This Beautiful Omelette (Blog #92)

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Four years ago I was living with my friends Justin and Ashley and had just started dating my ex, the one that strongly encouraged me to go to therapy, by his actions, not his words. I remember one weekend in June spending most the day in bed with him, watching movies, eating pizza, feeling like we could build a life together. Justin and Ashley had just gotten a new puppy named Artemis, and we all went out on the back porch, played together, ate donuts for breakfast.

Here’s a picture of me and Artemis, taken that day. Artemis is a boy, but he was named for Artemis the girl, the goddess of the hunt in Greek mythology. Obviously something like this can cause a lot of personal and psychological damage, as evidenced by Johnny Cash’s song, A Boy Named Sue, which is about a boy whose father names him Sue in order to make him tough. I imagine Artemis has caught a lot of crap from the other boys around the hood and at doggy daycare for having such a feminine moniker. But I honestly don’t think he’s bothered by it one bit. So way to go, Artemis. Do your thing, honey.

This evening I had dinner at Justin and Ashley’s. They still live in the same place, the place I called home for so many years. Tonight their living room was filled with stuff from their office and my old room because they’re in the process of rearranging furniture, organizing. Justin apologized for things being in chaos, but you know how it goes–you have to break a few eggs if you want to make an omelette.

As Justin was showing me the changes, we came across a poster board that some of my friends and I made when we were on the yearbook staff in college. Justin and I were friends back then, so we put his photo on the board with the words, “Heartbreaker?–Or Broken-hearted?” (Feel free to cast your votes in the comments below.)

Looking at that photo tonight brought back a lot of memories of Justin, like the first time I heard him play Chopin, the time he dyed his hair to look like a leopard, or the time when I finally came out to him and he said, “I know. I was just waiting on you to say it.” Even though all those memories and many more happened over a long stretch of time, it’s easy for me to slam them all together, label them “Justin,” and take all the time we’ve spent together for granted. Considering the fact that Justin’s been working on a Duck Dynasty beard for several years now, it’s nice to remember that I knew him when he had a jaw line, back when his face saw the light of day on a regular basis. It’s nice to be reminded that some people are in this thing called friendship for the long haul.

Normally Justin and Ashley leave their two dogs outside while we eat dinner, but it started raining tonight, so they brought them in. Since Artemis is four, Justin said he’s “well into middle age” in dog years. As that would be twenty-eight human years, I guess that means that I’m well into middle age too. When the hell did THAT happen?

Here’s a picture of me and Artemis now that’s he all grown up and won’t fit into my lap anymore.

When I lived with my ex, I remember being so confused. We used to fight all the time, and I don’t fight–with anyone. I remember raising my voice, even yelling at times. We always ended up arguing about stupid shit. Why wasn’t he in more of my Instagram photos? I tried so hard to have an adult conversation, to explain calmly, Uh–I’m not in ANY of yours, but the only thing that would get his attention was when I’d start crying. I’d be in bed, knees to my chest, and then he’d finally be attentive, listen, and say he was sorry for being such a shit. (I added that last part.) “That’s when he’d act like a human,” my therapist would say later.

One of the things I love about Justin is that he’s an absolute audiophile–he loves music–loves to listen to it, loves to talk about. So tonight after dinner, Ashley went to bed because some people work for a living, and Justin and I sat in the living room and listened to honest-to-god vinyl records. Justin’s got this glorious vintage chair that sits low, pulls you down into it, and refuses to let you leave. It could have belonged to anyone’s grandfather, and for two hours I sat in it, drank beer, and drowned myself in the sounds of Tom Waits, Sting, and Simon and Garfunkel. It felt like going to church. (What! Your church doesn’t have beer and Tom Waits?) Of course, Justin and I continued to talk, that sort of easy conversation that bounces back and forth between the serious and lighthearted, the kind you can only have with someone who’s stood beside you when you were broken-hearted.

When you’re actually in chaos, there aren’t enough words to make it better.

Sometimes I wish I could go back and talk to myself four years ago, tell myself that it’s going to be all right, that I know things seem like such a fucking mess now, but I promise they’ll get better. I remember right after the breakup and starting therapy, my dear friend Tracy said, “Chaos precedes creation,” meaning that out of the turmoil that was my current life would come something beautiful. Sometimes you have to break a few eggs if you want to make an omelette. Of course, when you’re actually in chaos, there aren’t enough words to make it better. So maybe if I could go back and talk to myself, I wouldn’t say anything at all, but instead crawl in bed beside myself and give myself a hug.

They say that time heals all wounds. If that’s true, I think a good therapist helps speed up the process. Of course, I know there are many roads to healing, and that’s simply the one I’ve been on lately. In A Boy Named Sue, the boy in the song searches for and finds his estranged father, intending to kill him for giving him such an “awful name.” But after a tough barroom fight with his son, the father says he understands his son’s anger but “it’s that name that’s helped to make you strong.” In this sense, I’m grateful for the all the fights I had with my ex, all the chaos and shitty things that happened, all the time I’ve had to heal. Of course, I don’t think Sue’s father or my ex deserve any trophies, but someone had to crack the eggs to make this beautiful omelette.

