Something, Something, and Dates (Blog #77)

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Y’all, I actually worked today. Teaching dance lessons. For money. Praise the Lord.

The work day started with my friend Summer. That’s her in the picture. (If I could get my hair to do that, I would just die.) I know Summer from the Little Theater in Fort Smith and her work with improv comedy. She’s hilarious. Anyway, Summer and her husband eloped a while back, but they’re having a ceremony and reception soon, so she and her Dad came in today to work on their father-daughter dance.

During the lesson I asked Summer how she met her husband, and she said they used to work at the same place, and her friends kept encouraging her to talk to him. This went on for a couple of weeks, and one day she turned around and–honest to god–bumped into the guy. Well, he’d gotten a major haircut recently, so the first thing Summer said was, “I like your hair.”

I like your hair.

Can you believe that line ended up snagging her a huz? I mean, Summer landed a hot dude (I creeped her Facebook page) with, “I like your hair.” It’s like Baby in Dirty Dancing saying, “I carried a watermelon” and ending up in bed with friggin’ Patrick Swayze. Well, first, I love that (the thing and Patrick Swayze). Second, I’ve apparently been doing everything all wrong.

The dance lessons this afternoon were at my friend Bonnie’s house, and she offered to make me a smoothie during a break. They say beggars can’t be choosers, but that didn’t stop me from trying, so I said, “What kind of smoothie? What are you gonna put in it?”

“Coffee, peanuts, hemp seeds, something, something, and dates.”

“Dates? That sounds good. I haven’t had a date in FOREVER.” (It’s funny because it’s true.)

Several weeks ago I saw a hot guy on a friend’s Instagram account, so I creeped him on Facebook. (I swear I don’t spend ALL my time creeping on people. But don’t even front like you don’t do it too.) Anyway, I did something I never do and asked my friend to hook a brother up. To my great surprise and delight, they said they’d give it their best shot. Hashtag winning.

What if tomorrow’s the day?

Well, people have lives and these things are delicate, so it’s been a slow process. But in the meantime I’ve been keeping myself busy fantasizing (not about anything naughty), slipping into little daydreams like having someone to walk with (I’m assuming this guy has legs–the picture was taken from the waist up), or going to the movies together, or wondering if my seven-year-old nephew with long hair would mind standing in as one of the flower girls at the wedding. You know, little daydreams like that.

My therapist says that daydreams like these are completely normal. A long time ago I told her that I’d meet a total stranger and immediately start thinking about marrying him, moving to a big city, maybe even having kids. She said, “I don’t know anyone who DOESN’T do that.”

Anyway, this evening I found out that the guy is seeing someone (who’s not me). What a drag. On the scale of lifetime disappointments, this one ranks pretty low. But on the scale of today’s disappointments, it pretty much takes the cake (cake!) because it’s the only one I’ve had, unless you count the thing about Summer’s hair being better than my hair, which I don’t.

In the past two years, I’ve gotten myself all worked up about a couple different assholes–I mean gentlemen–I met online. In both cases, I actually talked to them–things were going splendidly–that is until it we started planning a date. By we, I mean me, since I’M A PLANNER. (Paula Cole should write a song called “Where have all the planners gone?”) And then–crickets.

When that happened the second time, my therapist did something she almost never does. She gave me a directive. “We’ve reached the point in our relationship at which I can sometimes tell you what to do,” she said, “and I’m telling you to stop talking to guys on Tindr.” So that’s what I did. Never let it be said that I can’t follow directions. But I said, “I never even met these people. We just sent messages to each other. Why am I so disappointed? Why does it hurt?”

“That’s just the death of the fantasy,” she said.

“Well it sucks.”

At Bonnie’s tonight, there were some really strong winds. We were sitting on her front porch, so we put away the outdoor furniture to keep it from blowing away. Before I left, her electricity went kaput. On my way home, I took my usual route, which snakes through town and up a big hill into the back of my parents’ neighborhood. Just before the crest of the hill, I saw that a large tree had fallen across the road, so I had to do a thirteen-point turn, head back down the hill, and choose another route.

Before I did, I used my headlights to take a picture with the big tree. The picture doesn’t really do it justice, but I think I look all right, even if you can’t see the legs I most certainly have. But believe me when I tell you that the tree was so big it took up the entire road. Hell, there were probably little elves that make cookies living in it.

Tonight when I saw the elf tree in the middle of the road, it seemed pretty obvious that I wasn’t meant to go that way, which meant that, in effect, another fantasy had died–my fantasy about traveling down that particular road. (I’m sorry, this road is currently dating someone else.)

So all I can think is that a lot of times our plans and fantasies don’t work out. A LOT OF TIMES they don’t work out. And that can hurt and that can suck. But just because one road doesn’t work out doesn’t mean you can’t turn around, try another one, and still get to where you’re going. Isn’t that what an adventure is? And as for that guy, my friend said they hadn’t given up, so I guess it’s possible that a road that’s blocked today could clear up tomorrow. I’m really okay either way, but what if tomorrow’s the day to bump into someone and say, “I like your hair”?

What if?

