I have had a pretty interesting weekend. Lots of ups and downs - generally the normal roller coaster of life. I got to see the effect of balance in full effect.
I have numerous questions floating around in my head. Work related, life choices, relationship stuff - the normal day to day, year to year stuff that keeps us growing and living. What I noticed this week, was an intolerance for my "me time" - my thinking, percolating time so to speak.
We are so conditioned to react to one another, sometimes we just can't BE.
Change is good.
Life is an ever changing module.
We are creative interesting beings that have so much to give back. Yet we spend inordinate amounts of time worrying about random shit. I am guilty of this too. I have wasted hours, days even worrying about things I have no control over. I have tried to focus on relativity to production value, and usually that works. Emotionally, I think it's difficult to focus on pushing past feelings.
I have been overwhelmed with my own shit and even in the midst of my biggest meltdown, I try not to engage other people. This is how I function. I like to think maturity is part of my growth process. It's difficult. It doesn't feel good. But, it strengthens the soul. I tried to put myself in other people's shoes to try and understand how we get so far away from being selfless, and the love we are supposed to share with one another - how do we become so desperate to cling to "stuff" to prove a point. I have been called a martyr in past relationships because I would rather just accept responsibility and let it (an issue) go. Do we need to be right all the time?
My horoscope today read "It's the right day for any power struggles-- you're clear-headed and there is no way that you can lose a fight! Just make sure while you're busy fighting for what you want, you aren't losing focus on the more important things around you. Other people, not power, should be your top priority right now. So only get into it if you have to -- as skilled as you are besting the competition. At heart you're a lover, not a fighter!"
Yes, I am, my friends, yes I am.
My sister reminded me last night that "other people" often are the cause of drama, and self-preservation should be the task at hand. I reminded her that we have been expert self-preservationists our entire lives. I am clear headed today, and the 1st thing I realized was I hate fighting. If it's that important to you - do it. What is there to fight about? Life is short...how did I overlook this the last few weeks? My life is precious. My time is valuable. And you are lucky ;) so lucky.
I woke up with strange energy, cleaned my house...I should say began to "clean house". I feel empowered and rejuvenated.
I am in flux in relationship.
I am trying to change who I am in my day to day to accomodate my new growth spurt.
I also just want to be happy. I want my friends and lover to be happy. As a parent, I believe you learn how to give up your own happiness for others sometimes at the concept of the greater good. I will struggle for as long as it takes if my kids have a better life. I will end a relationship if I see a more wonderful future for someone without me. It isn't about being a martyr, it's about sharing love. And it's hard.
Love is a brilliant tool, and hard to come by, and usually it's when you witness a melt down right before your eyes that you have the opportunity to give all your love selflessly to see a better world. Yes, I want to be happy. Yes, I want to see my friends and family happy. Yes, I want to grow. My choices don't make who I am; they indicate the paths I have chosen, and the growth I have had, and the potential I have coming.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Any publicity is good publicity, but free publicity is even better~
I received an interesting link via Twitter 2 days ago which linked me to a blog regarding criminal activity/domestic violence. Upon reading this blog I realized A) the blog was a personal dissertation on someone's ex-husband, alleged criminal and deadbeat, and B) the writer of the blog had linked my social web sites to her ex-husband as a "recent romantic interest".
Interestingly enough, although briefly acquainted with the blog writers ex-husband, I have had no romantic link to this man at all. To my knowledge he lives 2000 miles from me, and I'm not even clear on how I am a subject matter at all in this drama. After reading the story of Mary T. McKnight of Kissimmee, Fla. I extended my sympathy for her misfortune and explained that I don't know her ex that well, have never dated him, and the information pertaining to me on her blog is innaccurate at best. I then contacted my sister, who is a slammin' lawyer (if you don't know, now you know) who proceeded to file action against the slander/ libelous remarks and forwarded said letter to Ms. McKnight.
Now, those of you who know me personally, know I am not a fan of celebrity propaganda. I do not read trash mags. I "don't believe the hype", to say the least, BUT, I DO live by the Samantha Jones PR philosophy, "Any publicity is good publicity". So, a formal thank you to Mary T.
McKnight who has posted my blog info, FB contact and Twitter contact info on her blog as well!
I'm not famous but people talk about me like I am~
Interestingly enough, although briefly acquainted with the blog writers ex-husband, I have had no romantic link to this man at all. To my knowledge he lives 2000 miles from me, and I'm not even clear on how I am a subject matter at all in this drama. After reading the story of Mary T. McKnight of Kissimmee, Fla. I extended my sympathy for her misfortune and explained that I don't know her ex that well, have never dated him, and the information pertaining to me on her blog is innaccurate at best. I then contacted my sister, who is a slammin' lawyer (if you don't know, now you know) who proceeded to file action against the slander/ libelous remarks and forwarded said letter to Ms. McKnight.
Now, those of you who know me personally, know I am not a fan of celebrity propaganda. I do not read trash mags. I "don't believe the hype", to say the least, BUT, I DO live by the Samantha Jones PR philosophy, "Any publicity is good publicity". So, a formal thank you to Mary T.
