trusted God so much that he absolutely knew that God had a plan. And I know that personally there are times that something happens—a breakup, a death—and I think, This is the worst thing. But then maybe a few years go by and I look back and think, That’s the best thing that could have happened. So the older I get, the more hesitant I am to label anything as bad. But sometimes I get frustrated that it takes so long to have that perspective.”

Barbara said that was called wanting a “spiritual shortcut.” Things take as long as they take and that’s where the growth happens. It’s not overnight, and it’s not right away. She said that sometimes when bad things happen, the best we can do is maybe drink a beer with a good friend.

I remember talking to my therapist that first time on the phone and saying, “Well if we can take care of everything in six sessions, that’s great, but I’m willing to come for a year if that’s what we need to do.” She said, “I’m just going to go with my gut and say it’s going to take a year.”

Here we are three years later, and even though the last three years have been full of challenges, I can’t tell you how glad I am that I didn’t take the shorter route.

So I think about shortcuts a lot. This time in my life feels like walking in the dark, stumbling along, trying to find my way. Some days I try to close my eyes and feel my way through it, but it’s hard to trust what you can’t see. It’s hard to surrender. It’s hard to dance when you know your old life is dying and you don’t have a promise of resurrection. It’s easy to want the difficult times to be over. I think that’s why Jesus said, “I don’t want to do this if I don’t have to,” like, “I don’t want to do this if there’s a shortcut.” But obviously there wasn’t. Shortcuts don’t really get you where you want to go. Resurrections happen on the long road.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Give yourself an abundance of grace.

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wheel of fortune (going down) (blog #29)

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Currently, I’m in Tulsa, Oklahoma, it’s one-thirty in the morning, and I feel fat. For the last week, I’ve been noticing how the skin around my stomach has given up the good fight, how it’s gotten so tired of holding itself together that it’s taken to resting on the top of my pants. When I lean sideways in my chair, I can feel the skin below my waist and the skin above my waist push together, and it feels like two lumps of Play Doh fighting each other for King of the Mountain. It’s not amusing.

I made the mistake last night of looking at this hot guy’s Instagram. By anyone’s standards (including his own, I’m sure), he’s ridiculously gorgeous. It should be against the law to look like that. It should definitely be against the law to post so many selfies when you look like that. And even though I sat at the breakfast table and scrolled through his entire account (while I ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and thought about the abs I used to have), I couldn’t find a single bad picture of this guy. (My therapist would call this good presentation.) So the more I looked at his muscles–his chest was for sure a solid b-cup–the fatter I felt. My only consolation was that he was probably stupid.

All I could think was, God I’m so glad I have this brownie.

So this afternoon I went to Panera Bread for comfort food, and there was this kid working the counter who had no more than a twenty-six inch waist. (He was also wearing makeup that was flawless, so good for him.) Anyway, he’d obviously put some thought into his appearance, and whenever I run into someone like that, it immediately makes me stand up straighter, suck in my gut, and think, God, I wish I weren’t wearing a t-shirt with a dinosaur on it. So when he asked me if I wanted a pastry for 99 cents, I was like, Fuck yes.

Well, the kid gave me my coffee cup, but then he walked away without giving me my pastry, so I had to stand there like a little girl on Halloween waiting for her candy. I honestly felt embarrassed, like, Hey man, I like brownies, okay? Don’t make me beg. It’s not my fault my metabolism slowed down.

So all this was going on in my head as the kid with the teeny-tiny waist and perfect eyelashes boxed up my brownie. And when he handed it to me, I said thank you, and then he said the worst possible thing he could have ever said. He said, “You’re welcome…SIR.”

SIR.

Now I’m fat AND old. What a great day.

But wait, it gets better.

While I was waiting on my food to arrive (yes, it involved bread), I opened my laptop, checked my email, and found out that I was not accepted for a writer’s colony in Massachusetts that I applied for last year. And even though I knew there over six hundred applicants and they were only taking eight, my hopes were high (just like my cholesterol). Of course, once I read the email, they went straight now. KER-SPLAT. And all I could think was, GOD I’M SO GLAD I HAVE THIS BROWNIE.