Just like I can look at pictures of Justin and see how much he’s changed and pictures of Artemis and see how much he’s grown, I know that I’ve also changed and grown beyond measure. Physically, I look pretty much the same as I did four years ago. In terms of geography, I’m still in the same town. But on the inside, where it counts, I’ve travelled great distances.

Sometimes I think I’m a whole new person, someone who didn’t exist before, like I went from here to there on a map. But in terms of authenticity, I think “here” is both where we start and where we’re going. Authentic is how we’re born, and we travel to “there” when we start changing who we are, letting people treat us like shit because we want them to love us. In that sense, I think most of my work the last for years has been a returning, a remembering of who I was really born to be. Just before I left Justin and Ashley’s tonight, Justin played one final song by Simon and Garfunkel, and I think they said it best. Gee, but it’s great to be back home.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Just as there’s day and night literally, there’s also day and night emotionally. Like the sun, one minute we’re up, the next minute we’re down. Our perspectives change constantly. There’s nothing wrong with this. The constellations get turned around once a day, so why can’t you and I? Under heaven, there’s room enough for everything–the sun, the moon and stars, and all our emotions. Yes, the universe–our home–is large enough to hold every bit of us.

"

On Being a Broken Record (On Being a Broken Record) (Blog #91)

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This afternoon I swam laps. Mostly I kept getting pissed off that my new goggles were leaking, but I managed to swim thirteen hundred meters, which is three hundred more than a few days ago. As I was getting ready to leave, in the locker room, there was a kid running around, maybe waiting on his friends. I’m guessing he was about seven, but hell, he could have been twelve or thirteen. I mean, everyone’s getting Botox these days, and it’s really hard to guess someone’s age. Anyway, this kid kept singing, “Singing in the shower,” a line from a song by Becky G. Just that one line, stuck on repeat. Over and over again.

Singing in the shower.

Singing in the shower.

Singing in the shower.

I wanted to scream. Geez, kid, learn the rest of the freaking song!

This morning when I woke up I felt skinnier. I’m guessing you know how it goes when you’re on a diet, exercising. You get up one day, and things feel a little tighter, a little lighter. Maybe the scale doesn’t agree with your assessment, but you know–something’s different. Well, the first thing I thought was, There you are, Peter, which is actually a line from the movie Hook starring Robin Williams and references Peter Pan, and not my personal Peter–thank you very much. Anyway, in the movie, Peter Pan has grown up, and he returns to Neverland a middle-aged, overweight lawyer. Of course, none of the Lost Boys recognize him, until one day when one of the boys takes off Peter’s glasses, looks deep into his eyes and says, “Oh, there you are, Peter.”

So I guess it’s a good thing that the line popped into my head this morning. Eating better, exercising, and down several pounds, I’m starting to feel like my physical self again. Also, I feel like I should mention–my armpits don’t smell like bleach anymore. (This is something I blogged about several times over the course of many weeks, some funky body odor that showed up and wouldn’t go away.) The problem has been better for a week or so, but I’ve been cautious to “speak too soon.” But for whatever reason–better diet, Gold Bond Powder, Holy Water–it seems I’ve been healed. Thank you, Jesus. I smell like myself again.

There you are, Marcus.

This evening my friend Marla and I attended a book signing for our friend Anita Paddock at Chapters on Main (a local bookstore) in Van Buren. (Anita’s second book, Closing Time, was recently released.) I told Marla that when our house burned down when I was four, my parents gave our kitchen cabinets and some bathroom fixtures to a family friend who, at the time, lived and worked in the building where Chapters is now. The cool part? The cabinets are still in use, in the coffee shop section of the bookstore. Even better, the baristas handwrite fun and encouraging notes on every cup of coffee. Pictured above, my cup tonight said, “Love Yourself.” I joked with Marla, “Not a problem!”

Tonight I went for a walk, something a friend recently referred to as a “midnight ramble.” On my way back, several blocks from home, I patted my stomach and actually said out loud, “There you are, Peter.” Of course, even though it was after midnight, there were two ladies sitting on a front porch right beside me. Geez. Of all things to say when talking to yourself. There you are, Peter.

Since I got home tonight, I’ve been thinking that I’m a lot like that kid at the pool this afternoon. I’ve got this phrase on repeat. There you are, Peter. Singing in the shower. Whatever. Once I heard the mind referred to as “an idiot box,” meaning that it just repeats itself over and over again. I guess it’s harmless, albeit annoying, when it happens with a song lyric or a movie quote. But of course, it can happen with anything, so a little phrase like–I’m just gonna shoot from the hip here–“you’re fat” or “you’ll never get a date as long as your armpits smell like cleaning chemicals,” can do a lot of damage when it goes on–and on–and on.

There’s a technique my therapist talks about called Broken Record. It’s basically used to enforce a boundary with someone you care about who simply isn’t “getting it.” You boil your boundary down to a one-liner and keep repeating it. I won’t talk to you when you raise your voice. And no matter what they say–ifs, ands, or buts–if they scream or yell, your answer is (calmly) always the same. I won’t talk to you when you raise your voice. And if you have to–I’m leaving/hanging up now.

We teach people how to treat us.

I think the idea behind Broken Record is twofold. First, we teach people how to treat us, what’s acceptable and what’s not. Second, people learn by repetition, and it can take a while to re-train someone, to let them know your rules of engagement have changed–for real this time.

