Small Steps

Almost, even, baby steps.

But steps nonetheless.

I have not been exercising for a while.

Not that I’m super out of shape, work five days a week as a nanny, picking up toys, the baby, who is now no longer a baby at two years old, the six-year-old and the almost nine-year old, up and down steps, over to the park and back, and you’ll stay in decent shape.

However.

I haven’t really exercised much since I moved into my new digs.

I’ve been here now three and a half, almost four months.

Part of it is that I’m in a PhD program and the majority of exercise there is lifting a book and turning the page or fretting about having to write a paper.

I’m sure the anxiety of walking through my first semester of the program wore off a few calories, but not really in a way that was healthful for me.

I have been thinking a lot about exercise, partially because a dear friend of mine keeps sending me messages about going to this or that yoga/dance party class.

I keep saying no.

And.

I keep saying I want to.

I don’t actually like exercise.

Until after I’ve done it and then I’m all like, why the fuck don’t I do this more often.

Of course, that feeling often fades and exercise becomes a bit of a chore, but I also know, rather well at that, that feeling better is important.

It’s not just my body that feels better.

It’s my brain.

My brain needs the break from thinking.

Sometimes I just need to get into my body and exercise is a great way to do that.

One of the things I have been telling my friend is that it’s a scheduling thing.

I just can’t see myself getting up early and heading across town to do a yoga class then hauling ass back here and getting ready for work or for seeing clients.

Nothing is convenient.

I looked at pools last night, which I have done enough times to know that it really is a haul to get anywhere that has a pool.

Then I fret about how long it will take to deal with my hair.

My hair is a serious thing.

Not that I do a lot with it, per se, just that I have a lot of it.

In fact, I think my hair is the longest its been in years.

I love my hair and it’s actually easier to deal with when it’s long, I don’t do much with it, it’s just that it takes a long time to de-tangle, wash, condition, and dry.

I have naturally curly hair and if I don’t treat it right it goes bonkers.

So swimming, though imminently appealing is not always the best option for me where I’m living and with the schedule that I keep.

Then.

This morning I had a dear friend over for coffee and he mentioned the gym down the street.

Yeah.

Yeah.

I know.

There’s a gym around the corner.

I walked past it on Christmas Eve at sunset when I went for a little stroll around the block and I noticed it.

And it’s been taking up a little corner of my brain for a while now, but until today I wasn’t really taking it seriously.

My friend happened to park next to it and talked to me about it and how it was a key pad punch in and that it didn’t look busy and that it seemed really reasonably priced and wow was it close.

My friend doesn’t have a gym that close to his place and he works out frequently.

I knew when he was talking to me about it that it was the answer and I had also gotten an e-mail at the turn of the New Year regarding the gym as it was part of the mailing list I got popped on for my old yoga studio.

Too many signs saying, ahem, you want convenient and fits in your schedule?

Here you go.

So.

I went online and found out that it really is quite reasonable and there’s a student discount and I could get a membership for $55 a month.

Which is $30 less than I was paying for my yoga studio.

But I don’t have work out shoes, my brain tells me.

Buy them, you twit.

Today after my friend left I headed to the Mission to see clients and I had nothing really to do until my 7p.m. commitment and I thought, you know, there’s that place in the Inner Sunset that has a pretty good athletic shoe selection.

I went.

They didn’t have anything that worked for me, but I had the idea in my head and I knew when I got home that I would just go online and order a pair of shoes.

I had transitioned to Saucony running shoes when I hurt my ankle about five years ago now, and I wore the hell out of them for a while and I know what size works for me.

Plus.

Oh yeah.

I have an Amazon gift card my employers gave me for Christmas.

Voila!

Free athletic shoes.

And the decision to go to the gym and get a membership as soon as the shoes arrive.

I’m thinking I could even lose a little weight, not that I need to so much, but I wouldn’t mind dropping one more pant size.

“You just keep getting skinnier and skinnier,” my friend said over coffee this morning, “what are you doing?”

Not much, honestly, obviously not working out.

But when I had all the issues with the reflux I cut a few things out of my diet.

I stopped eating a hard-boiled egg in the morning with my breakfast and I stopped having a snack at night.

I think that was really about it.

I’m just basically eating less.

I don’t think I’m still losing weight, but it was nice to hear that from my friend.

I also don’t see myself very clearly.

I will often see myself as heavier than I am or think that I am bigger than I am.

