In celebration of the end of my every day, every damn day posting, and in honor of my blog’s 3rd birthday, tonight I did a Live Video in which I discussed my feelings about this whole project, my gratitude for those who have supported it/me, and what may happen next. Here it is, below (21 minutes). Sorry it looks like it’s above. It’s not. That’s just a screenshot so this post can have a thumbnail.
Okay, I really am done for now.
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All emotions are useful.
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This afternoon I went shopping with a friend. The whole point of our getting out was for them to find a jacket. Alas, they couldn’t find one. So they bought a shirt, and I bought three. And a pair of pants. Gosh, living was a lot cheaper when I was in mourning, when I wore the same black shirt every day. (Johnny Cash really knew what he was doing.) That being said, I have no regrets. What’s the saying? Variety is the spice of life.
After shopping, my friend and I went out to dinner, a late birthday celebration. (My birthday was two days ago.) And whereas I won’t go into everything we discussed while shopping and eating (because it doesn’t matter and, more importantly, I don’t remember), I will say we laughed a lot. That’s one of the things I adore about me and this particular friend–we’re always cracking up.
Caroline Myss says, “Think about whether you truly have a sense of humor. [My thought–if you have to think about it, you don’t.] Healing is enhanced with humor, and laughter can lighten almost anything–certainly most day-to-day irritations. Your goal: to bring humor to everything that causes you stress, as this is one of the most empowered responses you can have.”
How does this work? Well, if you don’t have a sense of humor, I’m not sure. But if you do, it’s simply a matter of perspective, how you choose to see something. In terms of “day-to-day irritations,” for example, this morning I was trying to pick up a few items to put in the recycle bin–with one hand. Well, I dropped them everywhere. And whereas my first response was, Fuck!, my second response was laughter. It’s like I could see it happening to someone else in a movie, and all of a sudden it was funny. This morning, because our dog made a mess last night, I used a green rag to clean a section of the carpet of the room I’m currently in and ended up turning the carpet light green. I told Mom about it tonight, and she said, “Don’t worry, that carpet’s shit anyway.”
Perspective.
In terms of major drama/trauma, my therapist says, “Tragedy plus time equals comedy.” This, I think, is why minorities (Jews, African Americans, women, gays) often make the best stand-up comedians. They’ve been through hell. What’s left if you go through hell and manage to survive in one piece? A joke. Not that you should laugh about your personal tragedies every minute of every day, but you should at least be able to laugh about them sometimes, with certain people. I can’t tell you the number of times my therapist and I have joked about what most people would consider pretty serious stuff. If someone were listening to us, they might think, Talk about dark humor. But my therapist says some things are just “too much” to deal with head-on all the time.
There’s an episode of The Mary Tyler Moore Show about the death of Chuckles the Clown. The guys in the newsroom think the whole situation is hilarious. At the funeral one of them says, “We’ll know who the rest of the clowns are when they all jump out of a little hearse.” But Mary doesn’t see the humor. “A man has died,” she says. Finally, in the middle of the memorial, Mary starts giggling. When the priest quotes Chukles’s motto–a little song, a little dance, a little seltzer down your pants–Mary bursts out laughing. The guys are confused, but the priest encourages her to laugh. “Chuckles would have wanted you to,” he says. At which point Mary starts sobbing.
To me this scene illustrates the fact that sadness and happiness, tragedy and comedy, are closely related–and there needs to a balance. That is, if there’s something in your life you’ve only ever been sad about, maybe it’s time to find the humor in it. Even if it’s just the humor of saying, “This is my frickin’ life.” Conversely, if there’s something you’ve only ever joked about, maybe it’s time to cry about it. Maybe you’re using your humor not as a way to heal, but as a way to avoid healing, a way to avoid really dealing with something, a way to avoid dealing with yourself.
How do you know the difference?
Personally, I think, What am I running away from? If I’m making jokes in order to not express anger, draw boundaries, or have an uncomfortable conversation, it’s not really helping me heal. If I’m making light of the heavy situations in my life in order to keep from falling apart, and falling apart is really what I need to do, it’s not helping me heal. But if I’m doing The Hard Work and am willing to sit with any and every emotion that comes up, then I’m practicing acceptance. That’s what you want to get to, and humor is one way to do it. After you’ve cried and raged, humor can open a door and let acceptance in. Laughter can help you really let go of the past and embrace your life not only for what it’s been, but also for what it is. “A little song, a little dance, a little seltzer down your pants” can–finally–transport you back to right here, right now.