McKnight who has posted my blog info, FB contact and Twitter contact info on her blog as well!I'm not famous but people talk about me like I am~
Thursday, August 13, 2009
8 Minute Workout - an original short story
I woke up this morning with good intentions. Isn’t that always how it works? Good intentions. The alarm rang at 6:40 which gave me 40 minutes to work out in my loft with the new equipment I bought with good intentions. I researched online; I found the least expensive, quality equipment which I believed would give me the best workout ever. I wanted to buy the ProCor equipment, but it was out of my price range now that I was under employed and out of money. I wanted to look forward to 40 solid minutes of riding, or air walking, or stair-stepping my way to a better body; (and by all standards of American society) a better me.
Bigger tits, tighter hips;
smaller ass, fuller lips.
The reality was, I was still pissed that I could no longer afford what I wanted.
I spent the last 10 years doing what everyone told me was the right thing to do. I went to school every day. I worked hard. I got into a great college. I graduated and got a job in my field directly after the summer I traveled Europe to enlighten myself spiritually and learn about other cultures. I did charity work and truly believed in the system. Then I walked into my office one morning, like I always did; with coffee for my boss and a big-ass, greasy smile, happy to bust ass for ten to twelve hours that day because I was single and didn’t have the excuse of leaving promptly at five to pick up my kids. On my desk that morning was a note to come into the Director’s office. I was the Director’s Assistant, so realistically speaking, I should have typed up that note, but obviously I hadn’t. I put my blazer back on and set my coffee on the desk. I walked into my boss’s office to find her and the Assistant Director having a severe discussion over her huge, Texas sized desk. Her desk only stood out as so huge, because she was so tiny. Standing at about four feet eleven inches, I was sure if she laid down on the desk, from end to end, it would be at least one inch above and below her person.
I excused myself into the room and the Director motioned for me to sit down. There had been rumors of a transition coming soon, but everyone had brushed it off, “Even when that does happen, this office will not be affected directly. It will take years to change all the primary affected areas. There are too many principals in this geographic area.” And so on.
Today the principals must have been a bit more expendable. The Director pointed at my seat as I somehow still hadn’t found it. I sat down and prepared myself for the axe. What she said, draped in a coat of corporate b.s., was that due to the preeminent merger, our offices in Denver were being closed and all our positions moved to Houston, Texas. I didn’t hear much of what she said after that because I don’t do Texas. I knew my single life was not going to get any better in a state that was so proud to have the biggest everything. I was certain that for me that would mean the biggest ass, the biggest ego, and the biggest hair. Not so hot. To quote some brilliant superhero, my work here was done.
The reality for me; I loved my job, but not enough to move. I loved my personality and my city more. I loved the mountains. I loved skiing. I loved that I could walk from my job to my loft and to any Happy Hour within a 2 mile radius, and I could take the 16th Street Mall bus home if I needed to. My life was simple and I liked it that way.
This day changed my outlook. It didn’t matter that I took every right step to get here. It didn’t matter that I did everything right on the road to my career success. It simply didn’t matter because one guy, and a panel of his peers, decided my fate in a merger of equals. Move to Texas or your career here is over. Now the only thing I had control over was my stuff; my body, my mind, my hair, my breath. Through my actions I could take back a little bit of me every day. I controlled my workout, and if I didn’t feel like it I didn’t have to. But if I woke up with a second ass because I chose not to work out (and eat those extra helpings of mashed potatoes with butter and garlic that I loved so much), that was on me too. Maintaining control – that was my job now.
I wake up with overwhelming feelings of desire for the perfect body and the perfect smile, as if this would get my career back. These unrealistic requirements floating through my conscious being before I even smell my morning coffee…
Every
Single
Friggin'
Morning.
I looked forward to the morning when I could acknowledge the daylight sun before the words started coursing though my head – Just 40 minutes right now, an hour tomorrow. Just 100 sit ups right now – if you can just get out of bed. Turn on the fitness channel – you don’t have to go up to the loft yet. Just watch some other people exercise. You will be inspired. It’s too cold to work out. If it wasn’t so cold I’d be running right now. The clock reads 6:46. You’ve wasted 6 minutes thinking about bullshit. Get your uninspired, lazy ass out of this bed. I longed for the day I didn’t open my eyes and immediately touch my midsection. It always feels good to squeeze the middle section between the belly button and the hairline. It reminds me I’m not perfect. Everyone has imperfections. Compared to most, at least in this country, I have a great body. For my age and height, according to the American perception of what is acceptable for body fat, I’m just fine. The day I didn’t feel the compulsive need to touch it though, that would be a great day. When I didn’t have to prove to myself my imperfections made me lovable.
I hate when people tell me, “you have a great body for someone your age” – that’s too much like, “you’re the prettiest Black girl I know.” My high school days were filled with comments like this. Today, my initial response to these comments isn’t always so pleasant. Screw you! Bullshit superior fascists. Who told these self-appointed, commentators of life it is ok to classify, stereotype, and actually speak aloud – spewing vile, ignorant statements within earshot of other human beings? My favorite judges are the old men with short legs and pot bellies that hang over their tiny, shrunken, wanna-be penises that say, “Have you ever thought about getting your tits done?” Why yes, I think about it every single day I have to look past the perfectly fine tits I do have and can still see I’m getting less than five inches from you. At least if my tits were bigger, my view would be blocked, and I could fantasize about any one of my well-hung ex’s while rubbing myself to get off. Rubbing myself, only because I know in the back of my mind that time is limited before you pull out and I am left with nothing except the memory of you telling me that my tits are inadequate… even for you.