Partially because, well, I was for a very long time in my life.

Anyway.

Here’s to baby steps and ordering new work out shoes and making the decision to join a gym.

A gym!

Ahahahaha.

I am now one of those people who joins a gym in January.

This isn’t really a resolution though.

More like an intention to do just a little more self-care.

The next semester will bring much work with it and I sense that having an outlet will help me deal with the homework.

And maybe.

You know.

Look sexier in a pair of jeans.

Heh.

Tomorrow’s The Big Night

And I wish I had not seen the video of my dress rehearsal, but there it is.

I don’t like how I look and it is uncomfortable to watch.

My shit.

I know that.

I have a different sense of how I look and I felt, ugh, just not pretty or attractive or engaging.

Oh.

I know that isn’t true, it’s just a feeling, a way to not acknowledge the work I have done to be where I am, but it’s there.

So, hey, negative self-esteem, nice to see you too.

Although, let’s be fucking honest here, no one should shoot video from below a woman’s face, fuck people, who doesn’t know this in the age of selfies?

I was like, oh look, double chin.

And I’m wearing a fucking flannel and messy pigtails.

I could cry.

I’m vain and I feel like I look heavy and it just wasn’t what I wanted to see on my phone before heading in to see my clients.

That is a request from the producers of the show to share my video montage that they made on social media.

But.

Hey.

Anything for a good cause.

And it is.

I don’t have to be the most attractive thing on the fucking planet, or in town, and there’s no way I’m going to be any of those things anyway.

But.

I can be myself, messy, flawed, thick.

It’s who I am.

I am no svelte lady, I get to walk around in this body and keep getting to be grateful for it.

Sigh.

I’m going to get up early.

I’m going to shower.

I’ll do some nice make up and put on a pretty dress and I will not give a fuck what the negative talk is in my head about how I look on video.

It’s just how I look and the damn thing will be done and I will move on with the rest of my life.

Really.

I loved the experience of hearing my friend’s talk and how beautifully he talked about our experience and the hug we exchanged and I’ll remember that, not how I looked fat in my pink flannel Gap shirt that I now want to burn and never wear again.

Gah.

I guess I have some more body image work to do.

Sigh.

I know I’m being a baby, I know I am.

There’s nothing wrong with me.

I just don’t like how I look on video.

I would hazard that there aren’t a lot of folks outside of movie stars that do like how they look on video, it’s weird to see oneself in a different light.

And I am grateful I get to do this and I’ve practiced a lot and I think I have a good talk.

It certainly elicits emotions.

I think that’s the most important thing, that I share my soul a little bit, that I’m vulnerable that I am honest.

That is my beauty.

That is where I shine.

And frankly I wasn’t shining on the video.

Oh.

It’s not bad, it’s just not what I want to portray.

I don’t like it when I know I’m being video taped either, I feel awkward.

It’s the same when I’m having a photo taken.

I can take a great fucking selfie, I know my angles, but fuck someone else taking my photo and the results make me want to gag.

I felt the same way when I did the photo shoot to get the head shot for the event, fat and unattractive.

Old news, old story, just another old way to beat myself up for not being what everyone else in this society wants to be.

I am heavier than I want to be, thanks grad school and practicum, I don’t get to work out as much as I used to and I haven’t bicycle commuted in a couple of years, sitting on my ass reading and writing papers has put a few pounds on me.

But not that much!

So.

I know it’s my head and it’s a way to try to self-sabotage something that will bring me joy to do.

I don’t want to ruin the damn thing before I even get on stage.

Fuck the cameras.

Fuck the image bullshit.

Show up.

Put on my best dress.

Put on some lipstick.

And shine.

I know I can shine.

I know it when it comes over me and suddenly words are just falling out of my mouth and I am moving in this marvelous sea of love and it feels extraordinary.

That’s what I want.

That’s how I am.

And I need to shake this shit off now.

I do not want to be in fucking tears the day of the show.

I look like shit when I cry, thanks getting old, my eyes can’t hide tears very well.

Plus.

I have fucking therapy in the morning.

I warned my therapist that I did not want to be crying in my next session when I left her office last week, I don’t want to have cry face.

I’ll bring my make up bag just in case.

Ugh.

I am being a baby.

I knew I wasn’t going to like the video before I even saw it.

Comparison is the thief of joy.

I will not compare and despair.

I will fucking not.