[In the spirit of this post, I’m sharing one of my favorite songs maybe ever, “Ring Them Bells” by Liza Minnelli. (Will and Grace taught me, “Judy, Liza, Barbara, Bette–These are names I shan’t forget.) It’s about the true story of a woman who traveled around the world and met her future husband, only to find out that he already lived next door to her in New York City. It’s fabulous.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We can hang on and put everything safely in its place, and then at some point, we’re forced to let go.

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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)

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

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Finding God in the Strangest Places (Blog #75)

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I’m just going to get this out of the way. Until this evening, I hadn’t showered for three days, maybe four. I lost count. All I can say is that I kept meaning to clean up, but there were so many reasons not too. I needed to exercise, I needed to blog, I needed to sleep. (Those are really the only things I do lately.) Suffice it to say, things got pretty gross, so in order to avoid smelling my own pits, I’ve spent a lot of time this week pinning my arms to my sides, kind of like a wallflower at a high school prom, minus all the acne. My personal mantra has been–elbows below nipples–elbows below nipples.

Since starting my new diet, my unfortunate and semi-longstanding body odor problem has actually improved, but it hasn’t entirely gone away. I read on the worldwide web that body odor can sometimes be caused by drinking too much coffee, so I thought that maybe I should cut back from my usual three cups, four cups, or maybe it was half a pot a day. Again, it’s hard to keep track of these things when you have so many other important tasks to accomplish.

Typically, whenever I decide something is bad for me, I cut it out cold turkey, label it as evil, and immediately proceed to look down upon anyone else who does it. Like, I could smoke half a pack of cigarettes for six months, quit for three days, and then walk down the street and see a total stranger bumming a Camel from his friend and think, What a lowlife–that’s disgusting. Or I could spend two months eating ice cream every night, quit long enough to lose half a pound, and then drive by the Dairy Freeze and think, You people should be ashamed of yourselves–go home and eat broccoli.

My therapist says that when it comes to certain topics, I’m so judgmental of other people because I’m primarily so judgmental of myself. I wish I could say I disagree with her. I guess because I have this highly developed sense of what’s right and wrong, good and bad, it gets applied here first, and then everywhere else across the board. So if you’re one of those people I’ve judged, I’m sorry, and I’m right there with you.

But back to coffee and body odor.

Some days managing my health feels like playing a game of Whack-A-Mole.

I’m really trying to not be such a hard ass, with myself or anyone else. (Did I mention I’m REALLY TRYING?) Anyway, instead of quitting coffee cold turkey, I decided to just back off, go to one cup a day. So far I’m two days in, and I’m starting to get really cranky. Part of me thinks, God, Marcus, you don’t have to quit processed foods, refined sugar, white bread, dairy, AND coffee in a ten-day period. But another part of me thinks, Yes you do–and while you’re at it, you should probably mediate for an hour every morning, sleep on a bed of nails, and adopt a child from China and pay for it by selling one of your kidneys on the black market. I mean, is that too much to ask?

Honestly, I just want the body odor problem to go away. I’m willing to try just about anything in order to make that happen, but some days managing my health feels like playing a game of Whack-A-Mole. If you want to know the truth, sometimes I think I’m a hypochondriac. (I can hear my friends saying, “No! Surely not you.”) Tonight when I finally did take a shower because I had a dance lesson (I’m not completely inconsiderate), I shaved my face, nicked something, and started bleeding. Well, I instantly thought it was a wart, another longstanding problem I had a couple of years ago. I think my heart actually stopped beating for a second as I thought, THEY’RE BACK.

But then I thought better of it and decided it was a zit, probably the result of not washing my face in three days, maybe four. Yes, I’m almost certain it was a zit and not a wart. So don’t worry, I’m going to live.

Phew.

That was close.

This evening I had dinner with a friend of mine who has really good taste and recently remodeled his bathroom. He’d probably die if he knew I took a picture of it and put it on the internet, so I probably shouldn’t have talked about my blog so much this evening or typed the address of this website into his phone. Anyway, I love remodeling, so we spent quite a bit of time going over every detail, but even now all I can think about is the arched window that he hung above his toilet. I’m guessing it came from a sanctuary, but it could have come from Target, which I suppose for some people is the same thing.

Isn’t that the cutest thing you ever saw? Doesn’t it remind you of a church? Call me twisted, but all night I’ve been thinking that if you just lit a few of candles, maybe had a couple of monks chanting in the shower (think how good they’d sound in there), it really would make the toilet feel like–I don’t know–a throne of grace. Just think of it–going to the bathroom could be called–a righteous release–a sanctified shit–a holy crap.

After dinner this evening, my friend and I were in the car, and he told me that I smelled “clean.” You can’t imagine how good it made me feel. I told him that I’ve been super self-conscious lately because I took some antibiotics and I think they messed up my intestinal flora and gave me body odor, so I’ve changed my diet and am cutting out coffee to try to fix it. Well, my friend is super honest, so he said, “Marcus, you’re a freak. (I’m summarizing.) You’re the only person I know who would change his diet because he’s afraid of the way he smells. No one else thinks about their flora.”

He may have a point.