"Things that shine do better when they're scattered about."
Last night, for my thirty-ninth birthday, I went out to eat with several of my dear friends. It was the perfect thing–good people, good food, good god I’m getting older. But seriously, it was a fabulous night. Yesterday I joked that thankfully no one had sung to me or put a sombrero on my head. And whereas last night no one put a sombrero on my head, the wait staff did sing to me. Which I was fine with, since they also brought me a chocolate dessert (!) with four candles on it. I guess one candle for every 9.75 years I’ve been alive. When they finished singing, one of the waiters smiled and said, “Congratulations.”
I was like, “For making it this long?”
After dinner my friends and I went downtown for live music, a band none of us had ever heard before. My friend Justin described it as a mix of blues, rock, and folk. You know, good-ole-boy stuff. For me, it was just the right thing. Not over-the-top amazing, but solid nonetheless. Enjoyable. One of the last songs they played before we left was a swing tune, so Justin and I danced east coast swing together. It was awesome. Except that my hips hurt today. Maybe this is part of getting older. (Congratulations.)
Whenever I dance with another guy in public, especially in Fort Smith, Arkansas, I’m self-conscious. I think, I wonder if people are watching. I wonder if I’m going to get beat up. Personally, I don’t think anyone should have to fret about their safety if they’re simply doing something (or someone) they love, but this is the world we live in. I didn’t make the rules. Plus, I’m starting to think people as a whole are more accepting, or at least less aggressive, than I thought they were. Last night while Justin and I were dancing a big “dude” came out of the bathroom and looked at us. Then he just kept walking. Like, no big deal. Now, I don’t know what he was thinking–it could have been, Disgusting, or I wish I could do that (or him). Either way, it turns out there was enough room in the bar, in the world for all of us.
This afternoon I spent some time reading Terry Gross’s All I Did Was Ask, a compilation of interviews Terry’s conducted on National Public Radio’s Fresh Air. One of the last interviews I read was with Michael Caine, the actor. In it he shares one of the best pieces of advice he ever received. The deal was that once he was supposed to walk into a room, through a doorway, but there was a chair on the other side that was in his way. His director said, “Use the difficulty.” Caine said, “What do you mean?” So the director explained, “If it’s a drama, pick up the chair and smash it. If it’s a comedy, trip over the chair and fall on the floor.”
Use the difficulty. I can’t tell you how much I love this. Five-and-a-half years ago I was absolutely heartbroken and depressed. Looking back, I guess I could have, would have gotten over it eventually. Instead, I was more proactive and started therapy. Hands down, it’s the best decision I’ve ever made. Likewise, I’ve had a number of other challenging relationships over the years. Instead of seeing them as “a bunch of bullshit,” I’ve seen them as opportunities for growth–chances for me to speak up, set boundaries, or change unproductive patterns. Think of a difficult person or situation in your life–maybe a health problem. What if instead of complaining you thought, This is a chance for me to dig deep, to really change, a chance for me to get my act together? What if instead of pushing your challenges away you thought, This situation belongs to me. It has my name written all over it?
More and more, this is the way I’m coming to see my life. I can look at every challenging thing in my past and see how it’s been a chance for me to mature. I could whine and bitch that the world isn’t the same for guys who dance together, but the truth is that’s just the difficulty I’ve been given, and it’s my choice whether or not to use it. Aren’t you given similar choices on a daily basis–the chance to be patient, the chance to be forgiving? Regardless of what’s challenging for you, ask yourself, Will I use my difficulty, or will my difficulty use me? In terms of me and whether or not I dance in public, I know that if I let my fears control me, I could very well end up sitting down for the rest of my life. Or I could stand up, dance, and let the chips fall where they may. I could get ever more so comfortable in my own skin and see that–most of the time–people respond positively to that. And if they don’t? That’s their difficulty, their chance to grow.
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Confidence takes what you have and amplifies it. Confidence makes anyone sexy.
