We Can All Dance Together (Blog #177)

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

As Dad says, such is life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You can't build a house, much less a life, from the outside-in. Rather, if you want something that's going to last, you have to start on the inside and work your way out, no matter how long it takes and how difficult it is.

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Worthy of Celebrating (Blog #176)

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

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” they said.

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

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

But I digress.

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

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

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

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

Why yes, yes it is.

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

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

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

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

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Damn if good news doesn't travel the slowest.

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Raising and Lowering My Standards (Blog #175)

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

I’m sure that’s all very normal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

We could at least try.

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

God, wouldn’t that be boring?

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You can’t stuff down the truth—it always comes up.

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A Mixed Bag (Blog #174)

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

Check, check, check.

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

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

Did I say shit?

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

Cute, right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leave it alone, Marcus.

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

And it was still alive.

Squeaking.

I’m just going to say it.

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

It was kind of awful.

I still have a mixed bag of feelings about it.

Dad’s finger should be fine.

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

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

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Love stands at the front door and says, “You don’t have to change a thing about yourself to come inside.”

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Strange Bedfellows (Blog #173)

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

So I shut the closet door and went to bed.

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

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

I wish I were kidding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Follow for a change.

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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A friend’s laughter takes us backward and carries us forward simultaneously.

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I Wasn’t Having It (Blog #172)

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

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

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

Some things, it seems, are a process.

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

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

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

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

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

But OMG does it taste good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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There’s no such thing as a small action. There’s no such thing as small progress.

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Complete in This Moment (Blog #171)

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

So that’s something.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Even a twisted tree grows tall and strong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I crack me up.

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

But how to end this?

It takes forty years in captivity for seas to part.

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Every stress and trauma in your life is written somewhere in your body.

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Cheering Each Other On (Blog #169)

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

Speaking of which.

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

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

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

Until today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

So.

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

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

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You've really got to believe in yourself and what you're doing. Again, it comes down to integrity and making something solid of yourself, something that's so well-built on the inside that it can handle any storm.

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The Pulse Fixes Everything (Blog #168)

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

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

Flexibility makes you a better, healthier dancer.

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

Duh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We’re all made of the same stuff.

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