I am just fucking fine the way I am and  I will change again next week.

Change is always happening.

Few more grey hairs on my head.

More laugh wrinkles around my eyes.

I don’t know that people are going to remember how I looked, what I hope is that they remember how they feel after I have shared.

That is what is important.

The message.

Not the medium.

The medium is vain.

I wish to carry the message and that’s all.

That’s it.

Just be my authentic self and let that bring happiness.

That’s all that matters.

In the end, really, that’s the most important thing.

Share my joy.

Not my vanity.

And.

Just.

Be.

 

My beautiful self.

March To Your Own

Fucking drummer.

I mean.

I tried.

I so tried.

I went downtown.

I went to Banana Republic, Macy’s, three fucking floors of Macy’s, Nordstrom’s and finally Gap.

I was looking for interview clothes.

My fucking god.

What a pain in my ass.

I am not a great clothes shopper.

It does not matter what my size, I have always had a challenging time finding clothes that fit.

I have had the issue when I was much heavier and when I was thinner.

I am a little heavier than I want to be right now and that’s also something that I have been letting go of.

I am older and it takes more work to hold it off.

And I’m not riding my bike five times a week.

I’ve put on a size in the last year.

There was a time when I was like I will never ever be heavier than am now, I won’t go back the other way, but God has different plans and I have to keep saying, “you’re enough, you are ok, this is the body that God has given you today.”

I also am on my period.

So, yeah, um perhaps not the best time to shop.

Bloated and hormonal.

Bwahahahahaha.

No wonder I wanted to kill myself.

Well, ok, perhaps I exaggerate a little, but I was not happy with what I was finding and how I was feeling and I knew I could get away with something in my wardrobe if push came to shove, but I really wanted to try to get somethings that would work for interviews and also that I could wear to work.

And yes, I did find them, at the Gap, as I mentioned earlier.

I got two long-sleeved cotton dresses.

Super simple, long drop back, slightly higher in the front hem than the back, classic, elegant, easy, and I can pair them both with cardigans and look super polished and not over dressed.

I say over dressed as I have been wondering what the hell does one wear to a “casual interview.”

Fuck.

I just googled “casual interview,” I should have done that yesterday!

I had no clue that this is actually a thing.

And.

Yes.

Whew.

I succeeded in my shopping mission, my two dresses fit the bill.

I’m going to wear the soft cashmere grey cotton dress and a black cardigan with black leggings and the new shoes I found.

Yes.

I did find new shoes, but it took a minute.

I went to Macy’s and Nordstrom’s, they often carry my size, but I couldn’t find a thing, I mean, really nada, I got a bit frustrated and I was going to give up and just say fuck it, I’ll wear my nanny clogs, they’re not exactly fashion forward, but they’re not Converse and they’ll do in a pinch.

Then as I was heading back to my scooter.

John motherfucking Fluevog to the rescue.

I had eschewed going in when I had parked by the store on Grant Street.

I mean, I love Fluevog’s, I have two other pairs and they are fucking gorgeous shoes.

But.

They are super funky and eclectic.

Hmmm.

Hey.

Aren’t I super funky and eclectic?

Um.

Yeah.

So.

I popped into the store.

I looked around a bit but wasn’t seeing what I wanted and then the guy behind the counter came out and was super chill and funny and relaxed and asked me what I was looking for and we walked around and chatted and I told him what I had from them, but that I wanted a flat shoe not a heel.

And holy shit.

Thank God for asking for help and receiving it.

“I actually want to show you these shoes, they’re men’s but they’re super unisex and I think that they’ll do the trick, I’ve had a couple of women buy them now and they all really loved them.

He showed me the shoes.

Oooh.

Yes.

Yes, come to mama.

They are a pinked grey wing tip brogue with a two-inch hot neon blue platform sole.

They are so fucking fabulous it’s hard to stand it.

I tried them on.

They fit perfect.

And they are super unisex and hip and cool and just funky enough to make my outfit not so plain Jane, grey dress, black leggings, black cardigan, they elevated my outfit and also made it me, made it mine, I was so happy.

They are the Sid.

They rock.

It was extraordinary how just letting myself be my own person suddenly helped me find what I needed.

I am not average.

I am not.

And that is so ok.

It really is.

I get to embrace that and I’m so happy that I found an awesome pair of shoes and a nice couple of dresses, I got the same dress in grey and also in black, I’ll wear one of the other to my interviews.