Once I read an interpretation of the Garden of Eden story that basically said the Tree of Knowledge represents our capacity to judge or “to know” something. It said that it also represents the world of duality, where everything is hot or cold, up or down, good or bad, and it’s the good or bad part that causes a lot of our suffering. According to this take on things, everything was fine this afternoon while I was shaving, just as everything is fine right now as I’m typing this blog. In effect, I was and am in the Garden of Eden. (Who knew it would be this humid?) But as soon as I thought, I have a wart, and warts are bad, I kicked myself out of the Garden. That’s why my heart stopped beating, the way it would now if I labeled my body odor problem as anything other than good, which is what we’re told in Genesis is how God sees all that he has made. Or did he recently change his mind about that?

Leave it to God to hide under my armpits.

There’s a passage in the Gospel of Thomas that says, “Split a piece of wood, and I am there. Lift up the stone, and you will find Me there.” What I love about this passage is that it reminds me that God (sometimes simply called Good) is everywhere. There’s no where that he isn’t. I spend a lot of time trying to prove this theory wrong, of course. I walk around a large part of the day thinking that warts are bad, carbs are bad, certain smells are bad. I think anything could kill me, and that would be bad because death is REALLY BAD. None of those judgments, of course, feel good, and they certainly don’t change a damn thing.

So I’m trying (really hard) to look for the good in all circumstances, to basically play hide-and-seek with God, like, I know you’re here somewhere. (Come out, come out, wherever you are.) Of course, God’s been playing this game for a long time. He’s not going to hide behind the sofa–that’s too obvious. Don’t bother looking for the divine behind the divan. More likely, this game is going to require that I lift my elbows above my nipples, maybe take a selfie in my friend’s bathroom. After all, leave it to God to hide under my armpits. Leave it to God to hide in the Holy Crapper.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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In other words, there's always SOMETHING else to improve or work on. Therefore, striving for perfection is not only frustrating, it's also technically impossible.

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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)

"We were made to love without conditions. That's the packaging we were sent with."

Energetic Vampires (Blog #73)

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The week I started this website, I was out for a walk and took the above photo. If for some reason you can’t see it, it’s a road sign that says Dead End. I thought surely I could work it into a post about where I felt my life was headed, or maybe one about a number of relationships I’ve been in. However, tonight I’m using it mainly because I’m not sure where this post is going, I need a picture to use, and I’m tired of taking selfies. Hard to believe, I know. Don’t worry, I’m sure it’s just a phase–like being gay. (One time I actually had a former student say this about my sexuality TO MY BOYFRIEND. It didn’t bless me.)

This afternoon I watched a movie called From Dusk Till Dawn starring George Clooney and Quentin Tarantino. One of my dearest friends recommended it, and if he were here right this moment, I’d tell him exactly what The Good Fairy told Little Bunny Foo Foo–I’ll give you three more chances. (Warning: If you haven’t seen the film, I’m about to spoil the plot for you.)

The movie is about two brothers, bank robbers, and murderers (George and Quentin) who are running from the law and kidnap a former priest and his two children, using the family’s RV to escape to Mexico. Once there, they go to titty bar to hand off some of the stolen money, and then SHIT GETS WEIRD, meaning almost everyone turns into vampires.

Vampires.

If you didn’t see that coming, I didn’t either. I kept staring at the screen wondering if I’d accidentally changed channels, but I hadn’t. Well, the rest of the film is everyone killing everyone else–daylight, crosses, lot of wooden stakes to the heart–the usual vampire stuff. Only George and one of the children survive. And that’s the end.

What the hell?

It was like–SURPRISE!–in the worst possible way.

I messaged my friend and said as much, and he said he LOVED the dramatic plot twist. But here’s my problem. There’s a concept in writing called “the contract with the reader,” which says that by the end of the first paragraph or chapter, it should be clear what the story is about. Early on, the reader (or viewer) should be able to say, “Oh, this is a story about an orphan,” or “This is a story about a prostitute who falls in love with a millionaire.” And then, knowing what you’re getting yourself into, you should be able to sit back, relax, and watch the story unfold and the characters develop.

But From Dusk Till Dawn effectively pulled a bait and switch, promising a movie about two guys running from the law, possibly about a former priest and why he lost his faith, but delivering a vampire flick instead. It was like–SURPRISE!–in the worst possible way. I’ve spent the entire evening trying to find something, anything, redeeming about the film, but I’ve got nothing. No one changes or learns anything, and there’s no happy ending other than the fact that the surviving kid gets the RV and George gets five percent off the money he owes the guy he was meeting at the titty bar. (Come on, make it ten. My brother turned into a vampire, and I had to kill him. It’s been a rough day.)

I realize this is becoming somewhat of a rant, so I’m going to wrap up my dissatisfaction with this film by saying that I get it. Things don’t always turn out like you think they’re going to. Life is full of surprises. Sometimes you waste two hours of you life on a bad movie.

But I’d hate for the film and this blog post to be a complete waste, so I’d like to talk a little bit about vampires. Believe it or not, vampires are discussed in a lot in self-help material and even in therapy. Apparently, vampires are real, not in the blood-sucking sense, but in the energy-sucking sense. You know those friends you always walk away from feeling drained–the ones who monopolize the conversation, complain all the time, take-take-take and never give? Those are vampires. I mean, they’re not bad people–we all do it from time to time, probably not on purpose–but they’re certainly not healthy to have hanging around your living room or favorite titty bar either.

