georgia on my grind

I'm still toying with the idea of going back to Georgia during my time off from work.  The only thing really holding me back is that 8-hour drive.  If I could just have someone chauffeur me around, that would be great because I'm pretty lazy and I'm not sure if it's worth the effort.  I also have to take into account gas money and the cost of a hotel.  I could manage but the money would be better spent elsewhere.  Then again, it is my vacation and I deserve to splurge a bit.

It would also be nice to at least have someone to go with me to keep me entertained and possibly halve the driving duties.  Work girlfriend said she'd go if she weren't...you know...the actual girlfriend of someone.  So, little good that did me.

Ideally, I'd go back to Forsyth Park and watch the puppies play as I wrote a masterpiece of some kind.  The problem is I have no ideas.  But going there could produce some.

It could help me with the memoir I'm writing.  Maybe taking a walk through the historic district would drum up some long forgotten (or repressed) memories.  I like the idea of walking next to those cobblestone roads once again, retracing my steps from when I was greener and impressionable, seeing things now through more experienced eyes.

I need to get away and I need some inspiration.  I also need someone to drive me.

I looked through several of the pictures I took while in Savannah and it depressed me.  I realized that I missed out on so much and made so many mistakes.  I wish I could go back and do it again (don't we all).  Sometimes I wish I had never gone in the first place.

2006.  My first day in Savannah.  I was very happy.

 

book notes #10

After yet another break (I don't even know why I keep stopping), I've picked up editing my book again.  I'm also more than halfway through so that's pretty exciting.

Although I get disappointed with myself because of all this stopping and starting, the good thing is when I take an extended break, I come back and feel refreshed, like I'm looking at my book with renewed vigor.  I also tend to be a bit more brutal with my red pen, which is excellent because I have to cut at least 80 pages, which will still make the book too long, but at least it'll reduce it to an annoying length rather than a totally unreadable one.

I've also finally decided to keep the book mostly about the college experience and less on my life as a whole.  That will help me cut out some of the length as well.  I realized I could shed more light on my life through subsequent books instead of trying to cram it all into one.

Yet, I'm also annoyed because when I pick the book up again after a long absence, I feel more and more separated from the story.  I originally decided to write the book in hopes it would be a therapeutic experience but over the years, I feel I've worked out most of the issues I explore in the book.  I thought writing it would help me work through things and it has but I suppose not as much as I had hoped.  Plus, because I have mostly accepted the events and resulting ramifications, I don't feel as much of a push to finish.

I probably will finish but I'm just not on fire for the project like I used to be.  I'm not exactly sure why.  As I mentioned, I suspect it has a lot to do with the fact that it's not as healing as I hoped it would be.  And as I edit, I see it's whiny and repetitive.  Cutting out the repetition will also help shorten the book but how can I fix the whine?  That'll be harder to do.  I have a penchant for not finishing anything so I really need to see this one through.  Even if it is a complete disaster.

As much time as I've spent writing about writing the book, I probably could have just finished the thing already.

verdict

Jury duty yesterday.

I was filed into a courtroom among a group of mostly middle-aged strangers.  The judge, another middle-aged man, balding with a salt and pepper beard and glasses, approached the bench in robes bearing the Ten Commandments.  He drew our names from a large box to pick the grand jury and then sent the rest of us to a different, smaller courtroom, where we were asked a variety of questions regarding the case we were given.

It involved child molestation and rape.  What a wonderful way to start my Monday!

I happen to find the court system and court cases very interesting.  I love love love all those unscripted forensic television shows.  I like the forensic aspect the best but I also enjoy the court side of it as well.  It's all great.  One of the reasons I didn't flake on jury duty was because I thought it might interest me.  I was hoping for something fun like drugs or assault but nothing heavy like child rape.  And that was the very case I was given.  Thanks.

So, after we answered the questions to weed out the undesirable jurors, we were sent to a room lined with volumes of heavy books.  I stood around in a secluded spot, praying I wouldn't be picked.  Although I didn't know all the details of the case, through the prosecutor's questioning, I learned there was no DNA and the evidence was mostly circumstantial.  If felt a lot like the victim's word against the defendant's, which made me feel uncomfortable.  I didn't think until afterward that I should have raised my hand when we were asked if we knew any of the victims or members of the defendant's family.  I silently kicked myself and then realized I had to pee.

You all should know I am terribly pee shy.  I hate using public bathrooms (side note: I'm proud to say I've never gone number 2 anywhere but home).  I also hate being around strangers.  I fought with myself for a long time, thinking I should hold it, not wanting to walk through the crowd of people and draw attention to myself.

If I pee, I probably won't be selected, I thought, because that means I could have held it a little longer and then peed privately at work.  If I don't pee, I'll probably be selected and then who knows when I'll get the chance to go again.

I went for it.  Peed.  Everything was fine.  Until I tried to wash my hands.  I underestimated the strength of the faucet and when I turned it on, this surge of water flew out, hit the sink, then splashed right onto my crotch.

I looked at myself in the mirror, my eye twitching.  "Are you #!@*&% kidding me!?"