6 minutes have now passed and I’m still in bed. I reach under my head in search of the cool side of the pillow. I never felt the need to linger in bed until I started having sex. When I was in college I leapt from bed. I was super happy to be alive; happy to have awakened (away from home), without my parents asking me if I’ve had breakfast yet. I didn’t have to eat breakfast. No one cared. Thus, I did. One of the most important things I learned in college was no one cared what you did. If you didn’t show up for class, eventually you would get sent home, and then someone might care, but would the university? Nope, they had your money. If you developed anorexia, would anyone notice? Not unless you stopped paying your food bill or you ended up in Student Health and couldn’t pay for the over-apparent diagnosis. It all came down to the dollar. Did you have it or not? The almighty dollar; so important in the world and I knew nothing about it until I got to a place where that’s all anyone cared about. This is where I learned to appreciate our currency. Up until then my parents and grandparents made it so I never had to think about the dollar. It just was. I didn’t have to get up to worry about earning one.
Now, I felt the cool side of the pillow and once again realized I had no reason to get up. I wasn’t getting laid, and I had no purpose today, except to keep my body healthy and sexy. Healthy and sexy – that seemed like a blatant example everything that was wrong in our world. How could healthy be compared to sexy when sexy was stick-thin, in panties on the cover of a magazine? Healthy was apples and broccoli for kids who had nothing to eat. As thin as they were, the visual of a small child who had nothing but a grain of rice, but needed an apple, looked the farthest from sexy. Six feet tall with ribs showing, strapped in a lacy, black push-up and a thong vs. four feet tall with ribs showing in a pair of dirty underwear covered in flies. What’s healthy? Or sexy?
I rolled over - 9 minutes have passed and as the clock ticks I think about my day. One more job interview after 50 resumes that week. This had been my routine for 4 months now. I spent day after day networking, sending out resumes, and trying to set up meetings. Impressing people with my college education, I thought. Week after week went by with one interview here and there. The pillow was getting warm again. Reality was becoming clearer and clearer.
The phone rang. Who the hell calls anyone before 7 a.m.? It is an unidentified number so I don’t answer. It is now halfway feasible to get out of bed. Apparently other people are awake and somehow they know I am awake, so I must get out of bed to justify why I woke up so early. You had to have that third glass of wine. Today I will stop drinking. Well, I will stop drinking during the week. I will stop drinking more than one glass of wine with dinner. That’s it – one or two glasses of wine with dinner and that’s it - except for the weekends.
As I walk into the kitchen and start water for coffee I turn on the fitness channel. Tight little birds with great asses and perfect tits – I despise them and their early morning energy. If I was on an island in the Caribbean with a purr-fect little body, I might have the energy to jump up and down in the sand while smiling and never breaking a sweat. Not likely. Every time I have been on a sandy beach with a smile on my face it wasn’t because I woke up at the crack of dark to work out. More than likely, it was because I didn’t have to wake up until after 10 a.m. and my hangover from the ten glasses of sangria the night before was quickly relieved with a mid-morning Bloody Mary followed by a tall, cold foreign beer. Yes, and even better while lying on this heavenly beach, my smile grows as I still feel the throbbing between my legs from the hot vacation sex which lasted until 5 a.m. Yes, and now I can sleep peacefully knowing it will happen all over again when this sizzling, natural sun, which browns my body like French Toast with honey, sets again. Encore. Two more minutes have passed.
I turn on the water and walk back into my room where my equipment waits patiently. I can see the stair-stepper, shiny with new shocks, twinkle at me just wanting me to step on. If I step on once I will have to keep stepping. One step is all I need to get it going. The treadmill is folded up, as it has been since the day I brought it home. I unfolded it once to make sure it would fit into my room, then placed it gently up against the wall where I could look at it admiringly and think about all the great workouts I would have in the future. Always in the future. I love to run outdoors and it is subsequently disappointing to have to run indoors because of the cold air or the altitude – whatever my excuse is for not running outside in the winter. Alas, there sat the elliptical bike – this bike I have ridden one time and decided it was too boring to maintain my attention. I initially thought I would be able to read books and magazines as I rode, and even transported my Health and Fitness magazines up to the loft where this would be more feasible for me to remember to read while I worked out. Bring some enjoyment to my workout, or at least inspire myself with the hot bodies of other women who seemed to find the time to work out every day, and their bodies showed it. I could do it – I just needed motivation.
12 minutes have passed and I was still wandering around my condo looking for a reason not to work out. The water was boiling and I needed to pour my coffee, or maybe I’d have tea today – yes a chai latte, then I could save the $4 I usually spend every morning at Starbucks. This is why I bought the tea, so I could save some money. Then it became an issue wherein I reminded myself that I made enough money now to splurge on coffee and tea, so why shouldn’t I? Because it’s ridiculous, I tell myself again. I bought an entire box of Chai tea for $2.50, that’s about 10 or 12 servings, with non-fat milk that adds about $3 for a months worth of servings. Now it has become an issue of principle.