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Well, hello. Today is my birthday. Thirty-nine years ago I came charging into this world. And whereas I’ve slowed down–a little–I’m still going. (Look out, future, here I come, at my own pace.) All day my dad’s been telling total strangers it’s my birthday. Thankfully, none of them have sung to me or put a sombrero on my head. But this afternoon a waitress did say, “Thirty-nine! Time flies! Where does it go?”
“Behind you,” I said.
Byron Katie says, “Do you know what I love about the past? It’s over.”
Amen. Thirty-nine years. Over.
To celebrate my big day, this morning my dad and I got up early–at six-thirty–and went to Irish Maid Donuts. This is something we normally only do on Father’s Day and his birthday, but I guess it’s becoming our thing. You won’t hear any complaints from me. From my insulin, maybe.
Diet starts next week.
When dad and I got home from the donut shop, I went back to bed for a few hours. When I got up, my mom, my dad, two of my aunts, and I went to The Egg and I for more celebrating, more eating. This is what my entire weekend promises to be filled with–food. And whereas my stomach is already starting to put up a fuss, I plan to hang in there.
Diet starts next week.
So far today over a hundred friends and family members have messaged, texted, posted, or called to wish me happy birthday. This happens every year, but it continues to take my breath away. It’s so easy to think that people don’t care or remember you, but they do. What’s more, if only for a moment, they’re willing to take time out of their day to wish you well. I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. No one owes me anything. Not my friends, not my family, not my lovers (well, ex-lovers; I’m currently taking applications). Caroline Myss says that if someone loves you, it’s not because they HAVE to, it’s because they WANT to. When you really get this, it’s a game-changer. When I really get this, it even shifts my perspective about people I don’t want to see again. Not that it makes me want to see them, but it does make me grateful for any love that’s been exchanged between us. Because again–anything I’ve received from another has been a gift, not a payment of a debt owed.
This morning my dad and I had a conversation about liars. We both know a few. I once dated one. Dad said, “Do you think they ever think about the damage they cause?” I said, “I think everyone has a soul and a conscience, so sure, but I also think it takes a big person to just come right out and say, ‘I know I hurt you and I’m sorry.'” Think about it. How often do YOU think you’ve done something wrong? Isn’t it always someone else’s fault? I know that’s how I usually feel, so I can only assume it would be the same for someone else, even someone who lies, cheats, steals, or kills. We all justify our behavior.
I’m talking about this now because as I get older, I think about these things more. How do my words and actions affect others? I know that I’ve broken more than one heart not because I was straight-up lying or cheating but because I was lying to myself (and them) about how compatible we were. That’s what I realized with my ex. I observed their bad behavior but lied to myself (and them) about it not mattering. When it fact it mattered a lot. We think of lies as these big, huge things, but they’re not. They’re subtle things. Little stories we tell ourselves. For example, how many times have you said, “Diet starts next week,” when you know damn good and well it’ll most likely never start at all? This is why the truth is scary. This is why it’s painful. It shows you who you really are. The one who isn’t disciplined. The one who’s too afraid to leave. The one who’s scared to be alone. It cuts you like a knife.
What’s outside you is inside you.
Earlier today a friend posted something like, if you could go back and give your younger self advice in two words, what would you say? People said things like, be strong, be kind, keep going. I thought, get laid, but my answer was, speak up! This has been both one of the best and most difficult things I’ve learned to do since starting therapy–learning to speak my truth. Because looking back, I’ve always known what it was. I knew my ex was a liar, and I knew other exes were cheaters. But again, by not saying something or leaving sooner, I was lying to myself, cheating myself out of something better. This is what “the world is your mirror” means. It means what’s outside you is inside you. It means we all play a part in things. It means no one is to blame.
I hate this as much as you do.
But it’s part of growing up.
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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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Last night my parents and I ate at Denny’s for my dad’s birthday because they give you a free meal–a Grand Slam–if it’s your birthday. When we got home it was after midnight, and I was pretty beat. So I read a chapter in a book about Internal Family Systems and went to bed. This morning I slept as late as possible, ate breakfast, then decided that despite it being Sunday, I needed to paint at my friend’s house that I’ve been working on this month. “What is WRONG with you?” my dad said. Now THERE’S a loaded question.
I have an entire blog about the answer.