Sometimes my therapist and I talk about positive affirmations, which are pretty big in the self-help/new age world. If you don’t know, positive affirmations are simply positive statements you write down or say to yourself that you want to be true in your life. For example (as mentioned in a previous post), I, Marcus, and a brilliant and prolific writer. Or as my coffee cup suggested tonight, I love myself. So you just say that over and over again, letting it sink into your subconscious, which apparently is a slow learner. In essence, you have to Broken Record–yourself.

Personally, I have a love/hate relationship with positive affirmations. Sometimes I think they’re wonderful, and sometimes I think they’re a bunch of shit. But as evidenced by the phrase I’ve had on repeat today–There you are, Peter–it’s obvious that I’m already talking to myself, my mind already has a record on repeat. So the question is, would I rather be playing the record that says, “I’m fat, I’m fat, I’m fat,” or the one that says, “My God! I’m stunning, I’m stunning, I’m stunning”?

I vote for “I’m stunning.”

The way I see it, everything you tell yourself is an affirmation. It’s just that somethings are a hell of a lot more positive than others. And if you’ve been telling yourself one thing–something negative–most of your life, it’s going to take a minute to turn that truck around.

Sometimes I marvel at people like Anita who actually get a book written. It seems like such a daunting task. But just like this blog, it’s simply a matter of sitting down and writing like a broken record–over and over again. At first it’s just a word, a sentence, a paragraph. And then before you know it, it’s a thousand words. Two months later, it’s a book. Honestly, I wish it were easier. I wish I could wake up tomorrow and have a six-pack. (I mean, I could have a six-pack of beer tomorrow, but not a six-pack OF ABS.) And I wish I could write a book in a day, and learn the Argentine Tango in a day, and learn everything I’ve learned in therapy in three years–in a day.

But that’s simply not the way it works. Rather, it’s like swimming, one action on repeat. (Hopefully with a decent set of goggles.) It’s a balanced meal, a good habit, lots of positive self-talk–done over and over (and over) again.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Of all the broken things in your life, you’re not one of them–and you never have been.

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Free Enough for Now (Blog #90)

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You know how they say the truth will set you free–like that’s a good thing? Well, I’m not completely convinced. For the last thirty minutes–honestly–I’ve been running from the truth. What I mean by that is that every day I sit down to blog and almost always “know” what I’m supposed to write about. Most of the time, that’s okay. But sometimes, there’s a big part of me that really doesn’t want to tell the entire fucking internet that I’m an out-of-work homosexual who lives with his parents or that I’ve spent so much time with chocolate cake over the last several years that we’re about to enter into a common-law marriage with each other. But for some stupid reason I decided to start a blog about being honest and vulnerable, which means–damn it–I have to be honest and vulnerable.

Sometimes I hate that.

Yesterday I started reading a juvenile fiction book called Wonder. It’s written by RJ Palacio and has been turned into a movie starring Julia Roberts and Owen Wilson that will be released this fall. Here’s a link to the trailer (you should watch it if you feel like crying), but it’s basically about a boy with an abnormal face and his search for acceptance, authenticity, and love. I’m not done with the book yet, but the first hundred pages are told from the boy’s perspective, after which other characters, like his sister and a friend from school, share their perspectives. As a reader, I was a bit thrown when I realized someone else had hijacked the narrative, but I was fascinated to get more than one perspective.

This evening I went to dinner with a couple of friends at El Zarape because our friend Jimmy was waiting tables and it never hurts to know the guy pouring your margaritas. That’s us in the above picture, including Jimmy, minus the friend who DOES NOT like to have his picture taken. (I personally have a lot of dislikes but–obviously–that’s not one of them.)

For dinner I had a meal called Molcajete, which is basically steak, chicken, and cactus fajitas, served in a giant, appropriately pig-shaped goblet that I referred to as The Holy Grail. Bless us, O Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Amen.

So here’s the part I know I’m supposed to talk about but really don’t want to. For the last week or so, I’ve really wanted a cigarette. I mean, I quit smoking six months ago, so I sort of thought the temptation part was over, at least when I’m brushing my teeth, driving my car, or blogging. But one of my friends who’s gone through the twelve-step program says temptation doesn’t work that way, that you can go months without a craving, and then–bam–one shows up “out of the clear blue sky.” (If only boyfriends worked that way.)

Well, I’ve been handling all the cravings like a champ, even the ones that have basically been so persuasive and seductive they might as well have been Zac Efron lying next to me in bed saying, “I want you. I don’t want anyone else except you.” It really hasn’t been a problem to say, “I’m sorry. You’re cute and all, but I’m saving myself for fresh air.” But tonight at dinner–out of the clear blue sky–I had a REALLY BIG margarita, something that always lowers my standards, so when dinner was over I ended up saying, “Fuck it. I want you too, Zach–I mean–cigarettes.”

But really. Look at that thing. It would probably lower your standards too.

So I went to the gas station to buy a pack, and I’ll be damned if they hadn’t stopped selling my favorite brand, so I walked out. And went to the gas station across the street. Which had also stopped selling my favorite brand. (My mom later said this was “a sign from the universe.” I hate it when people use something I would say against me.) Anyway, I went with a different flavor and smoked one and a half. I actually quit in the middle of the second cigarette, which, historically, I don’t do. I wish I could tell you they tasted terrible, like sin and regret, but I loved every bit of them. Of course, that’s the part that scares me, so I locked the pack in the trunk of a car because I figured I’d be less likely to smoke anytime soon if they were there.