I opened up my laptop and ventured into my old routine. I signed into Instant Messenger, and then checked my emails and bank account. I then checked Facebook which was my favorite new addiction. Every since my roommates, the flight attendants that I lived with 2 years ago got me into this website; I couldn’t help logging on every day. I checked their pages for new information and pictures. It was a fabulous way for us to keep in touch without spending money on phone calls and travel. We could drop each other one-line notes without the hassle of an entire email. We have conned ourselves into believing that you aren’t always able think of enough things to say to require an entire email message and eventually figure it isn’t worth the effort of writing an email at all. One more depiction of where society has taken us. From visiting each other on Sundays, to horse drawn letter carriers, to email letters and forwarding news (and jokes) to the convenience of a single “comment”; it was the trendy new hotness. I loved the fact that I could pull up my friends site and toss a one liner on their front page which let them know I was thinking of them; kept them up to date on what I was up to, yet at the same time made me always unattainable; as everyone is in this world today, as we are all so damned busy.
Now that 15 minutes had passed and I realized the 25 minute workout I might get would, at most, be sub-standard, but it was better than nothing, I tossed on some shorts and a t-shirt. I then poured my tea and moved towards my CD collection. I needed some inspirational music to get me going; anything with a beat. I needed to buy one of those pre-made compilation tapes with 15 different songs all smoothed together to make the best workout tape ever. Maybe I should go online and sign up for one of those online music sites where I could download as many songs as possible and put them in a file strictly for workouts.
Note to self: find better workout music this week.
Young Jeezy or Fifty Cent – these are my options today. Bitches and Ho’s, money money money money. I have only recently started to pay attention to the words of these songs. I hear them over and over on the radio and in clubs. Usually so distracted with traffic… or a phone call… or getting a drink at the bar… or screaming over the music at my friends, I never really pay attention to the words. While working out I’ve become bored with the repetition of the movement, I start to listen to the lyrics and I begin to wonder…are these stories true? How much gangbanging and pimp-slappin’-a-bitch is really going on? Or are these just the grimy stories we need to hear to make the beat believable? Hip Hop had accomplished for music what the bad boy illusion had destroyed for good men. A rap sheet is not attractive. Yet, somehow we have duped ourselves, as a generation, into believing that overcoming a hard life, and having street cred(ibility) is equivalent to good music. Artists like Kurt Cobain tried this in the eighties with Grunge music, but being dirty isn’t very hot. Hip Hop artists got it right when they added champagne dreams and bling. The new formula for sexy seemed to be Bad Boys plus money – now this is what women like. Bad Boys have always had an appeal to women. From James Dean to Sean Combs, the concept of getting an unattainable man is what seemed dangerous yet so appealing. Women know they can’t change a man, but their egos won’t let them believe that this actually applies to them personally. The sizzle factor comes with believing that you are hot enough, smart enough, and sexy enough that even the most unattainable, aloof criminal could be yours. He represents the cool guy in school. He might as well be gay – that’s how unattainable this man is. To top it all off, we women actually have visions of changing them into suburban fathers and husbands. Yes, this is what’s tempting. What is wrong with us? Rap is the same notion. Bad Boys. To this I give credit to P. Daddy, Puff Diddy, whatever he’s calling himself these days. He’s hot. He represents a smooth businessman, but with Street Cred. He has built an empire on what’s appealing to women, to America. Talk about the dream.
I subliminally remind myself that I still have 20 minutes to “Bigger tits, tighter hips; smaller ass, fuller lips”.
20 minutes until I absolutely had to get ready for work. What if I went in a half hour late today? No one would probably even notice. I could stand to lose the extra money. For my health, yes, my mental health. I have to run to keep my head on straight. If I don’t work out I will go nuts. Me time is always valuable. My tea is getting cold. I wonder what the weather will be today. It looks kind of chilly. I’d love to wear a strapless dress today with a hot little sweater over it. I’ll just check the weather real quick on Good morning a.m. or whatever morning show has the tickertape weather running. Here was yet another indicator of the pace of our society. We can’t even sit down for a five minute weather report. We need a running ticker tape that we can peek up at while we talk on the phone, as we dress, and stuff our pie-holes in an attempt to squeeze in as much personal daily commitment into the smallest amount of time before being required to jet off to, no personal phone call, no personal email, no personal remnants of unique personality land. Eight to ten hours a day - pretending that the 9 to 5 is the only real thing in anyone’s life.
Traffic alert – good thing I turned on the TV, I wouldn’t have known to take Happy Canyon Road instead of the freeway today. Whew. 15 minutes until I have to jump in the shower. Maybe I could just do some squats right here in front of the television. One Two.. Damn, that kind of hurts. I need to stretch. Yeah, a good stretch is what I need. Just breathe in, breathe out. Stretch. Then I can do some squats. Or at least some sit ups while I’m down here. I have time for a hundred crunches. Then I’ll get up and do some squats.
The alarm on my cell phone reminds me that today I must meet with my mentor for lunch today to talk about his manuscript. I can’t wait to read it. He has been talking about writing again for the three years that I’ve known him and now he has a new book. I can barely wait. I love reading the work of my friends, not necessarily because I know it will be brilliant, but because they trust me to read it. But, this I know will be brilliant. There is a missed call and a voice message. I will just listen to this quickly before I get back on the floor and resume my workout.
My local movie rental company calls to remind me that I have a movie which has not been returned and in order to avoid being charged for the film, they would like to give me a couple more days to return it. How sweet. What movie? I forgot I rented a movie. Now I have to search for this movie before I get dressed so I don’t forget to take it with me to work. Oh, wait, I took this movie out to the car a couple days ago. It must be on the car. I will look when I leave for work. Note to self, if movie is not in car, find by tomorrow to return immediately.