I’ll either pair the dress, depending on which color I decide to wear, with the Sid or I’ll wear one of my other pair of Fluevog’s, probably the red and white polka dots, the black dress is simple enough that I can wear an extravagant shoe, and though it’s a heel, it’s not a super high heel.

The other pair I have might work, although the heel is a bit high, four-inch Cuban wood stack heel.

Anyway.

I am rambling.

I found my interview clothes.

Heh.

I am wearing the grey dress right now, actually.

I stripped out of my clothes, tried on the dress and the shoes as soon as I walked in the door and was mighty, mighty pleased.

It looks fucking great all together.

Clean, simple, elegant dress, cool, funky, eccentric shoes, perfectly me.

Now that the shopping is done for a while I can get on the school work tomorrow.

I’m going to knock out my Trauma paper, do my taxes, cook some food for the week and go get a manicure tomorrow.

And yoga.

I’m a weekend yoga warrior right now.

It’s not enough, I’m realizing I will have to either up my exercise or figure out my food and dial it down a bit.

Or maybe.

Just accept that this is where I am right now and that I can be fierce and sexy and fun and funky and eccentric and as long as I’m not eating the sugar and the flour, that I am ok.

I really am.

And I have fabulous shoes.

I mean.

Please.

Life is great.

Who the fuck am I to complain?

I got a god damn interview Thursday!

This is amazing.

This is excellent.

Things are good.

All the things.

All of them.

New fabulous shoes most certainly included.

Seriously.

Simultaneously*

Too much.

And not enough.

I am too flamboyant.

And I am not kinky enough.

Now if you know me, and a few of you do, you know that though the latter is not true, and so too is the former.

Yet.

I am critical of myself.

I am not enough.

And I am too much.

There is no middle ground, there is no one who is going to put up with this and there is not enough for me.

I am too much to handle.

But not enough heat in the kitchen.

I mean, really, I could go on in this vein for some time and not get myself anywhere but perhaps in a head ache state of mind.

I had a really good talk and a great check in tonight and I was informed I am more than enough and I am perfectly, imperfectly, my sexiest self.

Let me remind myself that I really am in the best place in my life.

I am honest and open and communicative, I am learning where I can be more of that, mostly through not with holding my honest response.

I can be manipulative and a bit of a people pleaser.

Which is never in anyone’s best interest.

Oh.

God.

I love me some house music.

Sorry, just got totally swept up in the beat on my stereo, I’m even typing in rhythm.

Haha.

This lady needs to go out dancing.

I’m this close to getting tickets to Basement Jaxx at Public Works with David Harness opening, next Saturday, the 14th.

I don’t suspect that I will have a Valentine’s date that night and I could really use a shake it out on the dance floor evening.

Fuck, I’ll even get dressed up for it, sexy for myself.

That’s where I have gone back to, again, and again as the process of the break up spools it way out.

Be sexy for me.

Dress for me.

Dance for me.

“You are magnificent,” a friend commented to me recently after expounding on my sexuality and expressions thereof.

Thanks man, I needed to hear that.

I believe it, I do, even when the doubts try to crowd into my head.

I have had such a habit of hiding my light under a bushel that when I do let it shine I tend to be rather overpowering.

I am finding a balance, a fabulous one, I am fabulous, I am, and I won’t argue that limitation.

I love clothes.

I love makeup.

I love dressing up.

I wish I did it a little bit more.

I’m not the greatest at shopping, but I am getting better.

All these things running around in my head and really, they do me no good up there.

What actions can I take?

That’s where I need to go, my thoughts are not my person, my person is made of my actions.

And I know I can take action.

Yesterday my actions were really simple, sit still, don’t respond, hold on tight to your chair and keep your counsel.

Not reaching out was the action.

Acceptance, awareness, action.

Or lack thereof.

Sometimes its hurry up and wait.

I am so glad I did.

I still had some moments of sadness and a couple of moments of hot-headed anger, but for the most part I rode them out.

I kept my side of the street clean.

Squeaky motherfucking clean.

Bitches.

I was thinking tonight as I wheeled through the park on my way home, what actions do I take next?

Get out there and date it up lady.

That’s the answer I got.

Now the question to myself is do I get back on the interwebs and do the OkStupid again?

Or do I just look within the fellowship and communities I am a part of?

The key is not to think too much about it, but to take action.

If I get back into online dating, cool, open the account back up and post and see what happens.