I unrolled some paper towels and tried to sop up the wetness but it was in vain and I knew it.  My pants were too saturated.  I thought about waiting until it dried but there was only one bathroom and I didn't want a line forming outside the door.  I also didn't want anyone thinking I was pooping in there.
I decided to own it.

Keep in mind that I had not spoken a word to any of these people.  I kept to myself in the corner and watched the clock the whole time.  So, I came out and a bunch of gray-haired gentleman zoned right in on my package.

"Yeah, I accidentally splashed myself in the sink," I said with a dopey smile.

"Couldn't make it to the commode?" a guy asked with a smirk.  Oh, God.

"Oh, no no!" I said with my hands raised in the air.  "It was the sink, I promise!"

I tried to find a corner to hide my crotch in but there was none to be found.  I was forced to show everyone my damp package.  I was mortified and ready to be lethally injected right there.

Well, God, this should get me off the hook!  Whaddya think?

We were then called back into the courtroom and I prayed I wouldn't be chosen.  I was not mentally, emotionally, or spiritually prepared to condemn a man over what I assumed was mostly hearsay.

I was chosen.

Are you #!@*&% kidding me!  Had I not endured enough mental anguish as well as physical embarrassment? No.  I guess not.

We were dismissed for an hour lunch and afterward were sent back to the room where I wet myself.  We sat and stood around for 2 and a half hours.  At first, people talked and laughed and entertained themselves but by around the 2 hour mark, we were all getting restless.  I stood in the corner, again, the recluse with the soggy crotch, and watched as the minutes ticked by.  I read my Kindle on my phone and that helped pass the time until my neck started hurting from bending down to see the small screen.

Just when I thought I was going to jump out of the second story window, we were called back into the courtroom.

The judge apologized for the delay and then informed us that negotiations took place between the defendant and prosecutor and the defendant actually plead guilty to lesser charges.  That meant the trial was over and we were no longer needed.  A wash of relief spread over my chest.  I was so glad I didn't have to hear the gory details and have a man's fate in my hands like that.

I went home and of course told my parents about the case.  They actually knew of the defendant and said he was a smarmy man who was a police officer at one time.  Because of that, he thought he was hot stuff and liked to pick up pretty teenage girls.  To me, it started to sound a little statutory.  I was under the impression that the underage child was more like a little kid, not some 16 or 17-year-old.  Don't get me wrong, statutory rape is still wrong and gross and illegal, even if consensual, but I think I would have been more prepared to hear about that rather than him forcing sexual acts on a small child.

I started to feel better about the situation, assuming the guy just thought he was some hot shot cop and took advantage of doe-eyed teens who thought law enforcement was sexy.  And then WG sent me a Facebook status update she found on her wall regarding the case.  The update said she was glad to have a resolution, although it wasn't quite what her family wanted but the case has been ongoing since 2006 and they were glad to finally have some closure.  I was glad she and her family seemed satisfied with the conclusion to the case but the disturbing part was when she revealed the age of the victim.  She was not a barely-legal teen like I thought.

She was 3 at the time. 

of god and football

"On the East Coast, football is a cultural experience. In the Midwest, it's a form of cannibalism. On the West Coast, it's a tourist attraction. And in the South, football is a religion."
-Marino Casem

Football is in full swing around my way.  At work, we are allowed to wear football regalia on the weekends.  I see co-workers and customers alike wearing their favorite team colors, washes of red and white or blue and orange.  It's how they show their loyalty.  They also express their team pride vocally by switching the usual salutations with team mottos "War Eagle" and "Roll Tide" as they pass each other in the store.  I just stand there and shrug.  I don't understand their passion for the pigskin at all.

I'm not a sports guy.  I don't like playing sports and I don't like watching sports.  Of course, I try to be neutral and understand that I won't always share the same interests as these people and so I try not to hold it against anyone.  However,  my tolerance for the consistent in-your-face fanaticism is low.  I don't go around pushing my passion for zombies onto others and I wish they'd keep their football frenzy to themselves.  I'm constantly asked what team I root for and I always respond by saying I don't care about football.  I get weird looks in return, expressions that ask how I could live here and not be in love with the sport.

One day, a lady bought a toddler-sized Alabama team jersey.  As I bagged it up, I wondered what the jersey meant to the lady and what it meant to the toddler.  He doesn't realize the gravity of the garment he's going to wear.  He doesn't understand what it represents or how much it means to those who put it on him.  What if he grows up to root for the other team?  What if he grows up to dislike football all together? 

It's kind of the same with religion.

We raise our children in the church and in the football stands and teach them to yell out "Amen"/"Hallelujah" and "Roll Tide"/"War Eagle" but do these children ever know what it all means outside of their parents' and pastors' influence?  Can they separate what they've been told from what they want to learn?  And how do you introduce God and football into a child's life without making it seem like it's only way to live?

Many Christians would argue that God and Jesus is the only way to live.  I'm not disagreeing.  But there are people out there who do disagree and what if your child is one of those people?  Don't they have the right to believe or not believe what they want?  And the more you push God onto someone, the harder they will push back, even to the point where they might give up on God entirely.

I've seen it happen with me and with others.