12 minutes and counting – why bother? How about jumping rope? Jumping rope burns about 600 calories an hour, so I should be able to knock out 12 minutes and still burn about 150 calories. I’ll jump rope 12 minutes now and run for a half hour after work. I’ll still get 45 minutes of exercise in and that will be plenty. Tomorrow I’ll start all over. Where was my jump rope? If it was in the loft I can rotate between jumping rope and biking – that should make the biking part less boring. I will only do it for two to five minutes then I’ll switch back to the jump rope.
I ran towards the loft stairs and as I jumped on the second stair, eager now to get my 12 minutes of exercise in, I stubbed my toe on the stair and caught my big toe nail on the edge. “Faack ME!”
What else? I grabbed my toe and afraid to look at it because the pain was so intense, I hopped on one foot holding my toe tightly preventing any massive loss of blood which may have been imminent. I sat on the corner of my bed grimacing and holding, still terrified to look. Would my toenail fall off? This was one of my biggest fears. The chick without a nail on her big toe. I know there are worse things out there – being blind, deaf, dumb, but losing a big toenail seemed so devastating because it was so gross, and perhaps preventable. People had sympathy for those who were born or tragically afflicted with blindness or something as serious. A missing big toe nail with that gross, bumpy pink skin showing, which was usually hidden by the big toe nail, was neither anything that would invoke sympathy or something considered catastrophic. It was simply gross. At most it produced a feeling of stupidity for the imbecile who was dumb enough to do whatever it took to lose their big toe nail. That was me right now. The pain was starting to subside so I peeked slowly under my hand as I showed myself the toe. The nail was still there. The toe was beginning to purple under the nail, but it was still there. Thank God.
9 minutes and counting.
I went down to my car with my mental note at the forefront of my headspace, and looked quickly for my overdue video which had been tossed into the back seat. I reached to pick it up as I tossed my jacket and I could have thrown up as the title of the video stared my straight in the face. The title, “8 minutes to a perfect you” laughed at me as I started my car. So, I threw it back in the rear of the car where I would forget about it again for at least 24 more hours.
Bigger tits, tighter hips;
smaller ass, fuller lips.
The reality was, I was still pissed that I could no longer afford what I wanted.
I spent the last 10 years doing what everyone told me was the right thing to do. I went to school every day. I worked hard. I got into a great college. I graduated and got a job in my field directly after the summer I traveled Europe to enlighten myself spiritually and learn about other cultures. I did charity work and truly believed in the system. Then I walked into my office one morning, like I always did; with coffee for my boss and a big-ass, greasy smile, happy to bust ass for ten to twelve hours that day because I was single and didn’t have the excuse of leaving promptly at five to pick up my kids. On my desk that morning was a note to come into the Director’s office. I was the Director’s Assistant, so realistically speaking, I should have typed up that note, but obviously I hadn’t. I put my blazer back on and set my coffee on the desk. I walked into my boss’s office to find her and the Assistant Director having a severe discussion over her huge, Texas sized desk. Her desk only stood out as so huge, because she was so tiny. Standing at about four feet eleven inches, I was sure if she laid down on the desk, from end to end, it would be at least one inch above and below her person.
I excused myself into the room and the Director motioned for me to sit down. There had been rumors of a transition coming soon, but everyone had brushed it off, “Even when that does happen, this office will not be affected directly. It will take years to change all the primary affected areas. There are too many principals in this geographic area.” And so on.
Today the principals must have been a bit more expendable. The Director pointed at my seat as I somehow still hadn’t found it. I sat down and prepared myself for the axe. What she said, draped in a coat of corporate b.s., was that due to the preeminent merger, our offices in Denver were being closed and all our positions moved to Houston, Texas. I didn’t hear much of what she said after that because I don’t do Texas. I knew my single life was not going to get any better in a state that was so proud to have the biggest everything. I was certain that for me that would mean the biggest ass, the biggest ego, and the biggest hair. Not so hot. To quote some brilliant superhero, my work here was done.
The reality for me; I loved my job, but not enough to move. I loved my personality and my city more. I loved the mountains. I loved skiing. I loved that I could walk from my job to my loft and to any Happy Hour within a 2 mile radius, and I could take the 16th Street Mall bus home if I needed to. My life was simple and I liked it that way.
This day changed my outlook. It didn’t matter that I took every right step to get here. It didn’t matter that I did everything right on the road to my career success. It simply didn’t matter because one guy, and a panel of his peers, decided my fate in a merger of equals. Move to Texas or your career here is over. Now the only thing I had control over was my stuff; my body, my mind, my hair, my breath. Through my actions I could take back a little bit of me every day. I controlled my workout, and if I didn’t feel like it I didn’t have to. But if I woke up with a second ass because I chose not to work out (and eat those extra helpings of mashed potatoes with butter and garlic that I loved so much), that was on me too. Maintaining control – that was my job now.
I wake up with overwhelming feelings of desire for the perfect body and the perfect smile, as if this would get my career back. These unrealistic requirements floating through my conscious being before I even smell my morning coffee…
Every
Single
Friggin'
Morning.