So far, I’ve completely painted four rooms at this house, and today I started the fifth. I don’t know, I think it’s a living room, but there’s a closet area (that leads to a porch), so maybe it’s a bedroom. Either way, it’s been entirely brown, ugly brown, from the bottom of the baseboards to the top of the ceiling, and my job is to paint it white, pure-as-the-driven-snow white. Anyway, this afternoon and evening I moved the furniture out of the room, prepped the room, and rolled on one coat of paint. Also, I ended up scraping part of the ceiling in the closet area because it was flaking off when I rolled it. Talk about a damn mess. Alas, it’s all part of it. With four rooms down, I’ve convinced myself nothing is going to get in my way. Come hell or high water, this room will get done too–one roller swipe, one brushstroke at a time.
While painting I listened to YouTube lectures about a variety of topics–the gut-brain connection, myofascial release, synchronicity. And whereas I learned a lot, a voice in my head that often shows up whenever I’m learning something new said, “You’ll never be as smart as those people.” Or rather, “You’ll never be enough.”
IFS compares the voices in our heads to a family of different personalities. That is, I have an inner critic who was active today, but I also have an inner loving parent, a voice that says, “Sweetheart, you were born enough and will die enough. Nothing you do or don’t do can ever change that.” One thing I like about the book I’m reading about IFS is an analogy it uses–the idea that our minds are like living rooms in which our internal family members come and go. Think of it like this–maybe your perfectionist shows up and hangs out on your living room sofa when you’re at work or with your parents but retreats into another room and takes a nap when you’re–I don’t know–playing canasta or eating Mexican food.
Like, how often do you think, I’ve got to eat these chips PERFECTLY?
Somewhere I heard the question, “Do you believe every thought you think?” For most of us, sadly, the answer is yes. Why? Because WE thought it. Alas, we have tens of thousands of thoughts a day, and most of them aren’t even true, especially when we’re thinking about US. (Which, really, when are we not?) Personally, I think there’s a lot of freedom in the idea that just because you think a thought doesn’t mean it’s true or accurate. (The Work of Byron Katie is based almost exclusively on this premise.) And I really like the idea that a thought can simply be the opinion of a part of you, not of the whole, that if you’re beating yourself up it may just be because your inner asshole is camped out on your living room couch and has taken over the remote control.
For me, there’s been a lot of relief in not taking my thoughts so seriously. Are there self-critical thoughts I wish I could never have again? Sure. But we living in a you’re-not-enough society, and certain messages are pretty embedded in all of us. However, just because we may never be completely rid of self-criticism doesn’t mean we can’t make major strides toward self-acceptance. This evening my friend asked me if I wanted to paint with a sprayer instead of a roller and brush. And whereas I said no thank you, it’s good to have the option. My point is that both in painting and in personal growth, healing, and transformation, there are many tools available. There’s more than one way to skin a cat.
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Abundance comes in many forms.
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There’s a theory regarding myths and fairy tales that they exist not to convey historical facts or to simply entertain us, but rather to teach us truths. Better said, they exist to teach us truths about ourselves. In other words, you should be able to identify every character (at least every main character) in a myth or fairy tale as PART OF your own psyche. For example, in The Wizard of Oz, Glinda the Good Witch would be your light or conscious self, and The Wicked Witch of the West would be your shadow or subconscious self. Interpreted this way, the marriage of a prince and princess (or the rescuing of a damsel in distress by a gallant knight) would signify the coming together of two opposite forces within you, such as your light and shadow sides, your conscious and subconscious selves, your yin and yang, your male and female powers, your sun and moon.
This “joining together” is the idea behind “happily ever after” and is what the mystics call “going beyond the pairs of opposites.” In the Biblical tradition this transformation from “duality” into “oneness” is depicted as the going back to The Garden of Eden or eating from the Tree of Life rather than from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. (Note that Good and Evil are, again, opposites.) In the Hindu tradition, this marriage or re-union is alluded to (for instance, in proper yoga) when a person’s Kundalini energy rises from their first chakra (at the base of their spine) and flows up their spine in a criss-cross pattern through two “opposite” channels called the Ida and the Pingala and eventually “comes together” at their seventh chakra or the crown of their head. In drawings this is depicted as two snakes criss-crossing up a spine and is, interestingly enough, the same process that the symbol of the Staff of Hermes (the Caduceus) “speaks” of.