But how do you really learn about God?  Someone has to teach you, right?  But what if the one who teaches you has it wrong?  And what if the one who taught them had it wrong?  It further complicates matters when we are taught not to question God and his mysterious ways.  But I think it's vital to question.  We don't want to be handed salvation.  We don't want to be told we are wrong or evil and given vague instructions on how to fix it.  We want to know for ourselves, to feel in our hearts that we are moving toward something divine and not delegated.

Through questioning, we see why things are the way they are.  We can develop a deeper appreciation for them and can explain ourselves when faced with questions and opposing viewpoints.  It's good to not only be enlightened, but educated about it as well.   

But that's hard when all you have to rely on is a collection of books written by man (who put their own spin on the word of God, surely) and a slew of individuals who consider themselves fit to decipher damnation.  No one knows for sure who or what God is, although we've tried.  We've conceived this image with these rules and systems of rewards and punishments.  But God is not what man conceives.  Where is God buried in the b.s.?  How do we dig our way through a Christianity perverted by man and get to the heart of Jesus?  Who do we turn to to guide us in the right direction and when is it possible to come up with our own conclusions?  And when we do, how do we know we got it right?  Will we pass down our erroneous prayers the way they were passed down to us?

We sit on the bleachers and in the pews and see the wave approaching, the clusters of undulating bodies standing and throwing their hands up in praise and sitting down in unison and soon we find ourselves swept up in the sea of bodies, standing and sitting because we think we're supposed to.  It's what we were taught.  We go along with it because it's all a part of the game.  It's how we show we believe.  We reach up and touch the excitement, the thrill, the electricity and we feel united.  But you begin to wonder if it helps the players at all.  With the bright lights and ever looming threat of being tackled, does the quarterback even notice us in the stands? 

Do we do it for his benefit or our own? 

almost

I hate almost getting to a certain state of being, like almost being thin, almost having clear skin, or almost being attractive and confident.  Having almost reached a certain goal gives me a taste of the possibilities and only serves to remind me that I'm not there yet.  That taste could be motivation for some but it's detrimental for me.

It highlights my inability to be consistent and underscores my inclination for self-sabotage.

It's kind of amazing how we try to train ourselves to be better.  We use mantras and daily affirmations and we think we're finally on the right path but it takes nothing to pull away from the progress.  The days and months and even years of hard work toward betterment sometimes feels like a waste when we can so easily be swayed back into bad behaviors.

Years ago, when I was at my thinnest, I remember walking into a grocery store and finding myself in the candy aisle.  I walked past the Snickers and Reese's and Milky Way bars and realized that I didn't even want that junk anymore.  The chewy candies, the sour sugar, the tangy taffy all felt unclean to me.

I will never touch that stuff again, I said to myself.  And I wasn't trying to convince myself, either.  I honestly believed I had no desire to devour that garbage.

Years later, I'm inhaling that garbage every day and gaining all the weight I lost, plus some.

How did I go from so healthy to so hefty?

What is it about the brain that some parts cannot be overridden?  Why are addicts life-long sufferers?  Why does the mind lean in the direction of decay?  If I learned these bad food behaviors, why can't I unlearn them?  Have they been lodged so deeply into my very being that I cannot excavate the venom flowing so deep within me?

At one time, I thought I had.  I realize now that I had only scratched the surface.  I was only almost there.

Even today, all these years and diets and pounds later, all I want to do is bite into a gooey lasagna.  I used to think these pasta pangs were residual cravings from my former sloth-like lifestyle.  They say wait fifteen minutes.  They say drink a glass of water.  They say the cravings are fleeting and they will go away.  And so I wait and drink and they do go away but they always come back. 

I'm starting to wonder if the cravings aren't fleeting but my resolve not to cave in to the cravings is what's really fleeting.  But the desire to eat, the desire to destroy myself, is always swimming under the surface of sweaty skin and fatigued muscle.

idol disappointment

"What if the kings that we put on their thrones
aren't really kings at all?
And what if they should fall?"
-Showbread, Two-Headed Monster

I think most people look to others for guidance.  It's a big, scary world out there and we are often left to our own devices when navigating the planet.  We seek out others who have done it before us and who have done it better.  We are looking for a compass in the company we keep.

For some reason, a lot of people look up to celebrities.  I suppose it's because they have money and influence and have seen more of the world and its offerings than we ever will.  The sad part is when the very celebrities we look up to are caught smoking crack in their car before ramming into a group of disabled children.  We build these people up in our minds but what are we really building up?  Aren't they just projecting images?  When we see them in the movies and television, we aren't seeing them.  We are seeing the characters they play.  And forget celebrity magazines, even those with celebrity-friendly content.  Sometimes those articles and interviews are just as manufactured as the movies the stars are promoting.

We often forget that these people are actors.  They might seem sweet and genuine but we only get a glimpse of their real lives.  We forget that at the end of the day, they are still human with emotional problems and worries and mishaps.  Money and fame do not erase turmoil.  And when we happen to catch that turmoil on film, we are disappointed.  How could someone so seemingly together fall so hard?

They never said they were perfect people.  Or even good.  They present an image to the world that is often inflated, grander, cleaner than who they actually are.