To be clear, if you have a friend who’s a vampire, I’m not suggesting you put a wooden stake through their heart. I doubt wearing a cross would do any good. But do try something. In my experience, the answer is almost always a good solid boundary. In the case of the former student who challenged my sexuality to my boyfriend, there were a lot of instances in which they’d get jealous or upset if my attention went anywhere other than in their direction. They’d say, “Well you’ve danced with her three times but me only once.”

Talk about sucking the life out of you.

We had a number of conversations about everything going on, and I eventually asked the person to leave. In essence, I whipped out the holy water and said, “That’s enough. I’m taking my life back.” My therapist says that when dealing with vampires, boundaries don’t always have to be so dramatic. She says that sometimes the people who drain us are people we really care about. Maybe they’re family. In those cases, she says that we can “gear down,” go from talking to them every day to a couple of times a week.

Honestly, I think the people in our lives should be like a well-written story. We should be able to know what they’re about pretty early on. We should be able to say, “Here’s a person who needs a lot of attention,” or “Here’s someone who’s a good listener and is always trying to help.” Of course, people change and lives are complicated, but if someone initially presents themselves as one thing and later there’s a big plot twist–oh shit, he’s a vampire!–well, Houston, we have a problem. Reach for your crosses.

In my experience, some relationships, especially ones with vampires, are dead ends. Period. But my therapist says, “Life is long,” so I like to leave room for the idea that anyone or any relationship can circle back around. Plus, we all go through times when we’re more needy than others. But over the last few years, I’ve consciously chosen to spend more and more of my time on roads that are going somewhere, traveling with people who give life more than they take it. As Robert Frost says, that has made all the difference.

An Act of Surrender (Blog #72)

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I’m really disgusted by the way science works. Apparently, on a planet such as this one, a person (I’m not going to say who) can gain fifteen pounds over the course of three months (if he eats enough carbohydrates to feed the army of a small nation), but can’t lose those same fifteen pounds in five days. Come on. Who makes these rules? I’d like to have word. Maybe I could request a different planet to live on, one where eating carrot cake and wheat beer makes your ass smaller instead of larger. Who’s with me?

Everyone wants to call dramatically altering your eating habits a “lifestyle change,” but let’s admit it. It’s a fucking diet. I think it’s interesting that just like there’s no “I” in teamwork, there’s no “life” in diet either. However, there is “die” in diet, which sounds about right. Done correctly, a good diet is a death. Here lies refined sugar. In the name of our lord, we remember thee fondly.

Five days into this diet, I continue to be cranky. I should probably lock myself in my room until it’s over or until my body gets the message that having a chocolate shake on a daily basis is not a requirement for happy living. Until then, it’s throwing a temper tantrum. But in light of the fact that I’m already down a few pounds and can now find my hip bones, I’m willing to keep things up and trust that this piss-poor attitude will eventually pass.

This afternoon I finished reading a book by Karen Armstrong called A Short History of Myth, in which the author discusses what myths are and why we need them. She says that for most of human history, myths helped mankind feel important, connected to the world and divinity around him. But since Newton and the scientific method, a lot of that has been lost. Rather than being a mystery, life has become a collection of facts, something that can be measured.

Lately I’ve been hyper-focused on my posture. No one gives a shit about this except me, but for whatever reason, my head turns slightly to the left, almost all of the time. I’ve noticed recently that my hips do the same thing, and if I consciously square my hips, it helps square my head as well. But without the correction, my body seems to be permanently twisted, like a sapling that’s managed to survive a hard storm.

This posture problem–I imagine–has been going on a long time, but since I’m now aware of it, it drives me crazy. I’m constantly trying to correct it, constantly hoping heaven will hand me down a miracle, even though I’ve never heard of an archangel who gives chiropractic adjustments. It seems I have literally made myself a problem, and part of every day is devoted to worrying about it, searching high and low for an answer. Honestly, it’s like a hobby that’s not any fun.

I had an older friend tell me once that there’s a great dissolution that happens in your thirties, that at some point you realize life isn’t the dream you thought it was going to be. Rather, he said, it sucks. (I’m paraphrasing.) Honestly, it wasn’t an uplifting conversation, and it reminded me of my dad’s line–One day you’ll be old and fat. I think my friend’s point was that when you’re younger you think your body can leap tall buildings in a single bound, but when you’re older you realize that gravity applies to you too.

Personally, I fight this thinking tooth and nail. It’s not that I think I can fly. I don’t jump off bridges for fun. But I don’t believe that everyone has to get old and fat, or at least that those two things have to go together. And whereas I’m all for reality and the collection of facts, I’m also for the mythological, the mysterious, and the idea that anything can happen for anyone, at any age. I like to think that a tree doesn’t have to stay twisted forever.

I went for a run tonight, but my body really wasn’t having it, so I ended up walking, deciding that running was for people who eat carbohydrates. I’d hoped that even the light exercise would alter my diet-induced sour mood, but apparently burning calories wasn’t the answer I was looking for. (Please try again.) But I did love the full-ish moon, and that made me think even more about the mythological and mysterious. Mostly, I was focused on a line from the book I read this afternoon that said, “You cannot be a hero unless you are prepared to give up everything; there is no ascent to the heights without a prior decent into darkness, no new life without some form of death.”