And I also realized after I turned down the inquiry last night about hanging out at the cafe and going to fellowship, that yes, damn it, I have to do that too.

I turned down two invitations this week to do just that and I realized after both that I don’t have to go crazy with it, if I have been invited to dinner and have already eaten, I can still go.

I just don’t eat.

Have a cup of tea.

If it’s a late night go out on a school night for me.

I can still go.

I just stay for a half hour instead of rolling for two hours.

I can squeeze it in.

Besides if I’m not out there, I’m not out there.

I also have to look up and out and not navel gaze.

Who is looking?

Take my blinders off, really pay attention, there are people, guys looking, and they are not always the skeezy pants ones that I notice, there are guys out there, decent, smart, cute guys, I know it, who see me.

But maybe I am too busy being in my head.

So look up, I admonish myself, look out.

See what there is.

I’m not banging my head on the closed-door.

I am walking through to the open door.

And it may be that the hallway is shorter than I think, I just have to walk the walk.

Not talk the talk.

Willingness without action is fantasy.

A girl can fantasize about Mister Right, or Right Now as the case may be, but if I don’t accept and acknowledge to myself that I am Ms. Right and a damn fine one at that, Mister Right is going to walk right by when I am focusing on what I think I don’t have.

I am so grateful for this dating experience with my ex, in case you were wondering, he’s a great guy and I hope the very best for him, he’s just not the guy for me.

And I wasn’t the girl for him.

But I am for someone and I know it.

So I get to act like it.

Embrace it.

Be it.

I am my own.

Fuck Yeah Girl.

 

 

*This blog officially written evening of 2/5/2015, pesky internet went down last night.  There will be another blog to follow today.  Thanks for your patience!*

Retail Therapy

I got me some.

And now, like a good therapy session, I am all tuckered out from the effort of being present and in my body.

A body that I still don’t always see that well and when I am thinking it’s a fat body, it’s time to stop the shopping.

Size eleven is not fat.

In case you were wondering.

“Why aren’t I a size ten?” My brain started questioning my blue jean choices, and when I go there I can go there quick.

I did pretty well before the blue jeans began to be too much and I had to call it a day.

I actually may have found a pair but I was too tired and starting to second guess myself.  I need to enlist a girl friend to go jean shopping.  I am not good on my own.  In fact, it was suggested to me that I either go future clothes shopping with a friend or enlist a salesperson.

That, helping customers fit into their clothes, is apparently one of their jobs.

Who knew.

I started off the shopping with a bang and a special treat for me.

I went to Chanel on Maiden Lane and bought my signature scent–Egoiste–I have not had it for the last month, having run out around my birthday.

I had some expectation that I might get perfume as a gift from someone, but uh, that didn’t happen.

And like the flowers I eventually bought myself, I bought myself perfume today.

I don’t have to wait for a partner to treat me well, not that my ex didn’t treat me well, he absolutely did, but there were things that I didn’t get myself for a moment when I had expectations around the holidays.

Expectation.

Leads to resentment.

Oh my yes.

And I can expect idiotic things too, I realize this all the time.

Like, oh, this is rich, I should be going to graduate school to get a literature degree or a Masters in Creative Writing.

Despite the fact that all the programs that I have applied to turned me down.

I still have this antiquated idea that I am supposed to be doing this thing where I write, make gang loads of money, and I don’t know do something with the English Literature degree I got as an undergraduate.

As though the benefits of studying have to pay off monetarily.

As if it wasn’t enough that it was through studying TS Eliot and Shakespeare, and yes, Tolkien, that I rediscovered God and went from being an atheist/agnostic, to believing in God.

Something that was very helpful to me when I got sober.

And continues to be helpful to me.

But no, I got that degree with the intention of becoming a writer.

Oh.

Wait.

I am a writer.

But, it doesn’t look like how I think it should look.

Neither do those jeans, but hey, you’re not fat either.

Aside.

Even after nearly five years of maintaining an over 80 pound weight loss, I still gravitate to the plus size clothes section and got excited when I walked into H & M and saw that they now have a plus size section.

Hey lady.

Snap out of it.

I am not a size 26 anymore.

I am a size 11.

Which is not the size 10 I eventually got down to, but wasn’t able to really sustain without restricting more than I should considering my energy levels, body type, and the amount of bicycling I do.

End aside.