Joseph Campbell says that all of this is exactly what’s being depicted in Homer’s The Odyssey, in which Odysseus represents a person’s male or solar power, and Penelope represents a person’s female or lunar power. You remember the tale–Odysseus is separated from his wife (that is, from himself), but through a series of events that include Odysseus’s going into the underworld (that is, his subconscious self or shadow side), the two are eventually able to be reunited (as one whole, integrated person).
I say all this to say–this morning at 8:47, I not only turned 38 years old, but I also completed my second Metonic Cycle.
I’ll explain what a Metonic Cycle is shortly, but first let’s talk about how I partied.
My birthday celebrations officially started last night with dinner with my dear friend Ray. We ate at one of my favorite restaurants in Fayetteville–Theo’s. It was delicious. Plus, the conversation was delightful. I don’t remember the last time I laughed so much. The whole thing was the perfect slow-start to my big day.
This morning–believe it or not–I actually woke up early in order to do a Live Video on Facebook at the time I was born. I’ve wanted to do another video since hitting my 500th blog post a month ago, but life and work have been a real bear lately. Whatever–it worked out this way–and in the video I thanked the readers of the blog (that means you), as well as read an essay about accepting help, saying goodbye, and realizing you’re doing better than you think. Anyway, if you want, you can watch the video below or alternatively on the Live Videos page at the top of the blog. It’s about 22 minutes.
This afternoon I went out for Mexican food with my friend Bonnie (I love Mexican food), then we went to Fort Smith’s new bookstore (I love bookstores), Bookish. The store was super cool, and Bonnie gifted me with a book about the stars and constellations. Afterwards, we went to Starbucks where they gave me a FREE DRINK (of my choice) just because it’s my birthday. How cool is that? Then we went back to Bonnie’s house and ate part of a scrumptious chocolate cake she made me. Y’all, I drank a WHITE-CHOCOLATE mocha while eating CHOCOLATE cake WITH VANILLA ice cream. Talk about joining together things that are opposites!
Seriously–it was nothing short of a spiritual experience.
To top off the day’s festivities, I went out to eat with my parents this evening. I know, super exciting. My life is really sexy. I can read the headline now–Thirty-Eight-Year-Old Man Goes to Dinner with His Mom and Dad (Who Happen to Be His Roommates) on His Birthday. But we really did have a lovely time. I mean, we WERE all together 38 years ago and we’re STILL all together now.
Why not have a little party?
In short, it’s been a fabulous day. Not only have I spent time with some of my darling friends and family, but I’ve also been ravished online with well-wishes and words of encouragement. (Thank you if you participated in this virtual celebration. If you didn’t, it’s not too late. I’m totally okay with belated kindnesses.) Anyway, as I said yesterday, what’s not to like about growing older?
But back to the completion of my second Metonic Cycle. (Hum. How do I explain this?) For the longest time, society has observed a solar calendar in which a year is basically 365 days long. However, some historical societies observed a lunar calendar in which a year is basically 354 days long. (Certain religious groups still use this lunar method for keeping time and calculating holidays.) Anyway, a Metonic Cycle is a period of 19 solar years (or 235 lunar months) and is a way of linking or JOINING TOGETHER the two calendars. Think of it like this–if the Sun and the Moon were (from our point of view) occupying the same space in the sky, it would take 19 years for them to RETURN to that same space in the sky at the same time.
Does anyone want to guess how long Odysseus and Penelope were separated from each other in The Odyssey?
That’s right–19 years.
Another way to think of the Metonic Cycle is that if the moon were in Scorpio at the time you were born (like it was for me in 1980), it would take 19 years for the moon to return to Scorpio AND be in the SAME PHASE as it was when it was there before. For me this means that the moon was WAXING CRESCENT in Scorpio on the morning I was born, it was waxing crescent in Scorpio again on the morning of my 19th birthday, and it was the same thing again this morning.
You can live happily ever after.
Now. Does this “mean” anything? I don’t know that it does. I’ve scoured the internet for theories about why your 19th, 38th, 57th, and 76th birthdays might be significant or important but can’t find a single one. Personally, I know that 19 was a big year for me, since I started dancing just two weeks after my 19th birthday, and that’s certainly been a significant PHASE in my life. But does this mean something just as significant will happen during these next 19 years? Again, who knows? It’s fun to think about. Surely if the sun and the moon can come back together after years of being separated, anything is possible. And surely if princes can marry princesses and knights can rescue damsels in distress, then I can marry myself and I can rescue myself, and I can live happily ever after.