This is a strategy that may not work, since–you know–it was my car and I have the keys.

The truth doesn’t suck.

Back to being honest, I have a lot of shame around smoking. I’m not exactly sure why, but it’s probably because–at this time in history–it’s rather frowned upon. I’m afraid of what other people will think. Anytime smoking has been on my list of things to talk about in therapy, I’ve always shown up with the sirens on, lights flashing. OH MY GOD, I SMOKED ONE AND A HALF CIGARETTES LAST WEEK! WHAT AM I GOING TO DO? MAYBE I SHOULD LIE DOWN ON THIS COUCH. I KNOW–LET’S TRY HYPNOSIS. But no matter how worked up I get about the actual thing, my therapist is always like, “This again? Who gives a shit about cigarettes? You’ll quit when you want to. Now would you stop judging yourself already?”

I’ve been thinking tonight about how I’m a lot like that book I’m reading. I like to think of myself as one central character, like, this is my story. But the fact is that this is our story. What I mean by that is that there’s a part of me who loves cigarettes, who comes out of the woodwork when I drink margaritas the size of crock pots. Likewise, there’s a part of me that hates cigarettes, who came home and immediately took a shower, who’s typing now, who’s usually in charge. And there’s a part of me that judges myself, and there’s a part of me that doesn’t, that accepts that I’m human, that understands I need to break the rules I’ve set for myself–occasionally.

I’m learning that all of these parts, all of these characters, deserve to have their say. I mean, I’ve tried to get rid of some of them, but they’re simply not going anywhere. I might as well listen to all of their perspectives. I know that lately I’ve been listening a lot to the character that says, “Do more. Get shit done,” so I’ve been reading and writing and exercising and eating well and go-go-going constantly.” But that’s only part of the narrative. And my guess is the character I’ve been ignoring and hearing as, “Smoke a cigarette,” was actually saying, “Would you stop being such a hard ass and take a damn break for a minute?” (Must be a problem with my ears.)

I mean, yeah, I could take a break for a minute. I’d actually like that part of the story.

Okay, that wasn’t so bad. I admit it. The truth doesn’t suck. I mean, I don’t know that I feel “set free,” but I do feel lighter, less worried, less ashamed. Hum. Surely that’s a good thing. And maybe–just maybe–that’s free enough for now.

[Lastly, Happy 42nd Wedding Anniversary to my parents. I’m really glad you decided to get hitched, even though Dad said it was possible for me to be here even if you hadn’t. I wanted the blog tonight to be about you and not cigarettes, but that muse wasn’t talking.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

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Something Shifted (Blog #81)

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Today my friend Bonnie and I drove to Austin, Texas, to visit her daughter Annie. Well, okay, Bonnie drove while I slept and drooled on a pink pillow strapped around my neck. (I only woke up every couple of hours to eat lunch, use the bathroom, or freak out in big-city traffic.) I really think sleeping on road trips is the best thing ever. It’s like time traveling, or at least teleporting. Close your eyes in one city–open them in another.

Beam me up, Bonnie.

Somewhere–I couldn’t tell you–we stopped for a bathroom and coffee break at a Buc-ee’s, which is basically a warehouse-sized gas station/grocery store/Hobby Lobby with a beaver for a mascot. I’ve never seen anything so ridiculous and mesmerizing in all my life. I’m pretty sure I could have gotten an oil change and a pedicure if I’d wanted to. The place was so big (everything’s bigger in Texas), I think I met my cardio requirements for the day just walking to the bathroom, which had 34 freaking urinals. (I don’t think anyone minded me tapping him on his shoulder as I counted.) I mean, there were so many toilets, I could only assume they hosted competitions.

Just look at the mouth on that beaver. (I guess the positive side to only having two teeth is that flossing would be super easy. Then again, you wouldn’t make much money off the Tooth Fairy, so there’s that.)

Here’s a picture of what our car ride looked like after I woke up and took the neck pillow off. I’m reading a book called The Uses of Enchantment: The Meaning of Importance of Fairy Tales by Bruno Bettleheim. It was written by a child psychologist and is a pretty fascinating read about the positive things fairy tales do for both children and adults. Anyway, I think Bonnie was listening to Tracy Chapman about this time, but it might have been STYX or Cat Stevens.

When we got to Austin, Bonnie and I stopped by Annie’s work, a chiropractor’s office where she teaches pilates. After a short reunion and a discussion about whether the bathroom door was green or blue (we still don’t know), Bonnie and I got a key to Annie’s apartment and left to unload our things while Annie finished working.

Like any good nosy houseguest, one of the first things I did when we got to Annie’s apartment was look through her books. One of them had to do with astrology, and although I don’t make a big fuss about horoscopes, I am interested in the zodiac from a personality perspective. Since I’m a Virgo, that was the section I flipped to. The information was mostly familiar, but it said one thing I hadn’t heard before, that Virgos are focused on functionality. Basically, they cut through the crap and get down to what’s useful. Whereas a sign like Gemini seeks out all information (knowledge for the sake of knowledge), a Virgo seeks out only useful information (knowledge for the sake of transformation).