My immediate reaction to rejections like this is to give up on my dream, like, I suck at writing, and I should just get a job at a donut shop. Well, anytime I start to feel like shit, I try to keep myself from feeling like shit, so I started thinking, I hate the cold. I don’t want to spend the winter in Massachusetts anyway. I don’t need you and your writer’s colony and your–acceptance. But, of course, that didn’t really work. As my friend Bruce said when talking about dancing, “It doesn’t matter how nice a rejection is, it’s still a rejection.”

So I called my friend Marla and told her about the rejection and the brownie and the skinny kid with the good foundation. And when I told her that he called me sir, Marla said, “That little bitch.”

So that made me laugh.

This evening I drove to Tulsa to work on dance with my friends Matt, Anne, and Andy. I got to town a little early, so I went shopping for sweatpants because what better way to increase your self-esteem than to buy sweatpants? Well, the shopping didn’t help, since I couldn’t find what I wanted. I guess sweatpants are only in season during the winter. Geez, what do people do in the springtime when they need an elastic waistband? (I can’t believe I just said that.)

Well, thank God for Matt, Anne, and Andy. We spent over three hours dancing, and most of that was working on lift and aerials, which completely distracted me from the bad attitude I was enjoying before they came along. While we were working, Anne and I were the ones who were getting picked up, tossed about, and flipped over. I can’t tell you how much fun it was. I also can’t tell you how much my body is hurting even as I type this. I guess my hips are tight, or maybe I pinched something in my lower back, but every time I try to stand, it’s like I end up with a right angle at my waist, and even though I’m on my feet, I’m still looking at the floor. So I have to do this whole pep talk routine with my body–Come on, you can do it, just a few more inches and we’ll be vertical.

Honestly, it feels like I’ve been slapped around a lot today. Like life didn’t have anyone else to pick on, so it was my turn. When I was walking out of Panera Bread earlier, I saw the cover of a local magazine that said BITTER on the front, and I thought, “Yes, I am.” Well, I’ve done a lot of blogging this last week about being patient, accepting myself as I am, and trusting that God is intelligent and wise enough to get me where I need to be. And in this moment, I kind of want to take it all back.

So if you ever get the idea to start a blog and say something stupid like, “You can find joy in every circumstance,” don’t. Because chances are whoever’s in charge up there is gonna say, “Wanna bet?” (If you don’t think that this is the way life works sometimes, read the Book of Job.)

Okay, breathe, Marcus.

Joseph Campbell, who was a scholar on myths and religions, tells the story of the Wheel of Fortune. He says that most people live on the outside of the wheel. The gods bless them, their fortunes go up, and they’re happy. But then the gods curse them, their fortunes go down, and they’re sad. But Joseph says the goal is to live your life in the center of the wheel, to find that spot inside yourself that is unmovable. Then you can look at the gods and say, “Give me your best shot. Whatever it is–good or bad–up or down–I’m not going anywhere. I plan to thrive no matter what.”

Personally, I’m reminded that that’s my goal, to meet life’s disappointments and aches and pains not only with Ibuprofen, but also with renewed resolve to hold my center. And sure, I might get knocked off-balance now and then. I might need a brownie and a few friends on days like today. But make no mistake, I’m not going anywhere. Give me your best shot. I plan to thrive no matter what.

[Thanks to Anne for the first picture. It was taken just before I was flipped backwards. I decided not to show you the picture that was taken mid-flip because I think my butt looks big and the shorts I’m wearing make me look naked.]

UPDATE: My friend Marlene dared me to post this, so I am. Also by Anne.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Rest gives us time to dream. One day, for certain, you’ll wake up. And you’ll be grateful for the time you rested, and you’ll be just as grateful that you’re different, far from the person who fell asleep.

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some boundaries, please (blog #27)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Life proceeds at its own pace.

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