"When you’re authentic, your authenticity is enough. You don’t need to compare."
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.]
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There's a wisdom underneath everything that moves us and even the planets at its own infallible pace. We forget that we too are like the planets, part of a larger universe that is always proceeding one step at time, never in the wrong place, everything always right where it belongs.
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Today is my birthday. Traditionally, I love my birthday, and this one has been no exception. That being said, it started off rather rough because 1) I didn’t sleep much last night, 2) I woke up with a crick in my neck, 3) I woke up to Dad talking loud on the phone because not only does his phone suck, but he’s yet to figure out that you don’t have to shout into technology in order for it to function, and 4) My website wasn’t working when I woke up. I thought, Shit, shit, shit, tried to fix it, and failed. Skipping food, I decided I’d have to deal with it later.
Seriously, technology is bullshit. I’m sure Dad would agree.
I’m glad to say that things quickly calmed down, since the first official thing I did today was get a massage from my friend Ron. He’s awesome. A few times he actually stood on my back and worked on me with his feet. The whole time I was thinking, Damn, I have a lot of tight muscles. Normally this fact would really frustrate me, and I’d start internally shouting at myself, RELAX! But today I thought all my tightness was a reason to practice self-compassion. This is the body I live in, and it’s obviously under a lot of pressure. Be gentle, Marcus.
For lunch (or, more accurately, breakfast), my friend Bonnie took me out for Mexican food and dranks. (That’s how kids these days say “drinks,” Mom.) Our waitress was pretty funny, and she asked if Bonnie and I were married. I said, “No, she’s married, but not to me.”
“So you’re having an affair then, an adulterous affair?”
“No, we’re just friends,” I said, then thought, I’m a homosexual!
Later the waitress kept teasing and said, “You’re telling me nothing’s going on here? I mean, she’s wearing strappy shoes, and you’ve got on those nut-hugger jeans.”
Nut-hugger jeans.
I said, “Shit, I’D be wearing those strappy shoes if she’d let me.”
After Mexican food, Bonnie asked I was having cake today, and I said, “I hadn’t planned on it.” So just like that, we decided to go to another restaurant for chocolate cake and coffee. Talk about decadence. In lieu of a boyfriend for my birthday, Mexican food and chocolate cake will do just fine. (Also, they’re cheaper and don’t talk back.) Look at this thing. I’m pretty sure it’s the reason God made insulin and Levi’s made my stretchy (nut-hugger) jeans.
After all the sugar and caffeine, I went to the library for a couple hours with the intent of fixing the blog and writing today’s post. Well, best laid plans. I spent the entire time trying to fix the site, which I finally did. Rather, someone with my hosting company’s technical support team did. Seriously, the person is my hero. Apparently, the site has something called a security (SSL) certificate, which verifies me as the site owner. The certificate expired last night, so although the site was reachable with HTTP in the address bar, it wasn’t reachable with HTTPS in the address bar, which is how all the links I share are designated. The certificate was set to auto-renew, but the process hadn’t completed, so the tech guru expedited things. Within thirty seconds, the site was up and running again.
I considered it a birthday miracle–second to insulin, of course.
This evening I met my friends and former roommates, Justin and Ashley, and we all rode together to Fayetteville for dinner with my friends Ray and Jesse. I’d shown up in a t-shirt, but Justin and Ashley were looking super fly, so I changed into a button-up and jacket I’d thrown in my car just in case. Here’s a picture of the three of us together before we hit the road. Justin’s one of my oldest friends, and I can’t tell you how lovely it is to spend time with him and his sweet wife. It’s like resting in your favorite chair–comfortable, something that just gets better with time. Perhaps you have friends like these, people who stick with you through the ups and the downs and all the changes. I hope so.
Tonight the five of us ate at Vetro 1925 off the square in Fayetteville. It was the perfect thing–easy, relaxed, delicious, full of good company. Ray and Jesse gave me a leather-bound journal. Ray said he wasn’t great at gift giving, but I thought it was just right, especially since Ray loves words like I do. As I flip through all the blank pages, I see lots of potential and I wonder what ideas will be born on them. After dinner we all went back to Ray and Jesse’s house, sat on their back porch, and philosophized and told stories until my birthday was over. It was exactly what a special day should be, spent in the company of dear friends and delicious food.
