The Big D (and I don't mean me)

For the past week and a half, I have been reading a non-fiction book by Mary Roach called Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers which describes all the different uses (scientific and otherwise) for the lifeless human form. If it sounds grotesque that's because it is. I spend most of my time reading with a horrified (and fascinated) look on my face. I started reading it as an attempt to shock my psyche into a familiarity with death, to confront head-on that which I am afraid of and, for once in my life an idea of mine is working the way I planned and it is doing just that.

While sitting in Symphony Hall on Friday listening to the Brahms Requiem, I thought, "In a hundred years, everyone in this building will be dead." There was no fear (well not just then) but wonder at the fragility of skin, organs, breath, the body as a whole. Now, don't get me wrong, I was scared a moment later (and that moment of courage could have been rooted in the fact that I did not really love anyone in the hall), but for the millisecond it took for the thought to form in my mind, death was just something that happened. It wasn't scary; it was simply the evolution of time, huge and full of chaos. I was completely diminished and relieved to be so. 

Penny asked me today if I've always been obsessed with death, and I suppose it is a more recent development. I am aware of the expiring of my body, my parents' bodies, my brother's body... I have spent so much time trying to not to think about that which begins to happen from the moment we reach adulthood.

But Walt Whitman says: 

"What do you think has become of the young and old men?

And what do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere.

The smallest sprout shows that there is really no death

and if ever there was, it led forward life

and does not wait at the end to arrest it

and cease the moment life appeared.

All goes onward and outward.

Nothing collapses.

And to die is different from what anyone supposed

And luckier."

Apparently, reading about cadavers being crashed in cars to test air bags, being blown up to test land mine foot protection, rotting in a field in order to study human decomposition for forensic purposes, or being dissected in medical school labs makes me think... what a delicate and brave thing is a human being.

Of Adulthood and Finances

As an adult, I am realizing that there are certain necessities that warrant the spending of a decent amount of money: i.e. haircuts, shoes with proper arch support, work clothes (because you've been wearing the same pair of black pants every other day for almost two weeks). We're not talking about the expensive purse buying or the excessive book and movie purchasing in which I have been known to indulge. I am talking about the basic effects that a person needs to be comfortable in this life. But unfortunately, while in my early twenties, I spent a spectacular amount of fake money on crap I didn't need hence acquiring a butt load of credit card debt that I never really paid attention to until the grand total equalled a poor man's yearly salary. 

I feel sometimes like my whole past is this debt, something I want to eradicate, but something I have to live with everyday, paying it off in small increments even though it was accrued over the course of only a couple of years. I feel like the good decisions I want to make for my life now (for example, shoes that I can stand in and walk in without hurting my feet or legs or back) are jaded by the decisions I made then. It would be nice to be able to spend $110 on a pair of really good shoes but can I really justify that in relation to my debt? 

The problem here is that the $110 I spent four years ago probably amounts to one quarter interest, a really expensive dinner at the Cheesecake Factory (which I have now realized is a TOTAL sham of a restaurant; if I wanted to consume 10,000 calories I would eat food that actually has taste versus that generic American bulk food they sell), and a night out drinking. And there it is. The shoes that would keep my knees from hurting I can't buy because I already spent that money 4 years ago on shitty food and a couple of drinks. 

I sometimes wish I could relive parts of my life with the knowledge I have now. I've been fat long enough  to have forgotten when it really became an issue and so there is no palpable regret there. Also, though the decisions I made then in regards to food haunt me in the way of stretch marks, cellulite and repressed sexuality, I have joined a weight loss group that allows me to micromanage my eating into weeks (even days when it feels especially hard), leaving very little room for shame. But money...

Even now, when I attempt to not spend needlessly, to return things I don't need or love, to spend more money at the grocery store and less at restaurants, I find I am having to choose between making good decisions now or paying for the decisions of my past. My relationship with money is such a delicate balance of letting go, holding on, releasing, forgiving, spending, returning and sometimes, just having to eat the shit I served myself. 

I want to buy good shoes. But someday I also want to be able to save to buy a house, and I can't do that until the credit card debt is paid off. But how much will the house mean if I fucked up my body wearing shitty shoes? If I had continued in the trend of my earlier blogs I would've called this one, "WANTED: Easy Answers." But unfortunately for my knees and my future home, I am pretty sure the easy type of answer doesn't exist.

Not-so-little Debbie in a small coat

Now when I call myself "Little Debbie" I don't mean that I am literally small. Though I am short, I would not call my stature (not to mention any other part of my body or spirit) "diminutive" by any means. But in the midst of an on going love relationship with Weight Watchers, I have found almost 10% of myself to have disappeared into an oblivion and am now stuck with the joyful (though somewhat annoying) task of finding clothes that fit. Now the problem with being "in transition" in terms of my weight is that it is not wise to buy too many of anything, due to the expectation of being 5-8 pounds smaller in the course of the next couple of months. This leaves me with one pair of jeans and two pairs of dress pants that have to be re worn enough times for me to utilize the 10,000 pairs of underpants I must go through before deciding it is finally time to visit the Laundromat. Blouses are a little more forgiving, but clothes that are even slightly too big make one feel and look pretty frumpy. 