All great heroes, at some point, surrender to the unknown.

In light of that quote, it makes sense that there’s no “life” in diet. The diet itself is the death. The new life comes later. But what grabbed me most about the quote was the part about being prepared to give up everything. Lately it feels like I HAVE given up everything, but I know that’s not true. There’s plenty more I’m holding on to. And as I walked and obsessed about the fact that I kept looking to my left instead of straight ahead, I realized that one thing I have yet to give up is my idea about how my body should be. What’s more, I haven’t given up my idea about how my life should be.

But I think the myths would encourage me to do that. All great heroes, at some point, surrender to the unknown. Indiana Jones stepped out onto a bridge he couldn’t see. Jonah gave himself up to the belly of the whale. Jesus said, “Not my will, but yours be done.” Call it a dissolution if you want, but I think dissolution is a lot like resignation, and there’s usually not a lot of hope in that. Surrender, on the other hand, is full of hope. What’s more, it’s full of faith. It’s trusting that the bridge is there even when you can’t see it, or knowing that after three days in the belly of the whale or even the grave, you’ll rise again.

So not only am I working on accepting the facts of life–like the fact that it takes more than five days to lose fifteen pounds–but I’m also working on giving up control and surrendering to the unknown, letting go of my old life and letting the great mystery of life have me. All the while I continue to hope, dreaming of the very best life has to offer, trusting that even a twisted tree grows strong and tall, worthy of its place on a planet such as this one.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Freedom lies on the other side of everything you're afraid of.

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Defrosting Your Emotional Freezer (Blog #71)

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This afternoon I helped my dad defrost the freezer in the garage. He said it had been two and half years since it was last defrosted, but it might as well have been ten. There was so much ice caked on the top shelf, there was only enough room for one single-serve pizza from Schwan’s. (Mom LOVES Schwan’s food. And the Schwan’s guy, whoever it happens to be, since he brings the food. He always gets invited in, asked about his kids. Hell, “Schwan’s guy” is probably in her will–above me but beneath my sister.) Anyway, after Dad took out all the Schwan’s boxes, we dragged the freezer into the driveway, hooked up the water hose, and I went to work.

For about twenty minutes, I aimed the water hose at the ice as if I were a fireman (but obviously not a fireman because they put out fires not freezers), watching it slowly melt, break away from the shelves, and then fall to the bottom. When I finished, Dad and I cleaned the mold that had collected on the top and sides of the freezer, as well as on the rubber seal around the door. (It was pretty gross, but don’t you go getting all judgmental. I’m sure your freezer isn’t much better.) Before long, everything was spick and span. After the freezer dried out, Dad hauled it back inside the garage and plugged it back in, and Mom put all the food where she wanted it. I joked that now there was even more room for Schwan’s, and Dad–who prefers bologna and meals purchased with coupons–said, “You could have gone all day without saying that.”

Cleaning out the ice from the freezer made me think about the ways things build up in our lives. I know that for the longest time I held on to physical objects. Slowly, things came in but rarely went out. I’m just one person, but before I knew it, I had enough stuff for a yard sale, then an estate sale. Even though I don’t own many things now, I’ve noticed how easily they still pile up–bills, magazines, t-shirts. Hell, I have so many tubes of medicine in my toiletry bag, earlier today I almost brushed my teeth with hydrocortisone cream. I can only imagine what would have happened if I’d put mint-flavored Sensodyne on my hemorrhoids.

All emotions are useful.

As much as I used to hold on to physical objects, I also held on to emotions. I didn’t know any better, so I just shoved those sons of bitches down in a jar and shut the lid (tight). For the longest time, I rarely showed anger, rarely cried. I was like that meme that went around of a Canadian protest, which showed a man holding a tiny sign that said, “I’m a little upset.” Lately that’s gotten a lot better. Now it’s easier to say, “I’m fucking pissed,” and it’s definitely easier to cry, since I no longer think that it’s embarrassing to do so. My therapist says, “Crying is just like any other emotion, any other bodily function. You don’t apologize when you laugh or when you sweat.”

I like that way of looking at things, that all emotions are equal. That’s how emotions are seen in Chinese medicine. If I understand it correctly, all emotions, even anger, are useful. (Think of an abused person who can’t get angry enough to leave their abuser). It’s only when emotions don’t get expressed properly or get out of balance that there’s a problem.

As I think of it now, I guess letting go–of physical objects or emotions that have been held on to–is a lot like defrosting a freezer. If you want your freezer to do what it was designed to do, defrosting it is an absolute necessity. You have to get rid of the excess. Once you do, stuff can come and go all day long because there’s room for that. But if there’s too much excess, if things are being put in but never taken out, you’re going to end up with a problem. It doesn’t matter if it’s Schwan’s boxes, tubes of hydrocortisone cream, or emotions–too much is too much.