I looked forward to the morning when I could acknowledge the daylight sun before the words started coursing though my head – Just 40 minutes right now, an hour tomorrow. Just 100 sit ups right now – if you can just get out of bed. Turn on the fitness channel – you don’t have to go up to the loft yet. Just watch some other people exercise. You will be inspired. It’s too cold to work out. If it wasn’t so cold I’d be running right now. The clock reads 6:46. You’ve wasted 6 minutes thinking about bullshit. Get your uninspired, lazy ass out of this bed. I longed for the day I didn’t open my eyes and immediately touch my midsection. It always feels good to squeeze the middle section between the belly button and the hairline. It reminds me I’m not perfect. Everyone has imperfections. Compared to most, at least in this country, I have a great body. For my age and height, according to the American perception of what is acceptable for body fat, I’m just fine. The day I didn’t feel the compulsive need to touch it though, that would be a great day. When I didn’t have to prove to myself my imperfections made me lovable.
I hate when people tell me, “you have a great body for someone your age” – that’s too much like, “you’re the prettiest Black girl I know.” My high school days were filled with comments like this. Today, my initial response to these comments isn’t always so pleasant. Screw you! Bullshit superior fascists. Who told these self-appointed, commentators of life it is ok to classify, stereotype, and actually speak aloud – spewing vile, ignorant statements within earshot of other human beings? My favorite judges are the old men with short legs and pot bellies that hang over their tiny, shrunken, wanna-be penises that say, “Have you ever thought about getting your tits done?” Why yes, I think about it every single day I have to look past the perfectly fine tits I do have and can still see I’m getting less than five inches from you. At least if my tits were bigger, my view would be blocked, and I could fantasize about any one of my well-hung ex’s while rubbing myself to get off. Rubbing myself, only because I know in the back of my mind that time is limited before you pull out and I am left with nothing except the memory of you telling me that my tits are inadequate… even for you.
6 minutes have now passed and I’m still in bed. I reach under my head in search of the cool side of the pillow. I never felt the need to linger in bed until I started having sex. When I was in college I leapt from bed. I was super happy to be alive; happy to have awakened (away from home), without my parents asking me if I’ve had breakfast yet. I didn’t have to eat breakfast. No one cared. Thus, I did. One of the most important things I learned in college was no one cared what you did. If you didn’t show up for class, eventually you would get sent home, and then someone might care, but would the university? Nope, they had your money. If you developed anorexia, would anyone notice? Not unless you stopped paying your food bill or you ended up in Student Health and couldn’t pay for the over-apparent diagnosis. It all came down to the dollar. Did you have it or not? The almighty dollar; so important in the world and I knew nothing about it until I got to a place where that’s all anyone cared about. This is where I learned to appreciate our currency. Up until then my parents and grandparents made it so I never had to think about the dollar. It just was. I didn’t have to get up to worry about earning one.
Now, I felt the cool side of the pillow and once again realized I had no reason to get up. I wasn’t getting laid, and I had no purpose today, except to keep my body healthy and sexy. Healthy and sexy – that seemed like a blatant example everything that was wrong in our world. How could healthy be compared to sexy when sexy was stick-thin, in panties on the cover of a magazine? Healthy was apples and broccoli for kids who had nothing to eat. As thin as they were, the visual of a small child who had nothing but a grain of rice, but needed an apple, looked the farthest from sexy. Six feet tall with ribs showing, strapped in a lacy, black push-up and a thong vs. four feet tall with ribs showing in a pair of dirty underwear covered in flies. What’s healthy? Or sexy?
I rolled over - 9 minutes have passed and as the clock ticks I think about my day. One more job interview after 50 resumes that week. This had been my routine for 4 months now. I spent day after day networking, sending out resumes, and trying to set up meetings. Impressing people with my college education, I thought. Week after week went by with one interview here and there. The pillow was getting warm again. Reality was becoming clearer and clearer.
The phone rang. Who the hell calls anyone before 7 a.m.? It is an unidentified number so I don’t answer. It is now halfway feasible to get out of bed. Apparently other people are awake and somehow they know I am awake, so I must get out of bed to justify why I woke up so early. You had to have that third glass of wine. Today I will stop drinking. Well, I will stop drinking during the week. I will stop drinking more than one glass of wine with dinner. That’s it – one or two glasses of wine with dinner and that’s it - except for the weekends.
As I walk into the kitchen and start water for coffee I turn on the fitness channel. Tight little birds with great asses and perfect tits – I despise them and their early morning energy. If I was on an island in the Caribbean with a purr-fect little body, I might have the energy to jump up and down in the sand while smiling and never breaking a sweat. Not likely. Every time I have been on a sandy beach with a smile on my face it wasn’t because I woke up at the crack of dark to work out. More than likely, it was because I didn’t have to wake up until after 10 a.m. and my hangover from the ten glasses of sangria the night before was quickly relieved with a mid-morning Bloody Mary followed by a tall, cold foreign beer. Yes, and even better while lying on this heavenly beach, my smile grows as I still feel the throbbing between my legs from the hot vacation sex which lasted until 5 a.m. Yes, and now I can sleep peacefully knowing it will happen all over again when this sizzling, natural sun, which browns my body like French Toast with honey, sets again. Encore. Two more minutes have passed.