I shared these thoughts around graduate school today with someone before heading out into the wilds of San Francisco shopping (which were wild, I had no idea that there was going to be a protest downtown or that the streets were torn up with construction projects).

I told her that I was beating myself up for applying to program that had nothing to do with my writing or my literature degree and that I was still holding out on the idea that I would be making it as a writer.

Famous.

Rich.

Worldly.

As though I am not already.

Famous in my own mind.

Rich in love.

Worldly in my travels and experiences.

The perspective is just different.

She laughed at me when it all finally came out, and pointed out to me how important words are to a therapist, the words behind the words, the language that is being spoken, the things that people say when they aren’t actually saying anything, how important that communication is and understanding of language are to a good therapist.

Well duh.

I had not seen it that way and I was astounded by how spot on she was.

Of course!

My gift for language will be used and used better than any of the silly fatuous fantasy I have of what it means to be a writer.

She also pointed out that I am not actually great at being isolated and that perhaps I don’t want to have a career that is so focused on being alone without distractions.

Another great point.

And then, the ringer, how much I can be of service.

She told me things that I don’t see often in myself because I have this idea of who I am that does not always match up to who I am.

I’m getting better at it.

I am.

And I was able to leave Tart to Tart with a smile on my face and be ready to tackle the shopping.

Which I did with gleeful abandon until I was done.

I actually did really well.

Two pairs of shoes, one pair of black leggings, new earrings, new makeup, new hair clips, a new skirt, a new sweater, a new bra, a tank top, a baseball jersey, and a new jean jacket.

Plus the perfume.

In total I shopped and bought at nine different stores and went into at least another six or seven others.

I went to Chanel, Macy’s, Nordstrom’s, Nordstrom Rack, H & M, Urban Outfitters, the Westfield Mall, Zara, Banana Republic, Gap, Anthropology, Claire’s, and Beauty Lands.

No wonder I am tuckered out.

I don’t do this very often and next time I do have to go with a girlfriend for some body perspective, but I can give myself a pat on the back for doing the deal and taking care of myself.

Even if I didn’t find the perfect jeans.

I still found what I need.

The metaphor for my life.

I may not get what I want.

But what I am given is always.

ALWAYS.

Beyond my wildest dreams.

 

It’s Almost Friday

It’s almost time to dance.

Oh Jesus.

I am ready.

I am ready.

I need to shake it out and shake it hard and let my hair down, and probably put it back up because I will get hot, then let it all go.

I am going to tear it up.

At least that’s what it feels like right now.  Tomorrow, well tomorrow, I could be punked out and my energy may be low and maybe, it’s been known to happen, I won’t be feeling it.

But I will go anyway.

Because I bought tickets.

I was ruminating earlier that sometimes I have to purchase something to go and the guilt of having paid for it will be the motivation.

What?

I paid $18.05 to go dancing (tax, etc.) online.

I better go.

I want to go and that should be enough impetus, but sometimes it is not.

I was talking about not riding my bicycle as much when I get my licence and how that has played out in my head as an anxiety producing thing about not getting enough exercise and the person I was checking in with asked what kind of exercising I like and  I said swimming.

Then she told me about a friend of hers who pays to be in a league and shows up for swim practise.

Swim practise!

Can you imagine at the age of 41?

Maybe.

I am a good swimmer and I do enjoy it and that’s an option, especially with having a vehicle to get me there and back.

Sometimes I am loath to go do something physical because I know afterward I am going to be on my bicycle and I am not up for the commute.

Though, truth be told, I have noticed that I am faster, quicker, and more agile on my bike of late.

I have dropped a pound or two and I can feel the lightness in my body and I can see more muscle tone in my legs and in my upper waist, my lower waist is never going to be what I want it to be, unless I get surgery, which should the money ever happen I might.

I will always, as long as I do what I am doing today, just for today, have loose skin on my body.

And instead of wishing it away I can be profoundly grateful for the visual evidence of what I used to weigh and how hard it was to get through the day.

How stressful it was to hike up Bascom Hill in Madison.

I hike up a great deal of hills in San Francisco, once a week a really steep one, pushing my bicycle up ahead of me–why I will get to climb it tomorrow–up Noe to 19th, and I don’t need to pause for breath three or four times.

I had an old friend tag me in some photographs from days gone by when I used to work at the Angelic Brewing Company, where I hit my top weight, maybe 282 lbs, maybe more.  I didn’t get on a scale for a long time after that and I believe I could have been heavier, but I wasn’t about to find out.