This evening the three of us walked to a local restaurant and sat on the patio for dinner. (That’s us at the top of the blog.) We spent most of our time talking about decorating ideas, since Annie’s about to move her pilates business to a space of her own (!). I’m sure we’ll dance and do other things this week, but Annie’s new space is really the reason for the trip. (Get excited. Tomorrow we look at flooring and paint samples.)

Back at the apartment, as we were all talking about pilates and the new studio, I told Annie that I’ve been to a number of body workers over the years, but there were still things about my body that I wanted to change, like the fact that my right hip always feels like it’s in my rib cage, or the fact that my shoulders are rounded, or the fact that my head constantly turns to the left. Annie said she’d be glad to talk to me about it, and I said, “Like right now?”

“Yeah, like right now.”

So Annie had me kick my shoes off and stand in front of her mirror. Then she bent down and started measuring my body with her fingers. It felt like going to the seamstress. Well, within a few minutes, Annie had a plan, explaining that the muscles around my rib cage are tight on the right side (and weak on the left), so they pull my rib cage down into my right hip.

Of course, it’s never just one thing. I have other muscles (in my butt) that are stronger on one side than the other, and all of it contributes to my imbalances. But Annie said we’d start with stretching, so she had me lie on a foam roller for ten or fifteen minutes. At first I was like the Y in YMCA, but then my arms fell asleep, so I ended up like this.

After a few minutes, I could feel some of the muscles across my chest start to relax. Ever so slightly, something shifted. And then Annie gave me some exercises to work on, things to lengthen and strengthen my abdominal wall and help stabilize my hips. Usually my hips feel pretty tight, rigid, like a door that’s rusted shut. But as Annie walked me through the exercise, I actually felt them move–no, I felt them slide. And get this shit. When I got up, I was visibly better. Like a wilted flower that’s been watered, I stood taller, more level, less slumped.

I’m trying to be open to whatever life brings.

Since last year when I decided to close my dance studio, I’ve been telling myself and everyone else that I’m trying to be open to whatever life brings. Like, I think I want to move to Austin, but I’m open to other ideas, other possibilities. I mean, I’ve been at my parents’ for a few months, and although that wasn’t my original plan, I’ve tried to be open to the fact that good can and is coming from that situation (this blog, for example). So since earlier this week when Bonnie invited me to Austin for a few days, I’ve been trying to not make a big deal of it. I knew that I could get down here and absolutely love it, but I also knew that I could get down here and feel like it wasn’t the place for me.

But I’ll say this. Two hours outside of the city today, ever so slightly, something shifted. I can’t say more about it than that. My therapist says when she moved from her hometown, it felt like a lightening bolt up her spine. My experience today wasn’t that dramatic. But my body did feel different, and it felt–good. Now that I’m here in Austin, it just feels good. There are hot people–hot guys–jogging the streets. There was a lady in Annie’s office today–a lady with gray hair–who had a cut off t-shirt with a picture of an old dude on a bicycle that said, “Put the fun in between your legs.” Tonight our waitress (who grew up in Kenya) had a tattoo that said, “The journey is the destination.” She was just cool. Annie told us one day she was at a park and stumbled upon a naked yoga class for pregnant women. Imagine that!

Honestly, I love all of that. I can’t tell you how much I would love to call this place–or a place like it–my home.

One day–just like that–you find something that works.

And then there’s Annie and the little pilates miracle that happened tonight on her living room floor. Talk about finally finding some information that’s functional, information that’s transformational. One of my best friends is always saying, “It’ll change your life,” as in, “This cheesecake will change your life,” or “This hairspray will change your life.” But really, folks, if I could get my body more in balance, get this hip back to where it’s supposed to be, that really could change my life. It could make it better.

I realize there’s a lot of work left to do here. By that I mean, I’m probably a long way from standing taller, holding my shoulders back, sticking my chest out proud. I’m probably also a long way from realizing my dream of being a full-time writer and living in Austin, fun in between my legs, naked yoga in the park, whatever. But maybe not. I’m finding that you can spend years sorting through crap, all kinds of information and possibilities. And then one day–just like that–you find something that works, something that clicks, something that’s useful. Maybe you can’t put your finger on it, but you know for certain–something has shifted ever so slightly, and it feels–good.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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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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On Falling Down and Getting Back Up Again (Blog #78)

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Okay, shit.

It’s four-thirty in the morning, and Daddy is tired. My dancer friend Matt drove down from Springfield yesterday, and we’ve been dancing and (only because this is a blog about honesty) drinking since seven-thirty last night. We met at my friend Bonnie’s house, and we started off Blues dancing, which is slow and easy and not demanding at all. Next we picked it up with a little solo jazz work, choreographing a dance routine for Matt to teach to a rock-a-billy song. Then we worked on Lindy Hop, which if you don’t know, is a swing dance that requires a lot of bouncing, running around, and acting a damn fool. And then–and then–after five hours of all of that, we thought it would be a good idea to work on lifts and aerials, things that required Daddy to jump up in the air and turn himself upside down. That part required A LOT  of energy.

In retrospect, we should have done everything in reverse.

