“My calves are huge,” Leslie, who wears a size 4, said as she shimmied her foot into a tall boot.
“Oh yeah, they’re fucking enormous,” I responded from another corner of the cramped balcony housing the sale shoes. “Like, I don’t know how you lumber around with those things.”
I tossed a pair of purple, patent, Tory Burch pumps back in the box and collapsed on a velvet armchair shoved under a dormer.
Leslie continued to rifle through the shoes. She modeled a Marc Jacobs bootie. She pondered a Christian Lacroix skimmer. I oohed and ahhed at the options. But mostly I tried to hush the mumbling in my head.
“Every woman hates her thighs,” a friend once said when I confessed the way I dislike my appearance.
“Right, but I think about it all the time.”
“So do I,” she said.
We both fell silent and returned our attention to our cups of artisan gelato, the tiny plastic shovel-spoons, and the joint confession hovering above it all.
I don’t want to sound crazy, or argue that my shit is worse than yours, but I totally hear voices in my head. It’s like background music that I can’t turn off, though I do try to ignore it. Except blocking it out takes more effort than just letting it play on a continuous loop. My old therapist referred to the voices as a soundtrack.
“If someone repeatedly told a child she’ll never play a violin, what’s the likelihood that kid will ever believe she can?”
In my head I started wishing I had been told I’d never be able to play a violin. That’s a false failure I’d be happy to live with. Standing in the fitting room at Saks, naked from the waist down as I accept the reality that I’m not built for skinny anything, an inability to play the violin wouldn’t stare back at me, taunting and laughing through the haze of poor lighting.
Last week, a full four months after my old gym membership lapsed, I walked into the new LA Fitness around the corner and signed on the dotted line.
“Do you have a special occasion coming up that you want to get into shape for?” a trainer asked from the other side of the desk.
“Um, no.”
“Like, a wedding or high school reunion? Something in the near future.”
I’m all for honesty but I knew this wasn’t the venue to announce, “I’m trying to hate my appearance a little less.” So I just sat there quietly thinking, dude, how can you be two feet away from me and not see what I see?
After a few seconds he smiled. Not in that oh-now-I-get-what-you’re-talking-about kind of way. But a warm friendly smile that, for a brief moment, silenced the voices in my head. I smiled back, exhaling at the same time. And then he kicked my ass all over the gym.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Because Life Should Be Lived
For the most part, I wouldn’t describe myself as a risk-taker. That isn’t to say my life lacks spontaneity. Or that I refuse to do things that might seem scary or a tad left of center. But then again, we all live by a different definition of adventure.
“Wait, you go to dinner alone?” a guy once asked in disbelief.
“Sure,” I answered, not grasping how reading a New Yorker while enjoying a plate of damn good food could seem so daring. “Sometimes I even drive over the speed limit,” I added.
Then there was the time I traveled to Ecuador solo. I hired a guide to show me the open market in Otavalo and to hike me up Cotopaxi, a breathtaking, snow-capped volcano. Also, for a few nights I joined other travelers on a boat that hopped around the Galapagos. I did it all on my own and to this day I consider that trip one of the best I have ever taken.
“I could never do that,” a friend admitted as she flipped through my photographs of blue footed boobies.
But there are things I’d never consider experiencing. Okay, maybe there aren’t. Because as I struggled to formulate a list of risky activities I’d completely avoid, the only ones I could come up with were snorting cocaine and robbing a bank. And both of those are really more stupid than adventurous.
“This is crazy,” I said to Leslie. We were both in borrowed skydiving suits and lying face down on a filthy rug in a hangar at an airport that identified a long grassy patch as the runway.
“Pop!” an instructor said. In sync, Leslie and I arched our backs and lifted our legs as high as they would go while reaching our chins toward the corrugated metal ceiling.
“Hold it,” the instructor added as a dog wandered by, ignorant to the two girls positioned like dying fish.
“Perfect! Now do it three more times and we’ll get you into your harnesses.”
Eight of us climbed into a double-prop plane outfitted for people who prefer to jump out than stay in. My instructor tightened the straps on my harness, connected me to him, and relayed what was about to occur.
“Then, at 13,000 feet, we’ll go out.”
None of what happened next made sense: the act of waddling in tandem toward the open hatch of a perfectly fine plane; the speed with which Leslie fell out of view as she dropped through the sky; or the sereneness I felt as my instructor counted to three and pushed us out.
The wind ripped at my face, making it hard to breathe. The instructor wrapped his arms around to signal two thumbs up. The plastic goggles pressed against my skin with unbelievable force. And then I noticed the orange groves and strawberry farms below and the Tampa skyline and gulf waters in the distance. As crazy as it might seem, it all made sense.
“Wait, you go to dinner alone?” a guy once asked in disbelief.
“Sure,” I answered, not grasping how reading a New Yorker while enjoying a plate of damn good food could seem so daring. “Sometimes I even drive over the speed limit,” I added.
Then there was the time I traveled to Ecuador solo. I hired a guide to show me the open market in Otavalo and to hike me up Cotopaxi, a breathtaking, snow-capped volcano. Also, for a few nights I joined other travelers on a boat that hopped around the Galapagos. I did it all on my own and to this day I consider that trip one of the best I have ever taken.