Fortunately, I've never been caught up in the celebrity trap.  Sure, I've had my crushes but I've  never been infatuated.  I do, however, look up to non-celebrities, people in my actual realm of existence, people I know personally.

That can be just as damaging.

I should clarify that I don't always know these people extremely well or have a close relationship with them.  We interact, talk, communicate.  We share ideas and philosophies but not favorite television shows or recipes.  I don't know who they are as people in regards to every day behavior and interaction.  But I tend to gravitate toward creative, talented people.  And it's that talent that, in my mind, elevates them to someone I could admire, look up to, model my life after in hopes of being that creative or gathering that kind of talent.

And sometimes I leave it at that.  Other times, I slowly get to know them on a more personal basis and realize, despite their talent, they are kind of an ass.  Or a flake.  Even sometimes fraudulent.

It's disappointing, surely, to realize someone with great talent doesn't always have great manners.  It's probably a lot like seeing the shocking surveillance footage of your favorite celebrity cheating on their spouse with someone in a Costco parking lot.

But the ones who disappoint me are human and never said they were perfect and don't deserve to be judged so harshly.  I see their art, their product, but not their person.  I shouldn't let it get me down as much as I do but I'm still lost, still wandering and wondering when I'll find someone I can look up to, someone who can help guide me through this messed up world.

I know some might say that I should be my own guide and I agree but everyone could use some pointers every now and then, right?  No one gets it right every time.  And we learn from our mistakes but we can also circumvent some sticky situations by learning from other people's mistakes.

You just never really know someone, especially through their art because their art is an extension of themselves, skewed because it comes from what they know, not necessarily what is true.  I try to remember that any time I find myself wanting to escalate someone into a higher echelon of influence.

You should remember that about me as well.

summons

I got a letter in the mail the other day.  Jury summons next Monday.  I was intrigued at first but when I realized it wasn't an invitation to view a taping of Judge Judy, I was dismayed.  I had actually planned on taking some time off from work during the week I was set up for jury duty so that messed it up.

My parents told me I probably wouldn't be able to get out of it so I accepted my fate and talked to a few co-workers about it.  One said she has easily gotten out of it twice.  She said they give you three exemptions but you must go on the fourth and each subsequent summons.

So, I gave it some thought and considered calling to tell them it would be a hardship on me and my job since re-scheduling vacation time would be difficult for my job.  But the longer I thought about it, I became more reluctant.

Depending on the case, jury duty could be interesting.  Or with my luck, it could be hell.  But, being as paranoid as I am, if I only have three chances to get out of it, I don't know if I want to waste it by just saying it would be a hardship when it really isn't.  I just don't want to do it.  But what if the next three times they call me, I really can't serve?  What if I'm in the hospital or in rehab or crossing the border with a colon full of cocaine at the time?  Of course, I might never be called again but I don't want to chance it.  If I can do it, might as well.

And it gives me at least another day away from work, or even more if I am selected.  Hey, that's a mini vacation right there!

It's sad when you dislike your work so much you'd rather do jury duty just to get a break from the job for a while.

I re-scheduled my vacation for next month.  I have time off that won't roll over to next year so I have to use it up or it'll be gone.  I'll get a whole week.  I'm pretty stoked about it.  I thought about going back to Savannah, GA for a few days.  I just never travel, never get out, never explore.  Mostly because I'm lazy but also because I just don't know where I'd go.  There's a great big world out there ready to be seen and walked on and photographed but I don't know where to start.  It could be good to start in the last place I left.  It would be nice to go back and take a look at all the places I used to go when I was an art student there, except this time I won't have the overwhelming pressure of art projects and prick professors hovering over me.

Or I could just save the money and stay at home and treat myself to a pizza. 

I haven't decided yet.

binge and not break

Yesterday, I felt I ate too much.

I really tried not to freak out about it because I've made so much progress when it comes to slipping up.  I've learned (or thought I had) that I can just let it go, realize that making a few missteps here and there will not undo all the progress I've made.  I know that.

But it will slow me down.  And now that I'm so close to reaching my goal and because it's so close to the end of the year, I really want to stay strong and not mess up so I can be sure I'll reach my goal weight by Christmas.

It's not even that I ate really terrible foods but I just ate too much during my three meals.  I'm constantly comparing the foods I eat to how much I exercised and thinking if it will cancel each other out.  For example, if I feel I really pushed myself with a great workout, I might have an extra serving during meal time or opt for a low fat dessert afterward.  Or if I feel I just went through the motions during the workout, I'll cut back on my food intake to try and compensate.  Just trying to create balance, y'all.

Yesterday, I did really well as far as cardio.  It was so nice outside and I had to take advantage of the cool wind so I went walking for an hour and I was such a BAMF that I immediately went inside and did an hour of Insanity.  Two hours of exercise?  That's just not me.  I'm such a lazy, unmotivated person.  But not yesterday!

So maybe subconsciously I gave myself some jiggle room and ate too much.  But during every meal?  What I should have done is been proud of all the calories I burned and kept it that way instead of replacing them with heaping piles of noodles and cheese.  But I love noodles and cheese.

