That’s Enough for One Day (Blog #669)

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Today I can’t find my balance. This morning I woke up at seven after having slept, I don’t know, four hours and couldn’t go back to sleep. I’m blaming my achy leg and keep telling myself, Be patient, Marcus. They put a drill through you, they put a drill through you. Finally, I fell back asleep. Still, I’ve taken two naps today. My tummy’s been acting up–who knows why?–and all I want to do is rest. Recently I watched a video that said that’s normal anyway. It’s winter. It’s cold out. Nature wants to hibernate. Go to bed, damn it.

After three days of clean eating, I’m officially over it. Not that I’m quitting, but EVERYTHING has gluten, dairy, sugar, or alcohol in it. (Especially alcohol has alcohol in it.) That being said, I have lost a few pounds. That’s exciting. I’m doing this diet for other reasons, of course (to give my body a break and help it heal), but I don’t know a gay man who wouldn’t be thrilled about seeing the needle on the scale go down. My thought: Who cares if my stomach’s doing somersaults? At least it’s gonna be flat. Sick, I know.

Don’t worry, I have a therapist.

This afternoon I dived into a book about pandiculation, which is a fancy term for yawning. Well, stretching and yawning. It’s basically what your dog or cat does when it wakes up in the morning, although they’re apparently not so much stretching their muscles as they are contracting them (so that they can then relax and lengthen them). Anyway, the book, which is called Move Like an Animal, says that pandiculation is our built-in mechanism for relieving stress, tension, and trauma and eliminating pain. Eeek. I’m excited to try the suggested exercises.

Currently it’s 9:30 at night, and I’m washing the sheets on my bed. I keep thinking about the various books I’m reading, one on pandiculation, one on Rational Emotive Therapy, one by Wayne Dyer. I get so eager to learn, to finish them, and yet I’m not inclined to read every damn minute of every day. Especially since so much of what I read is on a digital device, there’s only so much my eyes can take. Even now as I stare at my laptop, they feel like they’re going to fall out of my head and roll onto the floor. Plus, my brain is tired, full. If it could talk, I imagine it would say, Haven’t you had enough words for one lifetime?

It occurred to me earlier that I often try to do too much, too fast. Shocking, I know. That is, since I had knee surgery last month, I’ve started doing rehab, and that means I try to get to the gym several days a week. Then I started learning to knit, and then this weekend I started this diet. Now I’m trying to complete a read-a-thon. All this in addition to blogging every day. Granted, I think each and every one of these things is well and good; it’s just a lot at one time. I blame America. Everyone here is constantly on the damn go.

Another thing I thought about today is that my body always gets tired and wants to slow down whenever I cut back on carbs. It gets better after a week or so, after things switch over from carb-burning to fat-burning mode. So now it occurs to me that rather than push, push, pushing, the kind thing to do in my present situation would be to be patient. Because a lot of things have changed lately. My body’s been through hell, and it takes time to adjust, time to cool off after you’ve been through the fire. Sometimes, I think, you have to say, “That’s enough for one day.”

That’s enough for one day.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You can be weird here. You can be yourself.

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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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Our burdens are lighter when we share them.

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Single and Confident AF (Blog #155)

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I’ve spent most of today reading parts of three different books. My eyeballs are like, Enough already. My brain is like, Amen–Are you sure you want to do this for a living? Because I’m a multi-tasker, I’ve also spent the afternoon stretching and–consequently–saying “shit” a lot. At one point I was on my back, legs up the wall, doing the splits. Honestly, if I hadn’t been alone, it would’ve been really kinky. But since I was, it was just uncomfortable. My dad said, “It’s Friday night. You don’t have any plans?” I said, “No, Dad, I’m single AF.” Mom said, “What’s AF?” I said, “As fuck.” (We’ve had this conversation before, but–by her own admission–she has chemotherapy brain. I try to think of it like the movie Groundhog Day, which makes it more fun.)

One of the books I’m currently reading is called The Flood Girls by Richard Fifield. I’m honestly overloaded with things to read right now, but my friend Marla gave it to me, so it got bumped to the top of the list. (Talk about influence.) It’s about a former alcoholic slut who returns to her hometown to make amends with her mother, who coaches a local softball team (The Flood Girls) and also owns a bar where lesbians, miners, and lesbian miners hang out. The daughter befriends a fabulous teenage homosexual named Jake, and that’s about as far as I’ve gotten. But at one point Jake describes the daughter as “chin up, tits out,” and I haven’t been able to get that phrase out of my head since I read it. I mean, I have been focused on posture lately. But maybe it just reminds me to walk with confidence.

