Tuesday, my lifelong nemesis.
Take a few sips of your chosen poison, and kick back with a little Hozier to help drag you through to tomorrow…
Tuesday, my lifelong nemesis.
Take a few sips of your chosen poison, and kick back with a little Hozier to help drag you through to tomorrow…
Tuesdays have always been my Nemesis, always wanting more from me than I have to give. They are a day that even my university roommate dreaded due to the oddities I happened to drag home with me, either in person or in spirit.
Tuesday – you may be a bitch, but I’m far more fabulous and hard-headed than you will ever be!
To say I’m not athletic is to say that Harper Lee is a mediocre writer. In other words, I sucked at gym. Other than basketball, and hitting a baseball, I dreaded that class more than anything, and was so thankful that the high-school-credit-gods decided that one was enough.
During gymnastics class I once did a vault and actually knocked my spotter unconscious with my right thigh. The same girl was victim to a line drive when she was pitching to me, which once again rendered her without response. When she offered to stand up in my wedding, I should have known the marriage was doomed.
Tonight, after a two-week hiatus, I took my chubby little buns off to the gym right after work and hit the cardio class. I hate this class. There is no joyful flailing of flab like Zumba or Urban Rhythms. It’s all very practical and ham-string agonizing.
My first clue that something was up should have been the lack of participants in the room. You see, this gym is busy enough that you have to be banded to attend class. It should have been full, but it wasn’t, and then I saw her. A woman who surely was the doppelganger of my High School gym teacher. The one that generations of students and their parents had nicknamed, “Spade-Face”.
Spade-Face inspired fear in the hearts of all girls with breasts. She was like a drill sergeant in purple and gold (our proud school colours) sweats, whistle and baritone bark included. Just looking at her made me pee my pants a little bit.
So, tonight in my mind, it was “Spade-Face” whom I was at the mercy of, with my middle-aged porcelain white thighs and tailored to fit sports bra. It was a terrible class. She lost count, screwed up, and had the personality of a torn gusset from a totally used up pair of panties.
But I made it through, without too much gasping or excessive sweating. I actually felt good when I walked out of that studio.
Spandex – the great fashion equalizer. I may wear a suit all day, and provide ‘expertise’, but when we get to the gym, it’s just my glutes and yours darling, and yours win hands-down.
As it turns out, I really wasn’t that bad when it came to athletics. Nope, like most young ladies who were abused, I just had incredibly low self-esteem, and would rather have worn a moo-moo over my svelte 16-year-old body than have anyone see skin.
Years passed, and I shed the skin of victimhood, to find out that I wasn’t such an athletic anomaly as I thought I was. I loved going to the gym, played squash, and even started running when I was in my mid-thirties. I even have a ‘sports’ injury incurred from competitive paddling. Go figure.
So, with this in mind, I have set some new goals for myself after a bit of a lazy go at living. Wish me luck, and I wish you luck too. This getting older may be harder on the ego and bones, but it does wonders for the spirit when we put it all into perspective.
I read a very short blog entry this morning at kelzbelzphotography about people criticizing the blog, topics and the writer.
It’s true, not everyone loves everything we write. I even get nasty comments from people I know, and people who only have the courage to identify as anonymous, the poor feckless arseholes.
I’ve even had a few rather threatening comments, and a few blog-stalkers, of whom I know their identities and whereabouts thanks to my obsession with the statistics page we have access to.
It’s important that we feel safe here, in the blogosphere of free speech that we are damn lucky to have. It’s also important to be brave, courageous, and supportive to other writers we feel a kinship with. For the others, in my case, the bigots, morons and close-minded, I either ignore them, or leave my opinion in a non-threatening way. You know, something delicate like, “Pull your head out of your butt hillbilly.”
You see, in this little space, many of us post our heart’s desires. This is where I come to tap out a few lines because I’m too busy to crack open the notebook on a new novel I’m writing. These few minutes launch me into my day and sate my proclivity to daydreaming and wasting my days away leaving the mundane to pile up like a big wad of anxiety in my mind.
We show you our stories, works of art and poetry. This is where we come to live out our creativity, and as you know baby-cakes, creativity is no mere sixth sense. No, it is the sacred expression of the human spirit.