This evening I went to a swing dance in Northwest Arkansas and danced a lot with my friend Sydnie. (That’s her in the picture at the top of the blog.) We talked just as much as we danced. It’s a long story that doesn’t belong to me, but Sydnie told me about someone she knows who’s constipated. (I’m always saying, “Shit happens,” but obviously–for some people–it doesn’t.) Anyway, I’ll spare you the details and just say I think constipation is another example of what can happen when we’re not able to let go.

Earlier this week in therapy, my therapist and I were talking about biting your tongue, which is something I did a lot of in the past. She said that biting your tongue always hurts, and it’s also inauthentic, just like shoving your emotions into a jar is inauthentic. Plus, at some point, there’s not any room left in the jar, just like there may not be any room left in your t-shirt drawer. And when that happens, emotions start to leak out. Maybe you yell at strangers in traffic, maybe you cry for no reason when a song comes on the radio. Sydnie said, “When you can’t shit–you feel like shit,” and I took that to mean that whether it’s literal shit or emotional shit, eventually it’s all gotta come out because it doesn’t feel good to hold it in. Sooner or later, all freezers need to be defrosted.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Everything is progressing as it should.

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When Your Mood Stinks (Blog #70)

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I’ve been in a foul mood pretty much the entire day. In addition to being hungry because I’ve recently cut back on carbs and sugars (and all the things I love so dearly), I didn’t get much sleep last night, since I got up early this morning to go to therapy. (I’m sure it wasn’t the first time someone showed up in a bad mood. I mean, that’s kind of the point.) So that’s how I woke up, and then even before I got out of bed, I decided the screen protector I put on my new phone a couple of days ago was a PIECE OF SHIT because it wasn’t registering touch very well, which is a problem for–I don’t know–a touch-screen phone.

So that pissed me off.

And then when I got dressed, I couldn’t find my favorite ring. (I almost always know where my things are, since I’m anal retentive and hyper-organized and consequently so much fun to be around.) I looked everywhere–my man bag, my toiletry bag, my luggage–and couldn’t find it, so I started thinking that I must have left it in Nashville somewhere.

So that pissed me off more.

I almost always enjoy therapy, but since beginning this blog, I’ve started thinking, Good, it’s therapy day–more material. (On certain topics, my therapist, family, and friends have started letting me know in advance–don’t write about this. Fair enough.) But more often than not, I’m finding that what happens during that one hour in therapy is rarely the thing for the day I end up blogging about. Go figure. So I’ll just say that it went well, other than the fact that I was wearing shorts and a tank top and the waiting room felt like a meat locker.

After therapy I had lunch with my friend Ray, and I showed up a little early, so I sat in my car and Googled the screen protector I bought for my phone. I found out that I should be able to remove the protector, which made me feel better. But then I realized I would still need to replace it with another brand, which seemed overwhelming, so I put my phone away.

For lunch Ray introduced me to the best brussel sprouts I’ve ever eaten. I assume they were fried in unicorn fat and dipped in ranch dressing made by fairies, but since I’m on a diet, I didn’t ask any questions and instead focused on the fact that they were green.

In and of itself, a bad mood isn’t a problem.

I told Ray that I was upset about the screen protector on my phone and that I’d decided to not do anything about it–take the screen off, call the company, throw my phone across the damn room–until I got more sleep and adjusted to my diet. Ray reminded me of the acronym HALT, which stands for Hungry, Angry, Lonely, Tired. The idea behind the acronym is to to slow the fuck down (halt) and not make any big decisions whenever you’re one of those four things, since you’re probably not going to make the best decision anyway. (Personally, I think the H could also stand for Horny. Don’t make any big decisions when you’re horny.)

Just speaking from today’s experience, I’d also suggest that if you have three out of the four letters going on, don’t even bother leaving the house. Just try again tomorrow. Maybe wait until next week if you can.

The rest of the day has been–okay. I picked up a few books at the library and took a nap when I got home. Currently, the nap feels like a distant memory. This evening I went for a long walk and saw a skunk–twice. I’m pretty sure it was following me. Whenever something like this happens, I assume it’s a sign from the heavens rather than–you know–a skunk with bad eyesight thinking my black and white tennis shoes would be nice to make babies with.

Anyway, I looked up skunks on Google, and it turns out that it takes a few days for them to replenish their famous odor after it’s released. Because of this fact, they’re pretty cautious about using it and will only do so if there’s a real threat. In terms of spirituality, skunks represent independence, discernment, and good boundaries. (If only skunks had boundary bumper stickers that said, “Stay away or get the spray.”)

When I got home from the walk, I found my ring. It was in my man bag hiding behind the Ibuprofen. That made me feel a little better, but I’m still hungry, angry (about the phone), and tired. The day itself has gone well, but it’s felt like there’s been a bad mood on deck the entire time, just itching to step up to the plate and take a swing. I’m proud to say I haven’t really let it, but it’s certainly been tempting. I think that if I’d engaged more with the phone problem or tried to do anything more challenging than tie my shoes, I would have screamed or cried or both.