So I'm a bit pissed at myself and kind of embarrassed about it because I feel like one of those people who are obsessed with every calorie they take in and freak out over having too many Tic Tacs.  I'm definitely not like that.  Yet.

This certainly isn't the first time I've overdone it with food.  But I think this is one of the few times I haven't planned it.  Usually when I cheat, I plan it out.  I tell myself that I will have pizza on Saturday.  That way, I still have control.  I know when I'm going to be bad because I've planned it and allowed it and I've internalized it and accepted it and it's okay.  But yesterday, I didn't plan it.  I didn't allow it.  It just happened and that took away my control.  And that sent me into a minor flush of frustration  

I'll be okay.  That one day is not going to undo all the hard work I've managed to accomplish.  But I guess it goes to show that no matter how much mental progress I've made in regards to trying to lose weight in an emotionally healthy way, I'm still going to encounter setbacks and self-loathing from time to time.  The key is not to let it envelop me.  The key is to acknowledge it and simply move on from it.  Tomorrow is a new day and a new chance to do better.  And in fact, I have done better today.  See, there ya go.  There's always a chance to start over, to regain focus, to renew drive, to throw out punishment and take in awareness and acceptance. 

precursor

There's a part of me that thinks I'm pretty cool.  There's a part of me that thinks I'm pretty terrible.  When I feel like I've completely blown it, someone comes along and makes me think I'm okay.  When I think I'm okay, someone comes along and makes me think I've blown it.  I'm in a constant state of transition, swapping between great and egregious, turning from someone pulled together to someone falling apart.

I'm always torn up inside.

I feel like a lot of people have had their hands in my actions and voice, especially my words.  And I struggle between listening to people I consider wiser and more experienced while still trying to stay true to myself.  When it comes down to it, I write for me.  Writing is my therapy and because of that, things are written from my perspective so naturally things will be skewed.  As much as I try to create a balance in my writing and in my thinking, things will probably always sway in a dark direction.

The fact that quite a few people can relate to what I write is why I post it online.  I could keep a handwritten journal but if my writing is beneficial to anyone, then I want to share it.  But at the same time I don't want to change my content to appease anyone.  Sure, I'd love to be more positive, would love to write about the happy things I encounter but that's just not where I am at this point.  If anything, I feel like changing my content would betray the reasons why people come to read me in the first place.  If what I was writing before was attracting readers, why should I change it to try to keep them when I might end up putting them off?

I do understand the notion of making my writing more accessible.  I need to make my writing shorter, which makes it easier to read and digest.  Shorter paragraphs.  Shorter entries.  Less negativity.  I understand but I don't want to make my writing something more than it is.  I don't want other people to do that, either.  Yeah, I talk about wanting to die and hating life but who doesn't feel that way sometimes?  I just happen to feel that way often.  And I just happen to share it while others do not.  But it's really just me venting.  No more.  No less.  If people like it then that is fantastic.  Welcome aboard.  If someone doesn't, if I'm too negative, if I make others frustrated with my brick wall doldrums, then the great thing about this website is there are hundreds more people to read.  Most are way better than mine.  And that's okay as well.

I know I have a problem with being down a lot.  I know that it can wear on people's nerves.  Believe me.  I have to interact with those kind of people on a daily basis and it's exhausting.  But I always hope my writing is less lamenting and more lyrical than the average despondent young adult male.  Yes, it's mostly negative and gets uncomfortably dark sometimes but I see it as a sense of straight forward observation rather than whiny bleak despair.  More poetic and less pathetic.  But maybe I've been wrong.  I'm sure I've turned away quite a few people with my constant barrage of bad luck behavior.  In fact, I know I have.  The funny thing is a lot of those people were no better than I was.  And less articulate in their misery.

But then I have to go back to the notion of staying true to myself.  No one has to read me.  If I went back to getting two or three notes, then that would just have to be fine because I don't want to be false and feign a certain feeling just to provide a relief to the reader.  Does that sound selfish?  I'm sorry.  But see, I get no relief myself.  You can turn me off but I can't turn off the suffering that spins in my head.  I don't particularly enjoy going over the same themes of weight and image and lacking confidence and talent but that's what stabs at me until I bleed it out in blog form.  Maybe one day I'll have written it to the point of finding peace.  Or exhaustion.  Or death.  Either way, I'll be done and it'll be nice to rest.

Although I'm fine with writing about depression in my entries, I always thought I was a pretty decent person to be around in real life but every once in a while, someone will point out that I'm negative outside of my writing.  No one wants to be around a Danny Downer but I guess I never realized how bad I was.  It's just a case of someone slapping me across the face with how dumb I am sometimes.  It often leaves a nasty bruise of embarrassment.  Now all I can think of are all the times when I possibly pushed someone away with my self-inflicted insults and attacks on my own body and behavior.  I think I've messed up a lot.

It's okay, though.  I write so I can figure that kind of stuff out.  I use it as a tool to untangle my many shortcomings and hopefully one day overcome them.  You've just caught me in the sorting phase of my fractured fallout from dying without ever having really lived to finally finding a heartbeat again and being left to deal with the ramifications of such a piss-poor existence.

that's amore, asshole

Yesterday, I talked to my work girlfriend (WG) about a co-worker of ours and her love life.  She had recently gotten back together with her boyfriend, although I never knew they broke up.  WG told me the co-worker found him talking to another girl.