Chin up, tits out.

After an entire afternoon and evening of reading, I thought, I’ve got to get out of the house–I’ve got to go for a run, which may have had to do with the fact that I ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich (pure sugar) and drank half a pot of coffee for lunch. I don’t know–I’m not a scientist. So I threw on some shorts, laced up my sneakers, and hit the pavement. Oh, and I also threw off my shirt because the last time I ran for any length of time with my shirt on, my nipples were NOT happy the next day. I guess that’s nipple friction for you. Still, it was the most action they’ve seen since Obama was president, so they obviously can’t be pleased.

Personally, I think the spirit was stronger than the body tonight. Almost the entire run, which was lit by the waxing gibbous moon, I could feel the muscles in my right leg screaming, “You’ve–got–to–be–kidding–oh–shit–that’s–another–hill.” But since my pace was easy, my chin was up, and my tits were literally out, I thought, This is no time for quitting. Well, it turned out to be a personal milestone–8.6 miles. Woo-who! (Whether you’re single AF or not, it’s okay to be your own cheering section.) Granted, I may not be able to walk tomorrow, but–again–I don’t have any plans, so it won’t be a problem to stay home, take a bunch of drugs, and recover.

When I got home from the run, hoping to minimize the damage, I spent quite a while doing even more stretches, saying “shit” even more. My body was so tired, I had to use the furniture to brace myself and keep from falling over. Imagine trying to balance after a fifth of whiskey–that’s what it looked like. I kept thinking of that cartoon of the Tin Man in yoga class, the one with the thought bubble over his head that says, “This is bullshit.”

Speaking of bullshit, I think the ants in the plant across the room have found their way to the futon where I’m typing. I killed one I found on my neck earlier, and now my ankle is itching like crazy. Add that to the fact that I can barely hold my head up, my IT band feels like it’s about to pop, and I’m hungry (and did I mention single?) AF, and I’m pretty much not amused. Breathe, Marcus, breathe.

Eat, Marcus, Eat. (Be right back.)

Okay, that’s better. I just ate half a grapefruit and an individual serving of cranberry almond chicken salad. But get this shit. The box for the chicken salad cups said, “Eight singles.” I thought, Geez, you don’t have to rub it in.

Who’s to say that one experience is better than another?

Recently I finished a book by a spiritual teacher named James Swartz. I’m actually going to hear him speak, and I found out today that the event got moved from the middle of September to middle of October. At first I thought, Shit, but then I thought, Well, maybe that will work out better. Anyway, James says that life is a zero-sum game. I think the idea is that we spend so much time thinking we need to get something–more money, a better body, someone to go the movies and have sex with. But for everything we gain, we give something up. So you get your best run, but then your muscles are tight the next day. You get a relationship, but then you’re attached. In the end, no one is really better off than when they started.

I mean, in the end, you’re dead.

This is an idea I’m just starting to warm up to. I’ve spent so much time thinking I need to get, get, get, and only occasionally do I remember that I’m one little human on a huge planet in the middle of a gigantic universe. Like, maybe having a six-pack isn’t such a big deal after all. But I do like that thought, that there’s nothing to really gain or lose here, except perhaps an experience. And who’s to say that one experience is better than another? We spend all this time trying to change ourselves, but Joseph Campbell says, “The privilege of a lifetime is being who you are.” Maybe if we remembered that, more of us would be chin up, tits out, confident AF.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Perfection is ever-elusive.

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Hoping Something Will Work (Blog #131)

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From fourth grade until graduation I attended a Christian school. When I was in junior high I took a communications class with a rather dynamic teacher and a total of four students including me. That’s where I memorized the prologue to The Canterbury Tales, which I can still recite. I may have even kept some notes from that class and tucked them away in my old closet. (I spent a lot of time there, I should have a better grasp on what’s inside.) I mean, I learned a lot in that class–I enjoyed it.

That being said.

My teacher was also a preacher, and one day–I honestly don’t remember how it all came to pass–he sat me down in a chair and prayed over my legs because he said one of them was longer than the other. I mean, it was an ordeal that would have made Oral Roberts proud–he spoke with authority, rebuked the devil, and uttered plenty of Amens and Yes-Lords. He even anointed me with olive oil, which apparently he kept in a small vial on a chain hung round his neck–I’m assuming for spur-of-the-moment miraculous leg stretchings.