Since seeing the skunk, I’ve been trying to make a lesson out independence, discernment, and good boundaries. (Bad boundaries–stink?) But I don’t think that’s it. Rather, I think my bad mood today is like the skunk I saw tonight. In and of itself, it’s not a problem. There’s not a thing in the world wrong with being hungry, angry, or tired (or all three at once). So long as most of me can step over to the other side of the street and proceed slowly (don’t make any sudden moves), it’s all right. But get too close to a bad mood, and look out. To modify a familiar quotation, speak (or try to fix you phone) when you’re hungry, angry, lonely, or tired, and you’ll make the best speech you’ll ever regret.

Talk about stinking things up.

Okay, I’m going to bed now. Surely this skunk of a bad mood will go away soon enough.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"We were made to love without conditions. That's the packaging we were sent with."

Results in the Distance (Blog #69)

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Today was my first full day of clean eating, and I don’t mind saying that it sucked. I drank so much water that taking a leak is now my most time-consuming hobby. I’m surprised the toilet didn’t look at me and say, “You again?” The meals themselves were fine–they just didn’t last long. This seems to be the case whenever I cut out carbs, at least for a couple of weeks. It’s like my body’s saying, “Hey, where’d all the bread go? SEND MORE BREAD!”

This afternoon I ate a salad bigger than Minnie Pearl’s hat. It was so big and there were so many vegetables to chew that it took me an hour to get the damn thing down. Midway through, I was stuffed and honestly didn’t think I’d be able to finish it, but I did. (No carrot’s gonna get the best of me.) Thirty minutes later, I was hungry again. All day I’ve been hungry. It’s like I’m just throwing eggs and artichokes into my stomach the way a seven-year-old throws pebbles into the Grand Canyon. There’s just a faint “chink” as they hit the bottom of my guts. It feels like trying to satisfy a pet dragon with a stalk of celery.

The upside to being hungry all day long has been that I already feel skinnier. I had a friend tell me once that when he quit smoking and his arms trembled from cravings, he just told himself it was his body’s reaction to getting so much oxygen. In terms of cigarettes, that logic never worked for me, but I like the fact that my friend could blow smoke up his own ass to help him over a hump. So today I’ve been telling myself that feeling hungry is my stomach’s positive reaction to my good decisions, as if all that noise down there were a bunch of cheerleaders at a ballgame rooting me on. I said a-boom-chicka-boom! 

Honestly, I’m not buying it for a second.

I really hoped that by the time I finished I’d no longer be able to feel my butt bouncing up and down.

This evening I walked to the park in Van Buren and jogged around the pond/lake/whatever when I got there. Jogging is hard enough as it is, but the trail tonight was covered in goose poop, so it was like running an obstacle course. There were feathers and shit–everywhere. It looked like a bunch of birds were in the middle of lunch and got massacred by a crocodile, shitting themselves just before they died. I kept darting left and right–it was more crap than concrete–imagining that if I stepped on a wet turd, I’d end up first in the pond and then in the chiropractor’s office.

So I only did one lap, then headed back to the house.

A firm butt isn’t built in a day.

Before I got home, I stopped at the high school track and jogged a mile (for a total of about three), alternating each lap between jogging and walking. I really hoped that by the time I finished I’d no longer be able to feel my butt bouncing up and down like one of those big punch balloons with the long rubber bands that children play with. Alas, that was not the case. I kept reminding myself that Rome wasn’t built in a day. A firm butt isn’t built in a day. When it comes to losing weight and healthy living, it’s about being able “to seek distant rather than immediate results.” (Someone famous said that.)

A few days ago a Facebook memory popped up with a picture from the summer camp where I used to work. The picture (below) is almost twenty years old, and it shows me and several of my dear friends dressed up in camouflage and war paint. (We used to do a lot of shit like that in order to entertain and scare the campers. The young ones sometimes wet their pants in appreciation.) Normally I get nostalgic for summer camp and my friends when I see a picture like this one, but as I jogged tonight, the only thing I could think about about was how fucking fantastic my waistline looked back then and the fact that I didn’t even appreciate it at the time.

Now that I think about, I didn’t appreciate beer back then either. I’m sure the two facts are unrelated. In college when I gained weight for the first time, my sister said, “Is it food weight or beer weight?” Well, I hadn’t even thought about it. I said, “Beer has weight?” (This is something they didn’t teach us in science class at Fort Smith Christian.)

This afternoon I watched The People’s Court, thought that everyone on the show could use a good therapist, and put contact paper on some of my favorite paperback books. I can’t tell you how happy it made me, everything so neat and tidy. This evening I soaked in the tub and took extra time to groom and shave, so now I’m neat and tidy too. I’ve been thinking all day that it’s important to have little rituals like this whenever embarking on new adventures like dieting and exercising because it signals that we’re willing to take care of ourselves (just like putting contact paper on your paperback books signals that you’re willing to take care of your things). It’s why we break champagne bottles on new ships–it’s like a baptism, a beginning.

So that’s how I’m looking at today, as a beginning. After all, the journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step. And whereas it’s just a single step, it’s a really important one. So today is my single step, and as I strike out with hunger–both for carbohydrates and for what is to come–I seek results in the distance.