This was after he had already knocked up a third party and then denied the paternity.  And he doesn't have a job (which is understandable in this economy and nothing to scoff at but he's not even trying, which is the scummy part).  But he couldn't deny he was talking to another girl.  Our co-worker walked in on them having dinner together at a Mexican restaurant.

Their interaction, as well as the burritos, got heated.

"What a scumbag," I said.

"Yeah, I know.  I think he's a piece of crap.  I tried telling her."

"But she still took him back?  Why?"

WG shrugged.

"See, I just don't get this," I said.  "People like him get girlfriends all the time.  And look at me.  Good guy.  Single."

"Yeah," she agreed.  "You just have to be an asshole."

"Oh, really?"  I said. 

"Yeah.  Like, if you're mean to us we wanna work harder to make you like us."

So, that's amore, huh?  Treat a girl like crap and she'll come running.  Of course, I know not all girls feel that way but I think the vast majority of them do.  Especially young girls like our co-worker.  I also wonder if she took him back because she didn't think she deserved better.

Sounded like too much trouble to me.  I just try to be as genuine as I can be.  Sure, sometimes I try to be on my best behavior or censor my dark sense of humor around some but for the most part, I'm pretty much me.  I don't go out of my way to deviate too far from my natural behavior.  And I don't feel like changing that to snag a mate.  If it means it will take longer for someone to appreciate me how I am, then that's fine.  I'm not looking anyway.

But I did want to have a little fun.

Before I walked away from WG, I turned to her and said, "Yeah, and by the way, you should probably get your highlights fixed.  They're lookin' jacked."

She gasped, her eyes wide with surprise, an uncontrollable grin spreading across her face.

"Yeah," I said.  "You're more attracted to me now, aren't you?"

She stood still, her hand on her chest, still smiling.

She didn't disagree.

salt lips

I thought I knew about sweating when I was doing Power 90 but I had no idea how profuse the perspiration would be until I started Insanity.

I'm now on my 2nd week of the 2nd month.  It's weird to think I only have 3 weeks left.  It's went by pretty fast, which I'm grateful for because I get bored easily.  I'm already ready to move on to another program and in about another month, I can.

Insanity will be the 3rd fitness program I've finished this year.  I did the X Factor ST workout, which is an 8 week program.  Then I did Power 90, which lasts 90 days.  And now I'm on Insanity, which is 2 months.  I took a couple of days off between programs and then had a break when I had my surgery but except for those few occasions, I've been pretty consistent and have been doing well and that feels pretty good.

But Insanity doesn't.

The actual program is every bit as tough and sweat-filled as the infomercials suggest.  I'm sweating buckets within the first five minutes and it doesn't stop until well after I've finished.  And now that I'm in month 2, the workouts are longer, sometimes lasting an hour.  Imagine throwing your body on the floor and across the room and slinging sweat for 60 whole minutes, with only 30 second breaks here and there.  It's tooouuughhhh. 

I bend over to stretch and the sweat pours into my eyes and mouth.  It's like diving headfirst into the ocean.  I hate the ocean.

I hate to sweat.  I sweat all the time and it's annoying.  I usually sweat at work while everyone else complains about being cold.  What the what?  But when I'm working out, I welcome the sweat.  I've already mentioned it makes me feel like I'm really accomplishing something.  And when I'm on the floor, trying not to cry and/or throw up from the pain in my back and arms, I look over at my shoulders and see the sheen of sweat and how they are becoming more and more defined each day and it gives me that push I need to get up and toss myself across the room one more time.

I taste the ocean.  I taste the pain.  I taste the triumph of one more day accomplished.

bumper sticker razor blade beckoning

I stopped praying, stopped talking to God.  I gave him the silent treatment (hey, he started it).  I came to a point where I was just tired of trying to feel something and tired of talking about it and so I just stopped.  Not entirely gave up.  But took a break from calling on Christ and the resulting disappointment.

And then the signs came.

Several days ago, I drove to work and noticed a truck with several bumper stickers attached to the exterior like badly placed tattoos on bare arms.
  

For whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved. Rom. 10:13

  
Orly?  I've called upon the Lord many times.  Did that mean I was saved?  Was that my confirmation?  It sure didn't feel like it.  Just another random sign that anyone could have ran into or an actual extension of God?  He must have sensed my hesitation because the signs kept coming.

deteriorating granny

"The world is sick
and all of us in it..."
-Showbread, I'm Afraid That I'm Me

Several months ago, my grandmother fell ill.  She had several episodes of failing health and had to be hospitalized a few times.  For a while, my heart jumped every time the phone rang.  I feared it was a family member telling us she had been put in a hospital again, or worse.

My parents and I visited her in the hospital during one of her stays and it was uncomfortable seeing her frail and hooked up to all the tubes and machines.  I stood there and didn't know what to do or say and just wanted to bolt.

She eventually got better, although she is thinner and more frail now.  I still worry we'll get a phone call late at night.