The last time Matt and I worked together, I showed him a move called the saxophone. The idea is that the leader steps in front of the follower, basically shoves his hips into “her” pelvis, and slings her around the front of his body, landing her on his opposite leg and simultaneously inverting her. Here’s a video of what it’s supposed to look like. (The video includes two moves. The first is called the pancake. The second is the saxophone.)

When Matt and I worked before, I just demonstrated the move as a leader, since I’d never done the follower’s part. I mean, I’m thirty-six, and that’s no exactly the age to START putting your ankles above your head, at least on the dance floor. Plus, I weigh a hundred and ninety pounds. (People say, “You wear it well,” like that’s a compliment, but is more like code for, “I didn’t realize you were that fat.”) Anyway, tonight when Matt asked if I wanted to try following the saxophone, I was like–Uh, uh, uh–sure.

So for over an hour, we tried and tried and tried again. I fell down. Matt fell down. Matt dropped me on my back. Matt dropped me on my side. Bonnie recorded over thirty failed attempts. Bonnie’s friend Corban was there, and he recorded probably just as many. (No one recorded the ONE time we got it right.) I’ll spare you most of the carnage, but here’s a video I love that Corban captured in slow motion. All things considered, it’s pretty good, except of course the part at the end when I land on my back.

About one-thirty or two in the morning, we wore out and quit. I mean, sometimes you have to know when you’re licked. I guess I could get frustrated that it “didn’t happen,” but I can’t tell you how good it felt to try something new, to be slung through the air, even if it wasn’t perfect. Now, whether it will feel good in a couple of days is yet to be decided. I’m guessing it won’t.

The last time Matt and I worked on lifts and aerials, we worked on a move called the frog jump. It’s basically just a simple jump where no one turns upside down, but the trick is getting the follower to jump high enough and lift their knees. If the move is done right, the leader can hold the follower still above his shoulder before letting them down.

Even though the frog jump is considered simple, it’s not easy. Everyone has a job to do, and the timing has to be just right. Well, Matt’s been working on the frog jump since the last time I saw him, and he’s made a ton of progress. So we tried it tonight, and check it out.

After Matt and I finished working, Bonnie fed us, and we all hung out in her kitchen for a couple of hours. We talked about getting older but not feeling older, except for the fact that maybe your hips hurt more than they did a decade ago. (Corban, who just graduated high school, didn’t chime in too much on this part of the conversation for some reason.) We talked about dancing. We talked about tattoos. (Corban’s the only one who has one.)

Here’s what I loved about out time in Bonnie’s kitchen. At any point after ten in the evening, Bonnie could have easily kicked us out of her house, but she never did. We only left (about four in the morning) because I wanted to blog and also plan on getting up before noon tomorrow–er–today. (This is so confusing.) But as for Bonnie, she wasn’t in a hurry to end the conversation, to have us leave, to go to bed.

In contrast, I know that so many times as a dancer, I get in a hurry. I start working on a new move and want to “have it,” like now. Even sometimes when I’m working with a talented dancer like Matt, I want him to have it, like now. Not because I’m impatient with him, but because I’m excited. It’s fun to watch those “aha” moments happen. But really, those are pretty rare. More often, successes in dance are hard-earned. They come in pieces. You fall down, you get dropped, your body hurts for a week. But you just keep at it and keep at it, and one day, like nothing, you’re up in the air with no effort at all.

At that point, if it looks easy, it is. There really does come a time when all the effort pays off, everything clicks, and even moves like the saxophone are a breeze. Again, it’s easy–it’s just not always easy to get there.

The journey is worth all the bumps in the road.

I think this is true of many things in life, things that are really worth having. There have been so many times in therapy over the last three years that I’ve thought, I can’t–I can’t have that confrontation, I can’t be honest with that person, I can’t tell them no. But eventually, in every case, I did. Now that I’m on the other side of a lot of drama, life feels easier. Sometimes I wonder what took me so long to get here, but I realize that I was learning something new, and that always takes time.

I guess we all have things we haven’t mastered yet, whether it’s turning ourselves upside down, growing older, or having a tough conversation. And sure, those things can be difficult and scary. You’re going to fall, you’re going to hurt the next day. But I think the journey is worth all the bumps in the road. Besides, I don’t think anyone came to this planet in order to get it right the first time. What would be the point? Rather, I think we came here because this is a place we can learn, a place we can fall down and get back up again, and a place–like Bonnie’s kitchen–where there’s all the time in the world to do just that.

Daddy said.

[I promise I’m not going to start referring to myself as Daddy on a regular basis. It’s probably the American Honey talking.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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For all of the things life takes away, it gives so much more in return. Whether we realize it or not, there’s always grace available.

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Defrosting Your Emotional Freezer (Blog #71)

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

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

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

All emotions are useful.

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

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

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

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

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Give yourself an abundance of grace.

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Moving Small Universes (Blog #62)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thirty minutes ago.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As Bonnie said, “It was like church.”

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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If you want to find a problem, you will.

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Waiting for a Door to Open (Blog #61)

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This morning (fine, it was two in the afternoon) I woke up, rolled off the couch, and made a pot of coffee. Before long, Bonnie and Todd came downstairs, and we went in search of food truck tacos to start Bonnie’s birthday celebration. (The two of them actually woke up at a respectable hour and started celebrating earlier–Todd gave Bonnie an espresso machine!) Anyway, in my opinion, any day is a good day that starts with food truck tacos.