I’m just gonna say it–IT DIDN’T FUCKING WORK.

Here we are twenty years later, and I apparently still have a leg that’s shorter. (It’s only a problem if you want to walk in a straight line.) Since the leg bone’s connected to the hip bone, I’ve spent my last two chiropractor appointments trying to get a decent answer as to why one of my hips is higher than the other. Well, apparently, like many a relationship status on Facebook–it’s complicated. It seems there are a lot of contributing factors. You know, it’s hard to say. But my guy did tell me today that although my left leg isn’t “anatomically shorter” than my right, it is “structurally shorter.” (If that makes sense to you, congratulations.) He said it’s within the “normal limits,” meaning it’s a quarter of an inch shorter.

Then he said that he didn’t really think I needed a heel lift (a shoe insert), that it would probably make my back hurt worse (yippee), but we could try one and see what happens. So he handed me this rubber shim thing (see photo above) and told me to stick it in my left Reebok.

Why thank you–don’t mind if I do.

So for the rest of the day, I basically got taller on one side. I kept wondering if someone would notice. (I don’t think they did.) And it was okay, but it took some getting used to. I guess it was like wearing a thong–sort of uncomfortable but sort of fun because no one else can see it. Still YOU KNOW it’s there–you can FEEL it with every step. Anyway, when I look at them in the mirror, my hips are more level than they were before. Not perfect, of course (nothing is ever perfect, except Dolly Parton), but better.

This evening just before I got ready to go for a run, I felt some muscles talking in my lower back that don’t usually talk. (I’ve always assumed they were the strong, silent type.) Oh crap, I thought, the chiropractor was right. The heel lift made things worse. Then I thought, Dial down the drama, Nancy. So I got out the foam roller–my new best friend–and proceeded to work my back, butt, and leg muscles.

I swear, sometimes life is a lot of damn work. (My mom actually said, “Marc, you work so hard,” to which I replied, “Oh my gosh, I work my ass off” because that’s what it feels like sometimes.)

So get this. The run tonight was probably the best I’ve ever had. I went to the track and ran 6.5 miles non-stop, and it felt great. A few pains here and there, but they worked themselves out. What’s more, my playlist tonight was “by the universe,” meaning I picked one song I liked and let my player pick the rest based on the genre (80s, give or take several years). Well, it was perfect. Just as the big ole moon was coming out from behind the clouds, Abba’s Dancing Queen came on. I thought, I’m actually RUNNING at the moment. But right after that was Whitney Houston’s I Want to Run to You. (That’s better.) Then a couple songs and a couple laps went by, and it was time for the final lap, and just as I picked up the pace, Kenny Loggins’ Footloose came on!

Been workin’–so hard.

Well played, universe, well played. Oh, and the heel lift/footloose connection was clever. Good job.

When I got home I did the foam roller thing again and then went through a litany of new exercises the chiropractor gave me to help get my shoulders and neck in the right spot and hopefully alleviate the pain in my mid-back. And then–AND THEN–I did a yoga stretch called plow, in which you lie on your back and take your legs straight back over your head until you’re basically folded on top of yourself. It’s super sexy and usually really uncomfortable. I’ve been trying it for over a week, but it’s been rough. But tonight, my body went directly there.

Footloose–back loose! Maybe I should use this picture for my next online dating profile.

Currently that spot in my mid-back does not feel awesome, I’m starting to get just a touch of a headache, and certain muscles in my legs are like, “What the hell just happened?” So despite my enthusiasm and optimism about the heel lift and my running half of a half-marathon tonight, I realize there’s a distinct possibility that I may not be able to walk tomorrow. Still I plan to keep working hard–go to the chiropractor, use my foam roller, do my stretches. Before I go to bed, I may even pray, anoint myself with peppermint oil–or just swallow a muscle relaxer–whatever it takes. One day–surely–something will work.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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No good story ever ends.

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The Butterfly Effect (Blog #129)

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A couple of weeks ago during a conversation about the number of per-day visitors to my blog (which is good, I think, but not astounding), my friend Donny said he thought the blog’s impact could be like a butterfly effect. If you don’t know, the butterfly effect is a theory that says the flapping of a butterfly’s wings can influence weather patterns, cause something like a tornado. In other words, small actions can affect big changes.