I turn on the water and walk back into my room where my equipment waits patiently. I can see the stair-stepper, shiny with new shocks, twinkle at me just wanting me to step on. If I step on once I will have to keep stepping. One step is all I need to get it going. The treadmill is folded up, as it has been since the day I brought it home. I unfolded it once to make sure it would fit into my room, then placed it gently up against the wall where I could look at it admiringly and think about all the great workouts I would have in the future. Always in the future. I love to run outdoors and it is subsequently disappointing to have to run indoors because of the cold air or the altitude – whatever my excuse is for not running outside in the winter. Alas, there sat the elliptical bike – this bike I have ridden one time and decided it was too boring to maintain my attention. I initially thought I would be able to read books and magazines as I rode, and even transported my Health and Fitness magazines up to the loft where this would be more feasible for me to remember to read while I worked out. Bring some enjoyment to my workout, or at least inspire myself with the hot bodies of other women who seemed to find the time to work out every day, and their bodies showed it. I could do it – I just needed motivation.
12 minutes have passed and I was still wandering around my condo looking for a reason not to work out. The water was boiling and I needed to pour my coffee, or maybe I’d have tea today – yes a chai latte, then I could save the $4 I usually spend every morning at Starbucks. This is why I bought the tea, so I could save some money. Then it became an issue wherein I reminded myself that I made enough money now to splurge on coffee and tea, so why shouldn’t I? Because it’s ridiculous, I tell myself again. I bought an entire box of Chai tea for $2.50, that’s about 10 or 12 servings, with non-fat milk that adds about $3 for a months worth of servings. Now it has become an issue of principle.
I opened up my laptop and ventured into my old routine. I signed into Instant Messenger, and then checked my emails and bank account. I then checked Facebook which was my favorite new addiction. Every since my roommates, the flight attendants that I lived with 2 years ago got me into this website; I couldn’t help logging on every day. I checked their pages for new information and pictures. It was a fabulous way for us to keep in touch without spending money on phone calls and travel. We could drop each other one-line notes without the hassle of an entire email. We have conned ourselves into believing that you aren’t always able think of enough things to say to require an entire email message and eventually figure it isn’t worth the effort of writing an email at all. One more depiction of where society has taken us. From visiting each other on Sundays, to horse drawn letter carriers, to email letters and forwarding news (and jokes) to the convenience of a single “comment”; it was the trendy new hotness. I loved the fact that I could pull up my friends site and toss a one liner on their front page which let them know I was thinking of them; kept them up to date on what I was up to, yet at the same time made me always unattainable; as everyone is in this world today, as we are all so damned busy.
Now that 15 minutes had passed and I realized the 25 minute workout I might get would, at most, be sub-standard, but it was better than nothing, I tossed on some shorts and a t-shirt. I then poured my tea and moved towards my CD collection. I needed some inspirational music to get me going; anything with a beat. I needed to buy one of those pre-made compilation tapes with 15 different songs all smoothed together to make the best workout tape ever. Maybe I should go online and sign up for one of those online music sites where I could download as many songs as possible and put them in a file strictly for workouts.
Note to self: find better workout music this week.
Young Jeezy or Fifty Cent – these are my options today. Bitches and Ho’s, money money money money. I have only recently started to pay attention to the words of these songs. I hear them over and over on the radio and in clubs. Usually so distracted with traffic… or a phone call… or getting a drink at the bar… or screaming over the music at my friends, I never really pay attention to the words. While working out I’ve become bored with the repetition of the movement, I start to listen to the lyrics and I begin to wonder…are these stories true? How much gangbanging and pimp-slappin’-a-bitch is really going on? Or are these just the grimy stories we need to hear to make the beat believable? Hip Hop had accomplished for music what the bad boy illusion had destroyed for good men. A rap sheet is not attractive. Yet, somehow we have duped ourselves, as a generation, into believing that overcoming a hard life, and having street cred(ibility) is equivalent to good music. Artists like Kurt Cobain tried this in the eighties with Grunge music, but being dirty isn’t very hot. Hip Hop artists got it right when they added champagne dreams and bling. The new formula for sexy seemed to be Bad Boys plus money – now this is what women like. Bad Boys have always had an appeal to women. From James Dean to Sean Combs, the concept of getting an unattainable man is what seemed dangerous yet so appealing. Women know they can’t change a man, but their egos won’t let them believe that this actually applies to them personally. The sizzle factor comes with believing that you are hot enough, smart enough, and sexy enough that even the most unattainable, aloof criminal could be yours. He represents the cool guy in school. He might as well be gay – that’s how unattainable this man is. To top it all off, we women actually have visions of changing them into suburban fathers and husbands. Yes, this is what’s tempting. What is wrong with us? Rap is the same notion. Bad Boys. To this I give credit to P. Daddy, Puff Diddy, whatever he’s calling himself these days. He’s hot. He represents a smooth businessman, but with Street Cred. He has built an empire on what’s appealing to women, to America. Talk about the dream.
I subliminally remind myself that I still have 20 minutes to “Bigger tits, tighter hips; smaller ass, fuller lips”.