Throughout the day, I’ve been overwhelmed by the number of messages and well-wishes I’ve received. I used to date a guy, and sometimes when we were out, he’d say people were looking at me, in a good way. But–really–I usually don’t notice that stuff, since I’ve spent most of my life feeling a bit invisible. So whenever someone says, “Oh hey, you’re cute,” or, “I read your blog,” part of me is always surprised, and I guess it’s the same thing with my birthday. Every year I hear from people who I would have assumed didn’t even know my name. It’s really a humbling thing, one of the times I’m glad to say, “I was wrong, and thank you.” Because I don’t think it’s a little thing for someone to take a moment out of their busy day and say, “Happy Birthday,” or, “I notice you and hope you are well.” It’s not a little thing at all.
On the ride back to Fort Smith tonight, Justin asked me what I’d done in the last year that I was proud of, and I said, “I’m proud that I closed my studio, sold most of my possessions, and started a blog where I’ve written every day for over five months.” Honestly, the answer surprised me, since I’ve spent a lot of time the last year wondering whether it’s all been worth it. I have no shortage of fears associated with this time in my life, and when I think about being back home again, “proud” isn’t the first word that springs to mind. But talking to Justin, I realized that all the changes over the last several years have taken a lot of courage and faith in both myself and something larger than myself, and that’s not a little thing either.
Whether if happens on your birthday or not, I think we all need days like the one I’ve had today, days when we’re recognized and celebrated by both others and ourselves. It seems we put so much pressure on ourselves, but the truth is that all of us are courageous simply for being here. Life–perhaps you’ve noticed–isn’t for sissies. Also, although each of us walks a different path and carries mysteries only he or she can answer, we still have each other, people to help take the pressure off, cheer us on, and remind us where we’re succeeding. People say, “Growing old sucks,” but I disagree. Sure, sometimes I wake up with a crick in my neck, but the older I get, the kinder I am to myself and others and the more gentle I become. For this and many other reasons, I’m grateful for each passing year, and I’m excited about all my blank pages.
"Obviously, God's capable of a lot. Just look around."
Today I fell in love with Nashville.
It all started with Hattie B’s Hot Chicken, which I guess is just spicy chicken that you have to wait a really long time for. Check this out. I think we stood in line for about an hour. Ugh. I was SO HUNGRY by the time we got inside. (That’s Bonnie and Todd facing the camera.)
Here’s a picture of Mallory and me while we were waiting in line. We both wore matching baseball caps to cover up our ratchet hair. (Mallory hasn’t washed hers in three days because she just had a dye job and says that it sets better that way. Who knew? I, on the other hand, didn’t have an excuse except that I’m on vacation and–IDGAF.)
After we all stuffed our faces, we waddled across the street for ice cream–you know–to put our insulin to the test. I had a chocolate and peanut butter shake, but Mallory had a dip cone with sprinkles. After it was over, she said, “Okay, Marcus, now we need to go home and think about what we’ve done.”
As our friend Brooke Ann said, “I’m working on my ‘before’ picture.'”
When Bonnie and Todd and I got back to Tim’s apartment, I took a long, hard nap. I think I drooled on myself. Midway through the nap, I woke up to use the restroom, remembered a dream I was having, and wrote it down in my phone so I wouldn’t forget.
In the dream, I was at the library using a computer to finish a blog post. I had about twenty minutes before I needed to give a presentation somewhere. An old man who worked at the library came over to take away my large cup of coffee, and I got mad. Somehow, I spilled the coffee on him, screamed at him like I was Julia Sugarbaker, and threw him up against a wall. (It wasn’t pretty. I mean–apparently–don’t mess with my coffee.) After that, I was with Bonnie, then I saw the old man being carried out of the library on a stretcher and apologized.
(Don’t even think about judging me for yelling at an old man. It’s not like your dreams make any sense.)
Anytime I’ve dreamt about old people in the past, my therapist has said that they represent old ways of thinking. So I can only assume the dream had to do with my search for new knowledge (the library) and the fact that I put a lot of pressure on myself to grow and be perfect, like right now (writing the blog post, needing to give a presentation in twenty minutes). As for the coffee, which is something I enjoy but judge myself for indulging in, it probably represents my leisure time lately. I’m enjoying it–sure–but I’m judging myself a lot.