Now as a devout "fat kid," which I have been almost my whole life, I know the rule. To look your best you must wear clothes that fit (not too big, not too small) which is made difficult by the boxy clothes worn by most thin women that stores such as Macy's and Old Navy just make bigger to accommodate the plus sizes. Then you have stores such as Sears or Lord and Taylor that think all big women want to wear is caftans and sweatpants (very expensive sweatpants) and Lane Bryant which sells its beautiful, albeit cheaply-made, clothes at ridiculous prices because they (and we) know that they are the only store where young, fat, aspiring fashionistas can shop.

So in addition to being a clothes minded Goldilocks, I, as a larger lady, have my own personal rule as well: NEVER, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, buy clothes that you cannot wear out of the store, meaning NEVER, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES buy clothes that are too small in order to motivate you to lose weight. 

And today, my friends, I broke my own cardinal rule. I purchased a coat that was too small. Now I suppose it is not as small as it could be. It fits in the shoulders and I can button the buttons. It doesn't look too bad actually, but the fact of the matter is, I know it is too small. I, of course, left the tags on and the coat hangs over the chair in my room, a dead weight of shame. It really is a beautiful coat (camel colored wool, pretty collar, big bell sleeves), but it the principle of the thing. I, being a terrible judge of weight, have no idea how much weight I would need to lose for this coat to fit the way I would want. Ten pounds is doable, but twenty? If I have to lose 20 lbs. to fit into the stupid thing is it even worth it? I don't even know!! I am at a loss, not really because of the coat, but because of the idea of a future that I never had really imagined feasible for me: a future in which I could shop in more than three stores, where my normal sized friends and I could shop at the same stores, where my doctor doesn't lecture me about weight loss, where I don't feel like the fat kid at Yoga class. I understand I will still never be diminutive, but I could be on the big side of average.

Up until I was 22, I would use the phrase, "well, when I get skinny..." you know, I won't wear mini-skirts, I'll still only shop at Marshalls etc. but when I turned 23 the phrase changed to "if I ever decide to lose weight" because from my vantage point it didn't look like it would ever be something I would ever feel ready to do.

But here I am on the other side of 25 pounds feeling... lost. I mean, don't get me wrong, I feel joy and pride too, but I have been fat my entire life, and even when I wasn't so fat, I still thought I was, and so I feel like I am losing, not just weight, but a whole part of my identity. And to buy a coat that is pretty snug with the intention to fit into it, goes against every fiber of my fat kid being, because even after 20 pounds I wonder if something could still go terribly wrong. And to have a coat that I love, a coat that is not just a coat but a physical representation of my hopes for myself... oh the possibilities for disappointment are endless.

So I will do one of two things: 

1) I will return the coat next weekend and rue the day I ever thought I could go against my much ingrained fat kid nature

or 

2) I will keep the coat (with the tags still on) until it either fits or I need the money I spent on it to buy groceries.

In the wake of feeling threatened...

So tonight, while walking home, I was followed by a woman who I'm pretty sure was on drugs. She was following very close behind me for two blocks, so I called Jan, making sure someone knew where I was, and then turned around and asked, "Are you following me?"

"We're cool. We're friends."

"I've never met you before in my life."

"No. We used to live together. In Southie."

"I've never lived in Southie."

"We're in Southie."

"No, this is East Cambridge."

"Oh. But we're cool."

"No, if you want to get to Southie you need to take a bus."

"How do I get there?"

"The bus terminal is down that street. Walk down this street and it will be on your right."

"Oh."

And I watched her walk away, and then walked home, looking constantly over my shoulder.

It was a strange (and slightly humorous) interaction that could have happened anywhere, and I am almost positive the woman was harmless, but it is the first time I have really felt threatened in my neighborhood. And I don't like it, because of course I want to feel safe near my home, but mostly because that brief moment of fear has exposed all my secret prejudices. This was a twenty something white woman, and the fact that I am surprised by how scared I was of her and that I noticed she was a twenty something white woman, just goes to show you the kinds of people of whom I think I should be afraid walking down the street at midnight on a Friday. 

How shameful of me. 

WANTED: Voyeurs

I have to admit, I've been feeling kind of silly and embarrassed by this blog. I haven't told most people that I am even writing one, even though I LOVE composing each post and reading all of my friends'. There is something intoxicating about being able to watch people's lives from some distance. I track my friends blogs, and though I track them as myself, they don't write those thoughts for me, but for a public. I like reading the formed thoughts: edited, re-read, spell checked. I am finding that the people I love are even funnier, more intelligent and more eloquent than I knew, and I love being a part of their audience. It's like watching a one man show: something intimate and anonymous.

When I see Penny performing on stage, as she is the person who I am lucky enough to see on stage more than any other, I feel like I know her best in those moments. And perhaps that is true for all artists: one's best self emerges when he or she is acting, composing, painting, consciously aware of each movement of the hand, each tremble in the voice, each sweep of color, not with judgment, but with simple sight.