I know that a few years later I had dropped down to 250 lbs.

I know that because I weighed myself at my black belt test.

I was a 250 lb 29-year-old woman getting her black belt in Shaolin.

No wonder I wasn’t fucked with.

Well not much, I remember one of the bartenders, Kurt, joking about how we should turn off all the lights and jump out at me to see how I responded in the dark brewery.

Ah, no thanks, friend, no one needs to die.

Then I managed to get down to 214/215 lbs when I moved here to San Francisco.

Courtesy of a little dietary aid.

Er, I mean, a little bag, or two, of cocaine.

I remember a dear, dear friend asking me if I was using coke to lose weight.

Well, sort of, I admitted, I loved that I wasn’t hungry, but I couldn’t, at that time, admit that I was just plain old addicted to the shit.

Then I stopped.

And wow did the weight come back.

I ate to stuff all those feelings and stuff myself I did.

I bounced back up to 275 lbs, maybe more.

After that I did a lot of restricting and white knuckling, then one day someone suggested I try something else and after a couple of false starts I found a solution that works for me.

And I got right sized.

Which is not to say that I got to the size that I want to be at.

Nope.

Not at all.

What I got was a certain kind of freedom from obsessing about what that certain size should be.  I got a perspective that allowed me to see that every day, no matter how heavy or light, I was exactly how I should be and that change was going to happen and I might get bigger or smaller depending.

But I would always be right sized.

I believe that’s called humility.

So, when the brain beats me up and says my body is not as attractive as it could be, I get grateful for all the evidence to the contrary, I worked really hard to be the woman I am today and I am gorgeous.

I am not photoshopped, I have wrinkles, I have laugh lines, I have saggy upper arm skin and loose skin on my tummy, but I also have that as evidence I can look at every day and see what an amazing woman I am, how much effort I have put in, in small little steps, to be where I am at.

And where I am at is wearing a sleeveless size medium dress to go dancing in tomorrow night with a pair of leggings and some Converse.

Because although you might not think that my upper arms are sexy.

I do.

And flaunt them I shall while I get my groove on the dance floor.

Because being content in my body is the sexiest statement I can make.

And I am hella sexy.

Just watch me break it off tomorrow.

Because, it’s on.

Tired and Turned On

What will help you in the  middle of your moving day?

How about a sexy picture from the man you made out with the night previous.  Holy shit batman, somebody goes to the gym.  And somebody also wears glasses!

I received the request from the gentleman as I stood outside of Optical Underground awaiting their opening, to send a picture of myself in my new frames, I got the call last night that they were in the store ready for pick up.  I was not too excited about that.  I know, I know, glasses are sexy.  So is stumbling over your own feet because your depth perception is all whacked out–the warning my optometrist had given me was spot on.

Suffice to say, I honored the request and set the pix.  I got a sweet response and a picture back from N_______ in glasses!  Yay, now I don’t feel so all alone in my dorkiness.

Side bar–holy shit, I can see.  Wow.  I can almost see too well!  I did not realize how soft and gentle and just slightly out of focus everything has been, how fuzzed out and subtle like romantic low lighting.  Now everything is super sharp and clear and made me wonder suddenly is I have been layering on the eye makeup a little too heavily.  Eek.  I believe I have.  I believe I will also be taming down the blush as well.

He replied to my positive response with a question about my abilities to be circumspect.  Uh, yeah, I can keep a secret.  And then I got the pix.  Fucking good thing I was not carrying anything, I would have dropped it.  As it stands I still audibly gasped.  He has to have the prettiest body I have ever laid eyes on.  That coupled with the instant replay of being kissed on the neck, all over body flush.

No, I am not pre-menopausal, but it has been confirmed, I am not dead downstairs.

Whew.

And get your mind out of the gutter, it was not pornographic, but it was topless.  The man has a body.

Which led to, oh fuck, I do not.

I have a body.  I have a body I am extraordinarily grateful for.  I also have a body that has varicose veins, since high school, thanks genetics, and flabby tummy and flabby arms.

I look so much better than I have that I have no complaints, but I am not ripped, I am not rippled, I am softly padded.  Not fat, I’m certainly not overweight, but I have a loose skin from the weight loss.  The thought of taking off my clothes in front of N______ gave me another kind of bodily response, and it was not as pleasant as the first.