In light of the fact that I spent time at the restaurant today judging myself–comparing myself to all the new faces–I’m sure the dream was my subconscious saying–in a very strong way–this judging thing has got to stop. And as for the part about apologizing to the old man on the stretcher, I think that has to do with showing compassion to the parts of myself that although aren’t serving me anymore are still part of me, still worthy of healing.
Tonight Bonnie and I met my friend Laynee at a place called The 5 Spot for swing dancing. I met Laynee through Lindy Hop when she used to live in Springfield. Anyway, I can’t tell you how much fun I had. (I also can’t tell you how much beer I had.) As of midnight, it’s Bonnie’s birthday today, so the whole thing was a big celebration. Granted, since we were the first one’s there, it started out slow, so I settled for cheap entertainment like this picture.
I mean, the decoration was pretty rockin’. Just look at that classic record album. And then look at this. It’s velvet.
Thanks to Laynee, I’m pretty sure we found heaven.
For five hours, the DJs played soul music from the fifties and sixties, and as the evening went on, more and more and more hipsters showed up and danced the night away. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many mustaches, crop tops, and high water pants in one place. If I had a decent camera, this blog post would be entirely pictures. I mean, I danced a lot, but I did a lot of staring. There we so many fascinating people of all colors, shapes, and sizes–probably a hundred people or m0re—and I don’t think a single one of them gave a fuck what anyone else thought of them.
It was magic.
At one point I had to stop for food, so I went out to the patio and found this handy sign. (I’m guessing I wasn’t the first person there to have more than a couple beers.)
And then, y’all, I ordered and ate the best freaking all-beef hot dog I’ve ever had in my entire life. It had pineapple, chips with ruffles, and some sort of sauce made by fairies.
The hot chicken, the ice cream, and the hot dog may have had something to do with the fact that while I was dancing, I ripped the crotch out of my dress pants. Note to self–no more high kicks until we diet.
Oh, and cheese. There was mozzarella cheese on the hot dog.
One of the highlights of the evening was when Bonnie danced with a pirate, this hipster dude with skeleton pants, guy-liner, a handle bar mustache, and a mohawk. Seriously, he had to be the coolest person there. Check them out in this short video.
So before the evening was over (and with the encouragement of four–or five–beers), I asked the guy, who said his name was Zach, for a photo. (He said yes. That’s the photo a the top of the blog. His mohawk, sadly, had succumbed to gravity.)
As cool as Zach was, he was one of dozens of cool people tonight. There was one large girl who had her stomach showing, but she had the coolest glasses, and she was an absolute badass of a dancer. And there was another guy with a hat like Indiana Jones, and another guy with a shirt that reminded me of Ronald McDonald, but all of them were, well, awesome. I mean, it’s not like they were trained dancers. But they had what I’ve figured out is one of the sexiest things a person can possess–confidence. Confidence takes whatever you have an amplifies it. Confidence makes anyone sexy. Just ask this guy.
Beautiful isn’t something that comes in a particular package. Beautiful is simply being yourself.
And that was my big lesson for the day–confidence. There was this one hipster guy there tonight. He had long hair put up in a man bun, cut off shorts that were a little too tight, and a tank top that was also. But he was owning everything he did on the dance floor, and it was beautiful. And for a guy who spent the afternoon at a fried chicken place judging himself for carrying a few extra pounds, watching that hipster guy–and so many others tonight–was so refreshing. It reminded me that beautiful isn’t something that comes in a particular package. Beautiful is confidently doing what you love. Beautiful is simply being yourself.
And as for judging yourself–comparing yourself to total strangers at a fried chicken joint–that’s outdated thinking–some old guy to spill your coffee on and throw up against a wall. So take those self-judgmental thoughts and send them packing on a stretcher. Look at them and say, “I’m sorry, but ain’t nobody got time for that.” And then when that’s over, go dancing with the hipsters and the pirates. Clearly, they’re much more fun.
[Bonnie–Happy Birthday! Like all those hipsters, you’re an inspiration. Laynee, you’re simply awesome. Thanks for introducing us to The 5 Spot. Zach, wherever you are, thank you. Keep being yourself. Also, you’re invited to every party I host for the rest of my life.]
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When we expect great things, we see great things.
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