The weekend blog-posts are written at my little writing desk with the morning sun streaming through the lace curtains and falling on the hearty green leaves of my beloved shamrock. From here I see the world and my future unfold where others might only see a weathered obelisque and the hyacinths beginning to poke their green heads through the grey-brown muck of early spring.
What made it so funny was that it came from a number I don’t recognize, likely someone I have known quite well, but deleted from my digital Rolodex of potential back-ups. One of my BFF’s refers to me as McBoobs, but it wasn’t her. ‘Boobs’. Somewhere out there, someone’s memory brought a story about my assets back to the front line of their mind, and prompted the ridiculous text.
Memory is a funny thing. It’s sly and agile, hiding itself for so long you forget that it’s there, and then suddenly, it floods your mind, heart and soul like a spring rainstorm, leaving turned earth, and a rainbow somewhere, if you remember to look for it.
Drifting off to sleep after a conversation and a few tipples with a kindred spirit, my memory reminded me how wise some people can be. Stonewalling is my preferred method of detachment and emotional salve after the crumbling wall around my school-girl heart takes a hit. “You’ve been through a lot of hurt in your younger days just like me. It’s natural.” He gets it, I thought, as I drifted off to sleep. Somebody sees it.
Seeing each other; witnessing the life of friends brings meaning to life. Years pass and friendships either fade or strengthen, and the beauty of lasting friendships is that you know someone out there in the big ole’ nasty world of non-stop striving really sees who you are. They know you.
There’s something about someone having stood by while your soul was formed and hardened in the fire of life. When you forget who you are, these are the people who tell your story back to you, and so it is – this is memory – retelling who we are and how we arrived at this place. Right here. Right now, as we are, fully human and divinely flawed.
Not often do I go back so far in my memory to recall some of the hardest times of my life. That means I’ve forgotten a lot of experiences that were part of reinventing myself as a young adult. Recently I’ve been drawn back to a time I had managed to all-but forget. A memory or two has been salvaged and laid at my doorstep by someone whom I was sure had forgotten me. It was my choice to pick it up and examine it, or kick it aside until it eventually grew over as part of a wild, tangled landscape. I’m curious by nature, so I couldn’t leave a gift like that unopened.
It’s a blessing and a curse this easy forgetting. I do this when things go wrong with people I love. Hurt turns quickly to anger and then I toss it away like a pebble to the bottom of a deep, cold lake that is incapable of giving up her dead. Something gone forever unless someone else makes the effort to salvage it and lay it as a gift at your feet.
Storytelling is a great gift given to friends and lovers when they’ve forgotten how fabulous they are. It’s a little spark of madness in the melancholic night of adulthood, and a hit of adrenaline to whet your appetite for living.
This morning finds me a little under the weather and feeling like the only friend I want in the world is my duvet and a few really, really good books. Maybe a cup of tea and a deliciously groomed man at the business end giving my freshly pedicured toes a thorough and proper massage that leads to lazy, sleepy sex. He may or may not have a beard and be wearing an Irish-knit sweater…
But let’s go back to the books before we add the hero, shall we?
When I can’t make up my mind about what to read, I know I’m in a state of creative hurricane.
If you are a creative type with slight control issues like myself, the process can get unwieldy, kinda like a long silk scarf on a windy Paris evening. You aren’t sure why you need it, and you haven’t got a clue where it’s going.
Underlying my jitters is the need to get to work on a creative project to satisfy a not-so-creative, rather logical A-to-B strategic business plan. Talk about an identity crisis!
I know myself. I know my pattern. I trust that my sub-conscious will work away at grooming and awakening the beast until she’s tame enough to bring out of the cave and introduce to the world. Speaking about ideas and engaging an audience always energizes me, and I know no matter how carefully planned, there is unique alchemy between a room full people. I like to bring enough energy and ideas to ensure that the magic is joyful and empowering.
It just so happens that when I’m feeling most creative, I also feel the most stuck. I procrastinate in a zillion ways, mostly by entertaining the glittering, fleeting thoughts that my brain shoots off like fireworks on Chinese New Year.
Some of these thoughts include;
1) Packing up and moving to a boat on the west coast.
2) Pursuing a relationship with a man who I’m sure is scared to death of me.
3) Painting my little apartment.
4) Getting a fish as a muse at my desk in my messy office.
5) Finally getting a real start on my second novel.