This evening the three of us went out to eat at Acme Feed Company, a four-level building by the river in downtown Nashville. When we walked in, a rockabilly band was playing on the first floor, but there wasn’t room for dancing, so we ate on the rooftop. The picture at the top of the blog is of Bonnie and me by the downtown skyline. Bonnie meant to hold up “50” with her fingers for her birthday, but held up “05” from the camera’s perspective. (Technology is difficult, but it can be forgiving.)

After dinner we walked along Broadway, the main street in downtown. There were neon lights everywhere, live music coming from almost every open door, even a few street musicians. Here’s a picture of Bonnie and Todd along the avenue. The sign behind them says, “Liquor before beer–You’re in the clear. Beer before liquor–You’ll be okay. Don’t be a BABY!”

Once we hit the top of the street, we turned around and headed back toward the river, stopping by a statue of Elvis to take pictures. Bonnie went first. Notice that she got a little fresh with the king. But hey, it’s her birthday, and I’m sure he’s used to it.

I went next and decided to flip the scene and make it look like Elvis got fresh with me. (Oh baby won’t you be, my lovin’ teddy bear?)

Lastly, Todd stepped in, and I think he wins the prize for creativity. Notice how he looks all shook up. (See what I did there?)

For the last several months, Bonnie has been saying that she’s “hashtag damn near fifty.” As her birthday has gotten closer, we’ve joked a lot about the Saturday Night Live character Sally O’Malley, this lady played by Molly Shannon who likes to “kick, stretch, and kick,” and tell everyone, “I’m FIFTY!” So when we got back to the apartment tonight, Bonnie went into the same routine. Check it out.

Last week I was at Lowe’s and ran into one of my high school teachers. I’m not sure how it happened, but he started talking about kids these days, and the next thing I knew, he was on a soap box. (Right next to the paint counter, in front of God and everybody!) Anyway, he said, “I hate it when people say, ‘You can be anything you want to be’ because you can’t. Look at me. [He’s short, and in some sort of weird cosmic joke still has a 28 inch waist even though he’s long past retirement age.] I wanted to be in the NFL.”

So I’ve been chewing on that conversation for a while. Personally, I really like the idea that you can be anything you want to be. In my world, short guys with small waists and a lot of passion (which my former teacher has in truckloads) could play in the NFL. But I do get that’s not reality. If you want to play in the NFL, it really does help to weigh more than a hundred and twenty-five pounds and have a waist bigger than a junior high cheerleader’s. Even as I was walking around Nashville tonight, it was obvious that not everyone who wants to be a singer can actually sing.

Of course, that doesn’t stop them from dreaming, and I for one am glad it doesn’t because I think the world needs more dreamers.

Joseph Campbell says, “Follow your bliss, and the universe will open doors for you where there were only walls.” I’m pretty sure I’ve quoted this statement before, and I’m sure I’ll quote it again because it’s my life mantra right now. It’s something I’m willing to live the rest of my life putting to the test to find out if it’s true. Personally, it’s taken me some time to figure out what my bliss really is and figure out what I really want. But now that I have, now that I can say, “This is why I’ve been put on the earth,” I’m moving forward. I see it as my job to do my part, trusting that the universe–which is a pretty big, magical place where magical things happen every day–will do its part.

The truth is that even if you can’t be anything you want to be, you can absolutely be who you were meant to be. Don’t let anyone else tell you differently.

This morning while I was having coffee, Bonnie played me a song called Last Night God Sang Me a Song by The Whistles & the Bells. Honestly, I was just sort-of listening, not expecting it to grab me, since I was mostly thinking about an email I received when I woke up about a writing contest I entered and didn’t win. And even though I’m getting pretty used to being rejected or “not accepted” for that sort of thing, it’s always a disappointment on some level. But then the song got to the end and said, “Whatever you do, don’t settle,” and then Bonnie started singing, pointing her finger at me, adding my name in and saying, “Marcus, Please, don’t settle.”

And then I started crying.

A couple of years ago in therapy, my therapist suggested a mantra for me–I don’t chase boys. Another time she told me that when it comes to letting people in my life and loving them, there should be “a door man, a guest list, and a dress code.” In other words, I should have standards, and I shouldn’t settle.

So lately that’s where I’m at. In my personal relationships, I’ve not going to chase anyone, and I’ll gladly spend the rest of my life alone rather than settle for someone or something that’s beneath my standards and beneath my worth. In terms of my future professional life, the same rules now apply. I know that I want to be a writer. More than that, I know that I am a writer. I also know that–in part–it’s what I’m here to do. Along with eating food truck tacos, it’s my bliss. (I’m kidding about the tacos.) It’s the thing that makes me want to “kick, stretch, and kick,” and say, “I’m A WRITER!”

There’s a true story that Elvis was once told to stick to driving a truck because he’d never make it as a singer. Clearly, Elvis and the universe had other plans, and I can only assume it all happened the way it did because Elvis was following his bliss. Personally, I think that when you get clear about your purpose, it’s easier to move forward and not be slowed down by someone else’s soapbox or rejection. Because the truth is that even if you can’t be anything you want to be, you can absolutely be who you were meant to be. And don’t let anyone else tell you differently. Rather, keep doing what you love and not settling. Stand strong and stare down the walls before you, knowing that–at any moment–the universe will gladly open a door.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Give yourself a break.