My other grandmother is slightly senile and her speech is becoming more and more incoherent to the point she can't get a full thought out of her mouth without stammering or stopping herself to clarify a statement.  I'm worried she's going to develop Alzheimer's.

There's dropping dead and then there's slowly deteriorating and dying.  I'm worried one grandmother is going to drop dead and the other will slowly melt away.

I see old people at work all the time and it kind of breaks my heart.  I see the old men with the dramatically curved spines and see-through skin and the old women with the milky eyes in wheelchairs being pushed by their children or shuffling in their walkers while their children patiently follow along.  They shake.  They stumble.  They need something to hold onto so they won't topple over.  I see oxygen tanks and forgetfulness.  I see exhaustion and sometimes I even see defeat in their wrinkled faces.  I'm scared that's going to happen to my grandmothers, that they will die in pieces, that all of their mobility will be stripped away, that their volition will vanish, that they'll be robbed of their reasoning.

I'm also terrified of that happening to my parents.  I almost can't bear the thought of my mom hunched over in a wheelchair with thin gray hair and skeletal hands.  I'm more worried about my dad since he drinks regularly and smokes heavily.  He's already battled with colon cancer and his brother died of lung cancer and yet he still lights up like he's sucking on sunshine.  It makes me angry and it makes it hard for me to want to get close to him because he's shellacking his lungs with tar and tearing up his liver with all the alcohol.

I'm also worried about my dog and cat.  They're both in the double-digit age now.  I'm always worried I'll come home to find Mom weeping over my dead cat's body.  Fortunately, neither one of them show signs of old age or failing health but it still crosses my mind regularly.  My mom  is enamored with our and when he passes away, she will be devastated.

And I think my fear of others dying comes from a fear of not knowing how to deal with everyone's grief.  I grew up in a household that discouraged expression.  I never saw my parents cry from pain or laughter.  They were stoic in their actions, language, and behavior.  Mostly.  And because I was never introduced to extreme feelings of sadness or joy, when I do encounter it, it makes me uncomfortable.  I don't know what to do or say. 

So when my grandmother's die, I'm going to have to deal with my parents' grief and I don't know how to do that.  When my dog and cat die, I will have to deal with my parents' grief and I don't know how to do that.  I'll just get that familiar need to bolt again, to run away until everyone stops hurting and everything is regular again.

I'm more worried about enduring everyone else's grief than my own.  That's because I don't feel particularly close to anyone.  Yes, I will be sad when my grandparents and pets pass away and I will cry but I'll probably move on easily.

And the reason I choose not to get too close to anyone is because I am also afraid to face my own grief.  If I get too attached, they'll one day leave or die and I'll be devastated and I don't know how to come back from that.  I've inadvertently carried on my parents penchant for not feeling too deeply.

I always imagined I would get a dog when I got out on my own and he would be my best friend.  The problem with that is the dog is going to die one day and I'm too afraid to mourn so I probably won't get a pet.  I'm also too afraid to mourn lost friendships so I don't have any friends.  I feel I already have enough hurt inside of me to burn on for the rest of my life so I don't need to add any more.  But if I never feel the deep sadness, I can't experience the great joy, either.  Is that a sacrifice I have to make to stay at an even level of feeling?

My fear of overwhelming grief has defeated the possibility of feeling overwhelming happiness.

No one wants a loved one to die and I think we all wonder if we can bear the pain of loss but people do it every day.  People are stronger than they think.  And I probably am, too.  I'm just not too keen to find out.

fluctuation frustration

The compliments keep pouring in...

Last week, I rang the doorbell at work to be let in and a coworker unlocked it for me and as he opened the door, he said, "Get your skinny ass in here!"

That was a nice way to start the day.

Later on, another coworker and I were talking and she said, "Are you still on that diet?"

I nodded.

"Well, there's almost nothing left of you!"

That was also nice.  And it was flattering but there's plenty left of me.

A former co-worker came in just a day or two ago and also commented on the fact that I had lost weight.  And today, a co-worker that only comes in once a month asked me if I had lost some weight.

"About 47 pounds now," I said.  I've been fluctuating between 47-48 for the past two weeks or so.

"And I'm just now noticing?"

It seems to be that way.  I received a few remarks here and there when I lost 20 pounds and then a couple more once I hit 30 but mostly no one said anything.  But now that I'm almost at 50 pounds down, it's getting noticed from all angles and of course, it's fantastic.  But I just don't get it.  

As I've mentioned before, I still have that "fat guy" mentality.  My brain can't keep up with my body in terms of being fat and skinny.  I feel like I don't see what others are seeing.  Sure, my chest looks a little flatter to me.  My arms are more defined.  But I can't get past my large stomach that pushes against my shirts or the way my thighs still jiggle when I work out.  It's almost as if my smaller parts accentuate the larger ones.

It's frustrating being so close to the 60 pounds I wanted to lose and realizing a couple of things: my weight loss is slowing down and it's getting harder to lose that last little bit and keep my willpower up and I see now that 60 pounds isn't going to be enough.  Once I hit my goal, I'll take a bit of a break.  Maybe have a pizza.  And then I'm going to have to go back at it.