In terms of the blog, I hope Donny’s right.

Because of that conversation, that phrase–the butterfly effect–has been popping in and out of my head lately. Then a few days ago I noticed somewhere that the author Jon Ronson (who’s delightful) had released an audiobook/podcast on Amazon by the same name (for free!) So I downloaded it, started listening to it last night, and finished it today. All together, it took about three-and-a-half hours and was worth every minute.

The Butterfly Effect is subtitled Who Really Pays the Price for Free Porn? and starts with the story of the man responsible for PornHub and several sites like it, which are basically YouTube for pornography and are grossly filled with copyrighted material that has been illegally uploaded by users. So Jon explores that one decision–the decision to offer free porn–and its consequences. Along the way, he interviews porn directors and porn stars, as well as a number of people outside the industry directly and indirectly affected by free porn. Without saying too much, The Butterfly Effect talks about a man whose porn fetish (gremlins and Wonder Woman) goes back to when he was a child (a gremlin) and his mother (Wonder Woman) walked out of his life forever, a former porn star who lost his job as a nurse because of his past, and the fact that more and more eighteen-to-forty-year-olds have erectile dysfunction than ever before (because their penises have become so picky).

It’s fascinating.

Today while I listed to The Butterfly Effect (for over two hours), I stretched. In yoga sometimes the hips are referred to as the emotional junkyard, and mine are super-duper tight, so I spent a lot of time there. There’s a pose or stretch called Double Pigeon in which you basically sit on the floor like a child would but you put one ankle top of the other knee. Ideally, your legs should rest on top of each other, but mine almost always have a big gap in between them. I mean, big enough that Zac Efron could put his head in there, although I don’t know why that example comes to mind. Anyway today was no exception. Here’s where my right side started.

Before long, things relaxed and I completely closed the gap between my legs. This was a huge victory, since I think that’s only happened once or twice before–ever. (See the picture at the top of the blog. Way to go, Marky!) HOWEVER, the left side wasn’t really having it. Check out where THAT side started.

I don’t know if you’ve ever tried a stretch like this, but it’s extremely uncomfortable, sometimes painful. But for over twenty minutes this afternoon, I just took deep breaths, tried to relax, and forced myself to hang in there. And I ALMOST got where I wanted to be. Here’s a picture taken just before I quit that pose for the day. (Also– I’m sorry–I didn’t mean for this blog to be filled with so many pictures taken at crotch level.)

This evening my dad told me a joke he heard from my aunt Carla. What’s the difference between a northern tale and a southern tale? A northern tale begins “Once upon a time.” A southern tale begins “Y’all ain’t gonna believe this shit.” Well–

Y’all ain’t gonna believe this shit.

After I finished Double Pigeon, I did some other stretches and finally lay down on my back with both feet on the ground and my knees in the air. (This is where it gets weird.) Then my legs started shaking. Like, not a little–A LOT. I mean, I’ve had muscle spasms before, but this was a whole new level. My thighs were visibly vibrating. Well, I’ve read a lot about how the body can heal, and one of the ways is through shaking and trembling. Like a duck that flaps its wings after a squabble, it’s a way to release trauma. So I just let it happen. There I was on my back listening to a story about pornography, and my legs were going all “shake, rattle, and roll” for fifteen minutes solid.

It was fascinating.

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

Eventually, things calmed down and I let my legs sink to the floor. During the entire stretching and vibrating process, I felt both frustration and release, sadness and joy. When it was all over, I thought, This is a big deal. This is progress. Something definitely happened today. However, before I started writing tonight I went for a walk and was acutely aware of a pain in my mid-back and another in my right leg. For these reasons, there’s part of me that wants to discount all the stretching and releasing that happened this afternoon. I’m getting nowhere. Nothing happened today. Hell, I probably made it up.

When Jon Ronson finished his research about the consequences of free porn, he went to the man who pretty much started it all. For the most part, the man didn’t take responsibility, even though Jon pointed out that not all the consequences were bad. Some of them were good. But what’s interesting to me is that–most definitely–there were consequences. There was a butterfly effect. So I have to remind myself that whether it’s in regard to my writing or the healing of my physical body, there’s no such thing as a small action. There’s no such thing as small progress. Rather, whatever the journey, each step is important and makes possible the one that comes after it. And since one life touches another and that life touches another, who can say where their journey ends?

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Patting yourself on the back is better than beating yourself over the head.

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