[Thanks to my friend April , whom I’ve known almost my entire life, for posting the picture from camp. She’s fourth from the left in the photo, and if it weren’t for her, I probably never would’ve worked there, and that would’ve sucked more than this diet.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

One, Two, You Know What to Do (Blog #68)

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A few years ago I had a chronic problem with my–ahem–prostate. I guess it wasn’t a serious deal, but it was super itchy down there, on the inside. (Aren’t you glad we can talk about ANYTHING here?) Anyway, my primary care doctor assumed it was a bacterial infection, and I think we went through five rounds of antibiotics to no avail over a several month period. Finally, I ended up with a urologist in Northwest Arkansas that didn’t require a referral, since the ones in Fort Smith do, and that process was moving about as fast as the return of Jesus Christ.

Well, the doctor was a miracle. (If you need a good guy “down there,” let me know.) Basically he stuck his finger up my butt, I said I felt like I should introduce him to my parents, and he said I didn’t have a bacterial infection. (That was easy.) He said that it was non-bacterial prostatitis, so don’t let anyone give me more antibiotics. Also, he said to wear briefs, take warm baths, and watch my diet. Oh, and he prescribed a pill for old people who have trouble peeing because he said it would help everything relax down south. (Apparently my prostate was “stressed.” Who isn’t these days?)

At some point during the prostate problem period (PPP), I read a book called It Starts with Food by Dallas and Melissa Hartwig. The book contends that we can–and should–do a lot of things for our health, but it needs to begin with what we eat. It recommends a reboot of sorts called The Whole30, which is thirty days of no grains, no corn, no sugar, no dairy, no legumes, no alcohol, and–obviously–no fun. (But really, you do get to eat several types of protein and plenty of fruits and vegetables.)

As you can imagine, a diet this strict can be pretty intimidating, but I decided to–as my therapist says–give it a whirl. And get this. Within two weeks, the prostate problem disappeared. In thirty days, I lost sixteen pounds, and about day twenty-eight, I felt especially lighter and more energized. I thought, Wow–THIS is what my body’s supposed to feel like.”

It’s time for some tough love.

They say that what goes up must come down, and apparently the reverse is true also. Slowly, I fell off the wagon–a pizza here, a pizza there–and my weight went up and the prostate problem returned. And then eventually, the problem calmed down on its own. (The body is so strange.) The last time I saw my doctor, I told him about the diet, and he said, “Well, I’m just going to give you a little tough love and tell you to eat better.”

Over the last few years, I’ve done The Whole30 a handful of times, and it always works. But it also takes a lot of focus, and sometimes it makes me light-headed because maybe I’m getting too few calories or maybe I’m getting too few carbohydrates. But again, it’s effective. The point isn’t to lose weight, but I always do, and weird health issues usually clear up or at least improve. I mean, this last January, after taking antibiotics, I had the body odor issues that I’m currently having, so I started a similar thing to The Whole30 called The Candida Cure. Within a week, my body oder returned to normal (which is quite pleasant I’ve been told). But then I had sinus surgery, took more antibiotics (shit happens), and–as the song goes–the cat came back the very next day.

Honestly, I hate the fact that there’s a relationship between what I eat and how I feel. I wish I could just take an old person’s pee pill or rub some magical cream under my armpits and continue to eat waffles, fried chicken, and chocolate cake for breakfast (the healthiest meal of the day). But the fact is–I know better. I’ve seen what clean eating, if only for a couple of weeks, can do for me.

For the last month, I’ve been telling myself that I need to clean it up again, but I simply haven’t had the energy. I mean, the dollar menu is SO EASY. Plus, I usually work things up to be a bigger deal than they actually are, like every decision, every food plan, is FOR-EV-ER. So yes, I’ve been resistant. But last night I stepped on the scale, and seeing that I was just a few pounds shy of a number I’ve never seen before, I thought, Oh hell no–it’s time for some tough love.

So tonight I went to the grocery store. (Notice all the fruits and vegetables.)

While I shopped, I kept wondering if I truly had the focus and energy to currently commit to healthier living. But then I remembered once a couple of years ago when I was in the same situation and my friend and workout partner Jim said, “You know what to do. You’ve done it before.” So I’m finding a lot of encouragement in that thought, the idea that I’m not having to learn this for the very first time. Already, there’s a part of me that’s like, Yeah, this feels familiar. (And hungry. It also feels hungry.)

I’ve had a similar experience regarding my emotional life since starting therapy. I don’t remember when it was, but one day I realized that I’ve been through a ton of shit–like a lot–including illnesses, deaths, heartaches–the big stuff. And even though none of it was easy, I’d made it, so I knew I was strong. Even now, I know I can handle whatever comes. I’ve got my life so far as evidence.

And really, compared to an ex who puts you in therapy, what’s a little spinach? (You can do this, Marcus.)

I’m telling myself that I’m not going to be a complete hard ass about the diet this time. When I woke up this morning (afternoon) I thought I was going to quit coffee today too, but when I got a headache two hours later, I thought, That part can wait. There’s a day next week when I’m going out of town to hear David Sedaris, and I don’t plan on eating out and having a salad. But I know my body is asking me for better, and I do intend to answer the call.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

[The title of tonight’s blog is partly inspired by my friend Jim’s statement and partly inspired by the Lindy Hop legend Frankie Manning, who used to say, “Uh one, uh two, you know what to do.”]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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A storm can leave your life just as quickly as it enters it.

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