I also realized that I've dedicated this year to losing all that weight.  I've been dieting and exercising almost every day since January.  I took some time off when I had my throat surgery but once I was healed, I picked up where I left off.  I've been so focused on losing weight, concentrating on portion control and cardio, that I have neglected my movie watching and book reading and book writing.  I have almost completely abandoned my memoir.  I just honestly feel like I'll never get it finished because I keep stopping.  I almost don't even want to talk about it/write about it anymore because it's embarrassing that I've been spouting off about it for all these years and still have nothing to show for it except a half-edited first draft.

But I guess it's not so bad.  Once I get my weight under control, that will be one less thing to obsess over so maybe that'll open up space in my head for creativity and give me more room to write.  But still, I can't help but to feel bad that I took a year out of my life just to correct a problem that shouldn't have been there in the first place.  And it seems like a waste.  But I can't look at it that way, I know.

One thing at a time.  Lose the bulge, write the book.  And I can remember that it was worth it 'cause I'll look really good for my book jacket photo.

dysmorphism

As I previously mentioned, you can look in my closet and see I can clothe a multitude of men in various size ranges.  I've kept my clothes from when I was fatter and thinner.  In some ways, it's good that I keep the smalls and the extra larges waiting in the recesses of my closet because I honestly never know when I'll need to pull them back out.  My weight has fluctuated so much in the past that I can never what size I'm going to be from year to year.

I talked with two co-workers the other day and somehow we got on the topic of pants and I pulled up my droopy khakis and said, "Yeah, looks like it's about time I get some smaller pants.  Again.  This'll be two sizes I've gone down now."

One co-worker, a short black woman with sarcastic inclinations looked me up and down and then peered at me over her thick-framed black glasses.  "Okay, now, how far are you wanting to get?  You're going to blow away here directly."

It was a nice compliment but I didn't understand her.  I was far from blowing away.  In fact, I'm still about 20 pounds over my college weight.  I mentioned this to her and she told me I was too skinny in college.

"I looked through your Facebook pictures," she said.  "To be honest, you looked kind of sickly.  The way you are right now is perfect.  I can't imagine that handsome face sinking in any more."  The other co-worker, a petite white girl with a wide smile looked at her and then me and nodded in agreement.

Maybe I look perfect to her but I'm still a long way from being happy with my body.  It also made me realize I never really know what people think of me.  I can always assume the worst but that's not always the case.  In her eyes, I look fine.  She wasn't secretly thinking I was fat and disgusting, like assumed everyone else does.  And the bigger question: if I can't see myself the way I am in a physical sense, am I also seeing myself differently in the ways I behave and interact with people?  Is that why I get along with mostly no one?  Am I a flaming asshole and everyone can see it but me?

But going back to the physical, I know it shouldn't matter what anyone else thinks of me but it does.  And maybe it's okay to care, or at least take it into consideration.  It's when you become obsessed with it that things begin to go awry.  And, of course, I'm in the obsessed category.  But I didn't need to be.  Here are these two people who think my size is perfectly acceptable.  I wondered who else felt the same way.  I'm always so fixated on the negative aspects of myself that I either don't notice the good stuff or simply gloss over it.

As much as I'm obsessed with what people think of me, I'm also concerned with how I see myself.  Compliments don't go very far with me.  Don't get me wrong, I love them.  When people notice I'm thinner or that I'm having a good skin or hair day, I love it.  But their compliments don't dictate my confidence like it used to.  At least not in regards to my physical appearance.

My size is my own.  For some, I am fine.  For others, I am still too fat.  And as hard as it is for me to contemplate, the chubby chasers out there might think I'm too thin at this point.  So it doesn't make much sense to worry about how others see me because there will always be someone who is not satisfied with my body.  And even further, someone who is not satisfied with my behavior or attitude.  As much as I've tried in the past to mold myself to fit everyone else's standards, I can't do that anymore.  I won't do that anymore.

I'm trying to be happy with myself, to look in the mirror and feel good about what that guy says instead of everyone else.  I want to feel good about how I'm looking and acting and feeling.  Other people matter but I realize that I only have myself when it's a said and done and I have to love who I am, through and through.  No one else is going to be there to help me love me.  I don't love me yet but I do see I need to get there at some point.

I'm really trying to simultaneously improve what I can while accepting what I cannot.  I have these fleeting moments of self-acceptance, or as near to that as I can muster at this point in the game.  I'm trying to get to a place where I am comfortable with myself but it's hard when I continue to destroy my face and body.  I lose weight and feel good and then I gain it back and hate myself and all the progress is undone.  I'm constantly building up and tearing myself down and it's exhausting.  I have no consistency in my life.  I tread and drown and rise up and dive back into the depths.  But mostly I float, letting the world pull me along and drag me under.

All the while my eyes are closed.

rabbit, rabbit (and its many variants)

I've been working on writing an entry for the past couple of days and I just haven't been able to articulate it the way I want to so I thought I'd post several pictures that I've taken over the last year.  I apologize for the profuse use of Instagram but I think they help the pictures look a bit better (an obvious n00b photographer fallacy, I'm sure but IDGAF).  Just...just enjoy the pretty colors, okay?