20 minutes until I absolutely had to get ready for work. What if I went in a half hour late today? No one would probably even notice. I could stand to lose the extra money. For my health, yes, my mental health. I have to run to keep my head on straight. If I don’t work out I will go nuts. Me time is always valuable. My tea is getting cold. I wonder what the weather will be today. It looks kind of chilly. I’d love to wear a strapless dress today with a hot little sweater over it. I’ll just check the weather real quick on Good morning a.m. or whatever morning show has the tickertape weather running. Here was yet another indicator of the pace of our society. We can’t even sit down for a five minute weather report. We need a running ticker tape that we can peek up at while we talk on the phone, as we dress, and stuff our pie-holes in an attempt to squeeze in as much personal daily commitment into the smallest amount of time before being required to jet off to, no personal phone call, no personal email, no personal remnants of unique personality land. Eight to ten hours a day - pretending that the 9 to 5 is the only real thing in anyone’s life.
Traffic alert – good thing I turned on the TV, I wouldn’t have known to take Happy Canyon Road instead of the freeway today. Whew. 15 minutes until I have to jump in the shower. Maybe I could just do some squats right here in front of the television. One Two.. Damn, that kind of hurts. I need to stretch. Yeah, a good stretch is what I need. Just breathe in, breathe out. Stretch. Then I can do some squats. Or at least some sit ups while I’m down here. I have time for a hundred crunches. Then I’ll get up and do some squats.
The alarm on my cell phone reminds me that today I must meet with my mentor for lunch today to talk about his manuscript. I can’t wait to read it. He has been talking about writing again for the three years that I’ve known him and now he has a new book. I can barely wait. I love reading the work of my friends, not necessarily because I know it will be brilliant, but because they trust me to read it. But, this I know will be brilliant. There is a missed call and a voice message. I will just listen to this quickly before I get back on the floor and resume my workout.
My local movie rental company calls to remind me that I have a movie which has not been returned and in order to avoid being charged for the film, they would like to give me a couple more days to return it. How sweet. What movie? I forgot I rented a movie. Now I have to search for this movie before I get dressed so I don’t forget to take it with me to work. Oh, wait, I took this movie out to the car a couple days ago. It must be on the car. I will look when I leave for work. Note to self, if movie is not in car, find by tomorrow to return immediately.
12 minutes and counting – why bother? How about jumping rope? Jumping rope burns about 600 calories an hour, so I should be able to knock out 12 minutes and still burn about 150 calories. I’ll jump rope 12 minutes now and run for a half hour after work. I’ll still get 45 minutes of exercise in and that will be plenty. Tomorrow I’ll start all over. Where was my jump rope? If it was in the loft I can rotate between jumping rope and biking – that should make the biking part less boring. I will only do it for two to five minutes then I’ll switch back to the jump rope.
I ran towards the loft stairs and as I jumped on the second stair, eager now to get my 12 minutes of exercise in, I stubbed my toe on the stair and caught my big toe nail on the edge. “Faack ME!”
What else? I grabbed my toe and afraid to look at it because the pain was so intense, I hopped on one foot holding my toe tightly preventing any massive loss of blood which may have been imminent. I sat on the corner of my bed grimacing and holding, still terrified to look. Would my toenail fall off? This was one of my biggest fears. The chick without a nail on her big toe. I know there are worse things out there – being blind, deaf, dumb, but losing a big toenail seemed so devastating because it was so gross, and perhaps preventable. People had sympathy for those who were born or tragically afflicted with blindness or something as serious. A missing big toe nail with that gross, bumpy pink skin showing, which was usually hidden by the big toe nail, was neither anything that would invoke sympathy or something considered catastrophic. It was simply gross. At most it produced a feeling of stupidity for the imbecile who was dumb enough to do whatever it took to lose their big toe nail. That was me right now. The pain was starting to subside so I peeked slowly under my hand as I showed myself the toe. The nail was still there. The toe was beginning to purple under the nail, but it was still there. Thank God.
9 minutes and counting.
I went down to my car with my mental note at the forefront of my headspace, and looked quickly for my overdue video which had been tossed into the back seat. I reached to pick it up as I tossed my jacket and I could have thrown up as the title of the video stared my straight in the face. The title, “8 minutes to a perfect you” laughed at me as I started my car. So, I threw it back in the rear of the car where I would forget about it again for at least 24 more hours.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Interviewing
I played a game this weekend called "Apples to Apples". I had no idea how to play it, had never even heard of it before, yet after this game, I knew this game was to be a staple in my household. It's funny and inventive - the premise being a verb or adjective is pulled from a stack of cards and each player, who is holding 7 nouns at all times, must place the noun they feel best fits the verb (or adjective) in a pile. The player whose turn it is then decides which noun best fits the verb (or adjective).
Now there are some very funny ways this could go down, some very silly combinations, and some just plain sick.
I have been in the process of interviewing for numerous jobs lately, and this has weighed heavily on my mind. During the game, the verb "forgettable" came up and I immediately remembered I had the noun combo "job interview" in my hand. I giggled at first, then I became sullen as I realized how many interviews I had been on already and how many were, in fact, already forgotten.
Urgh, then I wondered if any of these people ever thought about me again after I walked out that door.
I won that hand.
Now there are some very funny ways this could go down, some very silly combinations, and some just plain sick.
I have been in the process of interviewing for numerous jobs lately, and this has weighed heavily on my mind. During the game, the verb "forgettable" came up and I immediately remembered I had the noun combo "job interview" in my hand. I giggled at first, then I became sullen as I realized how many interviews I had been on already and how many were, in fact, already forgotten.
Urgh, then I wondered if any of these people ever thought about me again after I walked out that door.
I won that hand.
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