6) Catching up on personal email.
7) Having an affair with a long-lost love in a city I’ve never visited.
8) Having my teeth professionally whitened.
9) Reminding myself that I need to buy a large envelope to return a wrong-sized shirt that I bought on Jost Van Dyke with a kind note, self-addressed envelope and a twenty-dollar bill for return postage.
10) I forgot to set a hair appointment for a gala event next week.
11) Why I feel torn between identifying as blue-collar or white-collar, and why it matters anyway.
12) Thinking of a man who would enjoy sharing the coffee I just bought in Puerto Rico.
The thoughts are so exhausting that I inevitably get trapped in my fun-house brain, let the minutes turn into hours, and then find myself at the stove cooking dinner, in bed and waking up to my alarm clock telling me it’s time to go to work. “Maybe I should get that fish,” I think to myself as I pull on my suit pants.
I can be super organized and businesslike. I am super organized and business like in my professional life which has tentacles that reach well beyond Monday to Friday and 9-to-5. I believe that’s why the creative mess and magic of my home and writing life makes me so happy. Regardless of what I ‘produce’, my piles of unread and half-read books, bag of empty canvases and half used watercolors remind me that potential in life, learning and relationships is infinite, and that my darlings is what makes it worth living.
I’m not talking about the notes you scrawl on sticky pads to remind your colleagues of something or other. I’m talking about real-live letters in the post.
Two of my dearest friends still bother to send letters and packages, and when they come, I set aside time to open their letters, and read them when the house is quiet and I’m finished with all of the ‘musts’ of the day.
Life is busy. I make my personal calls while I’m commuting. Tonight Siri dialed the Amazing C, and she told me that today she mailed a package to me.I now, have something to look forward to on Monday when it arrives. What better way to end a 14 hour work day than with a promise of a little hand-written happiness?
I have letters that were written to me over three decades ago; from family, friends, and pen-pals whom I’ve never met. I have every letter my ex-husband ever wrote to me.
This weekend, I had a long-lost love on my mind, and decided I’d pull out the letters he had written to me once-upon-a-time. For years I kept them in the same place, in the post-office package that he first sent to me, including the four printed photographs he’d carefully chosen.
Much like a journal, old letters can shed light on who you are, where you’ve come from, and maybe, in my case where you’ve gone wrong or right.
Love letters. Something I believe you should never throw away. Unless they’re from morons, and then by all means, have some strange burning ceremony and include their gochies if you have any hanging around your boudoir. Highly therapeutic darlings.
So this weekend I searched until I found these darn letters, and reread everyone. The question that was burning in my mind was; Did he ever say it? You know what I’m talking about, “I love you”. I was looking for it because lately I’ve been asking myself some pretty tough questions about relationships. I know, I know, it’s enough to ruin a girls’ complexion, but there you have it, I’ve been prancing around with much on my mind.
Now let me tell you, just the day before I had been speaking with a friend and telling them how rare it was for me to cry any more.
Life has battered me about ruthlessly; body, soul and heart. I’ve seen humanity at it’s best and worst, and tears just don’t come anymore, and if they do, it’s often it’s in the dead of night upon waking from some breathtaking nightmare. Clearly I need more booze, followed by a lifetime membership at Psychoanalyst’s Plus.
So, as it happened, I was about a page into these love letters from a tall, dark, handsome hunk of juicy mansteak, stretched out on my white duvet with the sun shining in my window when I saw them. Those three words written in his all-capitals-block-letter-handwriting unlocked the classified secret code to my tears.
As I sobbed, and I do mean sob and sniffled and bawled, I read the rest of the letters.
The written word is so powerful, especially now when techno-language has bastardized the beauty and art of precisely chosen words.
Re-reading those letters from so many years ago was like putting on new prescription lenses. The world made more sense, was reflected more clearly, and I was aware of just how much I had let myself miss out on because of my past.
Time really does speed up as you age. Reviewing the past via written letters, can inspire longing nostalgia as well as hold a glowing torch, illuminating the future. Handwritten notes have the energy of spiritual alchemy that is missing in instant messaging and even the spoken word.
When life has been sour, it is very refreshing to read the sweet words of love and friendship.
Sweeter still is when reflection helps you understand something about your own self that you’ve been trying to figure out for a very, very, long time.