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Hipster Confidence and Beauty (Blog #60)

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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.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Normal people don’t walk on water.

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On the Road (Blog #59)

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Last week my friends Bonnie and Todd invited me to go with them today to Nashville to visit their family, look at real estate, and celebrate Bonnie’s birthday. Well, I’m usually a control freak, anything but spontaneous, so I hesitated. But I love Bonnie and Todd, I’ve never been to Nashville, and I’ve been trying to be more open to whatever life brings me. (Lately it’s brought me a crick in my neck, Days of Our Lives, and Friday nights with my parents.) So I said, “I’d love to go. Carpe ducking diem,” or at least that’s what the autocorrect on my phone said.

We hit the road this morning, so I’ve spent most the day in the backseat of Bonnie and Todd’s truck lusting at Bonnie’s bag of snacks, which included a box of cereal, a jar of peanut butter, and a bottle of tequila. I kept thinking, I knew I made the right decision.

Bonnie’s birthday is this coming Tuesday, so for a few hours, we jammed out to a birthday playlist she created on Spotify. On it were songs like Super Freak, Pretty Young Thing, and Billie Holiday’s Getting Some Fun out of Life. Bonnie said the playlist was all about “narcissism, woman power, and,” my favorite, “fuck this shit.” That’s a phrase Bonnie and I have used a lot the last year, since both of us want to move to a different city. (I want to move to Austin, she wants to move to Nashville.) But it’s also a phrase I’ve used a lot in therapy over the last few years, and sometimes I think it’s necessary when you find yourself in a difficult or unsatisfactory situation. I mean, if you’re stuck in a place–or with a person–that won’t let you grow, do (and say) whatever it takes to get you out of there.

Here’s a picture of Bonnie dancing in the car. I’m surprised we didn’t get pulled over for having too much fun.

When we got to Nashville, we spent the evening with Bonnie and Todd’s son Ben and his wife, Mallory. Mallory is super southern in the best way–friendly, hospitable–talks like sweet tea tastes. She said that she was obsessed with big hair, verandas, and china cabinets. I said that big hair should be pretty easy to come by with the humidity in the south, but she said that wasn’t the big hair she had in mind. Bonnie said veranda was just a fancy name for a porch. (I don’t think anyone said anything noteworthy about china cabinets, but maybe we could make that a goal for the week, which is how long we’ll be here.)

Before the evening was over, Bonnie and Todd’s other son, Tim, and two of Ben and Mallory’s friends joined us. Bonnie and I left for fast food for me and beer for everyone else, and the trip took about an hour because apparently the entire city of Nashville was at Walmart for Memorial Day Weekend. Anyway, by the time we got back, I was pretty much shot because I didn’t sleep much last night and the large cup of coffee I had from McDonald’s was doing a terrible job of propping me up. (It still is.)

But I was semi-alert for this moment, when Mallory passed her phone around to let everyone see how a local graffiti artist creatively defaced a neighborhood sign.

Tonight we are staying at Tim’s apartment. There’s a small bathroom downstairs, and you have to turn sideways to sit on the toilet. But Tim (or his roommate, Tim, which makes remembering names easy) must be pretty cool because there are glow-in-the-dark stars on the walls and ceiling, along with a picture of an astronaut, which also glows in the dark. (The picture is at the top of the blog, not glowing, so use your imagination for that part.)

Since I saw the astronaut in the bathroom about an hour ago (there’s a sentence I never thought I’d say), I’ve been thinking about how I’ve felt just a tad bit uncomfortable this evening. What I mean is that although I love everyone that I’ve met and everyone has been delightful today, this is my first time spending a week with this family, and everything is new to me. I’m not in my city, my house, with my family, in my car. I’m glad I’m here, it’s just unfamiliar.

When I first started talking to my therapist about moving to Austin, she said that moving to a new place isn’t a small thing. She said there would be a lot of loneliness, a lot of times I’d be uncomfortable. (She probably didn’t say that exact word because she says, “Uncomfortable is not an emotion.” Personally, I think it should be, but no one asked me.) Anyway, she didn’t say the trip wouldn’t be worth it, just that there would be an adjustment period. I’m sure she’s right. If I’m a little uncomfortable on a trip to Nashville with some dear friends, I’m sure I’ll be plenty more uncomfortable when I finally move out of Fort Smith.

But going back to that astronaut in Tim’s bathroom, I’m sure he felt the same way when he left the earth. It’s just what happens when you decide to do something unfamiliar, to strike out on a new adventure. Sure, you could stay at home where it’s familiar–you could stay comfortable–but anyone can stand on the earth and see the moon. Sure, it’s going to feel awkward if you decide you need a new perspective, and that applies to taking spontaneous vacations, moving to another city, or even starting therapy, just as it applies to astronauts breaking free from gravity. And maybe it takes a bottle of tequila or the right playlist on Spotify to make you say, “fuck this shit,” but before you know it, you’ll be on the road or up in the air, so far from where you started that you’ll wonder why anything ever held you back.