In the movie, Shortbus, by the ridiculously brilliant John Cameron Mitchell (who wrote and directed Hedwig), it is said that, "Voyeurism is involvement." I think this means that to simply watch, to pay attention (thanks Iris Murdoch!) is the epitomical way to be inside the world, to be one's self, to love and to affect change. And I also think it means that to be involved in another's life you have to watch them as if they were your favorite movie, with love and attention. I, for one, feel that no experience I've had was really anything until I told someone else about it (hence the reason everyone knows I peed myself while sleeping in Gretchen's bed at Tanglewood).

Last night, while bouncing Gretchen and Eric's wee Philip to sleep on the exercise ball, Philip kept staring at the light fixture on the ceiling. Eric says it is because the fixture looks like a nipple but I think (I hope) that he is just looking to look. He is too little to do anything about what he sees; his body is not yet ready to reach for it, so all he does is look. I tried it when I fell asleep last night. Just staring at the ceiling. I felt comforted, because there it was. The ceiling. And there I was, eyes open, alive to see it.

WANTED: Back Purse

I have back pain. It's true. And I carry a lot of stuff in my purse. Also true. But I need it all. I need giant sunglasses to cover my allergy eyes, and I need a giant case to make sure the giant lenses don't get scratched. I need my planner because I have a terrible memory. I need my pencil case because it contains my allergy medicine, lactose pills, anti-diarrhea medication, my lip gloss, hair clips for when my hair gets in my eyes and a spare tampon. I need my wallet because you never know when I might need ANY of the numerous frequent buyer cards stored there in. I need my cell phone, just in case I miss the bus and have to call Jan. And I need my waterbottle because when I get dehydrated I get headaches and become very cranky. And all of this puts about 10 lbs. of weight on my right shoulder. It is also true that I love my current purse (because it is probably the best purse ever made by man's hands) and that I have a firm belief in one's right to look hip, not be in pain, AND carry all 10 lbs. of one's much needed effects.

So my brother says, "Deb, you should carry a backpack." And I think, "Well that's an idea! That would at least equally distribute the 10 lbs. onto both my shoulders, hence reducing the aggravation of my self-diagnosed scoliosis. I'll just find a backpack that is cute." But after many adventures in Macy's, Urban Outfitters, Filenes and Marshalls, I've come to this conclusion: back packs aren't cute. And backpacks aren't like dogs, where sometimes they are so ugly, they're cute. The ugly ones are just ugly. And the cute ones are ugly too.

So there I am, Marshalls closes at 9pm, it is 8:55 and I find a backpack/purse that could do. So I buy it, knowing I can return it if need be. I carry it around, price tag flapping in the wind, get home, put it on my desk, get ready for bed, and then, while in the midst of my pre-slumber meditation I think, "That is the ugliest and stupidest purse ever," and I resolve to return it on my lunch break today.

I relate this to my life as a whole in the following way: life is too short to carry an ugly purse, no matter how much better it makes your back feel. I would rather have my back hurt than my soul.

Louis Vuitton and still ugly.




Ugly cause it's a backpack but the dog is cute.



Best purse ever made my man's hands

WANTED: Pair of Pants

When I lived in California, the temperature always coincided with the climate: meaning 90 degrees = sunny, 50 degrees = cloudy. So when I look at my weather report this morning and it says "high of 86 degrees," my logical response is, "oh yes... sunny, summery weather." So what do I do? I wear a sunny, summery skirt. During the day, a work friend of mine invites me to attend a Red Sox game with her that evening, so I resolve to go home during my lunch to change into some pants and a jacket, just in case it gets cold. But at 1pm, when I try to exit my office I meet with a torrential down pour. I cannot imagine anyone playing anything in such weather, so I opt out of going home and instead eat lunch and then waste a colossal amount of time waiting in line at the bank. But, unfortunately, my California imagination doesn't fly in New England. Which means the game is going on as planned. Which means here I am, with a summery black and white skirt, a short sleeved black blouse, and a bad ass ticket to a Red Sox game on a VERY rainy evening. What's a girl to do?

I wonder occassionally at my own view of preparedness: if it is really ever possible to be ready for the best and worst experiences of one's life. And it is all well and good to say, "Carpe Diem," or "Tomorrow will take care of itself," or "His eye is on the Sparrow," but this is not the point. The point is that I wish I wore pants today; I wish I looked at the hour by hour weather instead of just the highs and lows; I wish I had really thought about what I wanted in a career before I took this job; I wish that love was something you could find if you looked hard enough; and more than anything in the world, I wish that people wouldn't die.

So what will I do? I will take a breath, filling my lungs with all those wishes, and I will take my bad ass Red Sox ticket and my summery skirt to Fenway Park, where I will buy myself a $50 Red Sox Sweatshirt, yell "YOOOOOOOOOOOUK!" at the top of my lungs, a $9 guiness in one hand, and a bag of 2,000 calorie kettlecorn in the other, and sing my heart out to "Sweet Caroline," even if it was inspired by a 9 year old girl.