I have it upon good authority, his, that he finds me very attractive.  Further, that he likes me, and no body kisses some one the way he kissed me last night without being attracted to them.  I just don’t have that kind of body; I don’t have a gym built body (although I am pretty fucking proud of my bicycle bum, I do have a great ass).  I wouldn’t mind it, however.  I have been lusting after a yoga practise now for a while.  I would love to get more flexible or get into the pool and start swimming again.  But I don’t believe that I will ever have that kind of toned and taut musculature, at least not that you can see.

Being anxious about it is silly.  We have had two dates, and I believe there will be more, I have it on pretty good authority that I will be getting asked out to Boulevard here for steaks in the near future, but that does not mean that I will be stripping down anytime soon to flash my tummy around.

Then words of my good friend Scott arose in my mind when it was trying to get all sabotage on me, that it’s all the same under the covers.  Just ease up there brain, we have more dates to go on before any of that kind of undressing action will be happening (God is smart, I won’t be having any overnights anyhow being that I don’t have my own place to host an overnight).  Plus, there is also the responsible sex talk to be had.  I don’t know his history and he does not know mine and I respect myself enough to make sure I get it before proceeding full speed a head.

In the mean time I get to enjoy the gorgeousness of him and know that he took my hand, he stroked my face, he initiated the kiss.  All that cut muscle was there the entire time and it didn’t scare me off then.  I was a little too busy looking at his eyes anyhow.  That’s where I go.

They’re blue. A sort of crystalline see through corn flower blue with hints of agate.  Stunning.  And he’s tender-hearted.   He welled up in empathy when I was talking about how I started writing, Shadrach, which inevitably led to telling that story.  He actually knew him, briefly, from the neighborhood, and remembered when it had happened.  About a year after his friend Adrian had been killed by a MUNI bus.  I certainly had not meant to meander into that land, not exactly second date kind of conversation, but it happened and I was mesmerized to see the tears there standing in his eyes.  It felt really good to have some one be that connected to what I was saying.

I will recall that when I panic about not having the perfect body.  Fact is, I will never have the perfect body.  And when I am complaining about what I don’t have I am not enjoying what I do have–health and strength and vitality and beauty.  I am not blind, I am fortunate to have been blessed with beauty.  He joked with me about having perspective last night, that there are women out there who would kill to get the attention I have gotten and get.

Point taken.

I have been given many gifts.  The one thing that I also was given was the passion for writing.  Which when it came right down to it was what nailed it for me on the date.  He got me talking about my writing.  And he listened.  And I could hear the passion in my own voice when I talked about it, I could hear how I was engaging.  He was really interested and I realized, once again, how it is such an important part of my life.

I rather take for granted that I write everyday, twice a day.  I don’t think about it, I just do it.  But it does take a certain degree of commitment.  I commit daily to sit down and do it.  I got up early today, 7:30 a.m., to write before I started my day.  There are certain things I do every day.  Every day regardless of where I am, where my shit is going, and what is going to happen in that day.  I make time, I take half an hour and I open a notebook and pick up a pen and I dump the contents of my head onto the paper.

The heaviest thing to move today?  The bin full of notebooks that I have filled.  I was overwhelmed with how many of them there are.  I am a writer, regardless of my state of publication and I have to do it, I am compelled to do it.  It is a gift I will admit to having had struggles with.  I’m not good enough, I am.  I will never be published, not true.  I am afraid I will succeed, so what.  And the sneaky little devil that says, what happens when you run out of words?

But the fact is this, I don’t think about what I write.  I just do it.  I become a channel and the words come out.  They seemingly drop from the sky like blue birds on a suicide bombing.  Splat.  And there they are sharp and delineated.

Like his stomach muscles.

Oof.  God, I am in trouble.

And not in the least because I owned up verbally to how important it is for me to continue doing this.  I mean, I got it done last night, I packed and cleaned until 2:30 a.m., slept five hours and then got up to write before I continued further.  My fingers are trained.  I may be tired, I may have just loaded my life posessions into not one, not two, but three separate residences.  And what did I find myself compelled to do?

Check in with my host and get access to the computer so that I could write my blog.

I did not text the man, although I gandered at the photo one more time and I may, oh fuck me, of course I will, look again before going to sleeep, but I won’t take any other actions.  The only other action I am going to take is to make a cup of hot tea and crawl into my pajamas.

So that I can get up in the morning and write.