“I could never do that,” a friend admitted as she flipped through my photographs of blue footed boobies.
But there are things I’d never consider experiencing. Okay, maybe there aren’t. Because as I struggled to formulate a list of risky activities I’d completely avoid, the only ones I could come up with were snorting cocaine and robbing a bank. And both of those are really more stupid than adventurous.
“This is crazy,” I said to Leslie. We were both in borrowed skydiving suits and lying face down on a filthy rug in a hangar at an airport that identified a long grassy patch as the runway.
“Pop!” an instructor said. In sync, Leslie and I arched our backs and lifted our legs as high as they would go while reaching our chins toward the corrugated metal ceiling.
“Hold it,” the instructor added as a dog wandered by, ignorant to the two girls positioned like dying fish.
“Perfect! Now do it three more times and we’ll get you into your harnesses.”
Eight of us climbed into a double-prop plane outfitted for people who prefer to jump out than stay in. My instructor tightened the straps on my harness, connected me to him, and relayed what was about to occur.
“Then, at 13,000 feet, we’ll go out.”
None of what happened next made sense: the act of waddling in tandem toward the open hatch of a perfectly fine plane; the speed with which Leslie fell out of view as she dropped through the sky; or the sereneness I felt as my instructor counted to three and pushed us out.
The wind ripped at my face, making it hard to breathe. The instructor wrapped his arms around to signal two thumbs up. The plastic goggles pressed against my skin with unbelievable force. And then I noticed the orange groves and strawberry farms below and the Tampa skyline and gulf waters in the distance. As crazy as it might seem, it all made sense.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Your Move
The other day I was asked why I’m still available. At first I was confused. Because the word “available” made me think of a line of customers at Marshall’s or TJ Maxx, a stream of people awaiting their turn to hear that computerized voice and directional sign announce “Register three is available.”
“Wait, do you mean, like, why am I still single?” I asked as I rolled onto my side, glanced at the alarm clock and adjusted the phone against my ear.
“Yes,” Alaska answered.
It’s rare he asks me to reveal myself. Usually it’s the other way around. He’s the quiet one. He’s the guarded one. I’m the person who blabs my secrets to the stranger sitting next to me on the train. I’m the person who publicly admits my foibles and downfalls for the entire world to read, to judge, to embrace.
“How long have we known each other? Four years?” I asked.
“Four and some change.”
“Okay, well, I spent the first two or three years believing we’d end up together.”
I added a few more random statements that simply circled the initial answer. And then we somehow transitioned to a discussion about men and the fact that most of them have no clue about how to give good head.
When the call ended, I set the phone on the nightstand and turned my gaze toward the window. Through the wooden slats of the blinds, I studied the sliver of a moon and the dark night sky it hung against. Then I turned my attention to the ceiling and watched the fan blades slowly spinning like a tired propeller. It was almost three o’clock in the morning when I finally fell asleep.
The following afternoon, just shy of leaving the office, I started writing Alaska an email. I wanted to let him know I had downloaded the app necessary for me to kick his ass in Lexulous. But mostly I wanted to elaborate, give the full answer to the question about me still being available.
I confirmed that my original statement was correct. But for the balance of knowing him, for the last two years, I have been struggling to get my footing. I had dated someone else in early 2008 and, though my heart wasn’t broken, I came out the other side of that relationship overwhelmed by how easily I had been manipulated. My vulnerabilities and weaknesses had been blatantly exploited. And so I have spent the last two years trying to understand how I played a part in that debacle and then finding ways to alter my behavior, my thinking, my wants.
“I feel like a player without a playbook,” I noted in my email before clicking send.
I didn’t say any of that for Alaska’s sake. I shared what I did because, for me, owning your truth, being able to articulate who you really are, is the only way to fix the flaws. Otherwise you’re just dancing around a reality that in fact dictates where you place your feet and who you partner with as you waltz across the dance floor.
Alaska didn’t respond to the email. Instead, I received a notice on my phone that he had played a move in Lexulous. Using the C from my first word - COOP worth 22 points - he built CREATIVE. It was worth 50 points. It was a nice start that quickly put me behind. But I wasn’t intimidated. You can’t let one play knock you out of the game.
“Wait, do you mean, like, why am I still single?” I asked as I rolled onto my side, glanced at the alarm clock and adjusted the phone against my ear.
“Yes,” Alaska answered.
It’s rare he asks me to reveal myself. Usually it’s the other way around. He’s the quiet one. He’s the guarded one. I’m the person who blabs my secrets to the stranger sitting next to me on the train. I’m the person who publicly admits my foibles and downfalls for the entire world to read, to judge, to embrace.
“How long have we known each other? Four years?” I asked.
“Four and some change.”
“Okay, well, I spent the first two or three years believing we’d end up together.”
I added a few more random statements that simply circled the initial answer. And then we somehow transitioned to a discussion about men and the fact that most of them have no clue about how to give good head.
When the call ended, I set the phone on the nightstand and turned my gaze toward the window. Through the wooden slats of the blinds, I studied the sliver of a moon and the dark night sky it hung against. Then I turned my attention to the ceiling and watched the fan blades slowly spinning like a tired propeller. It was almost three o’clock in the morning when I finally fell asleep.
The following afternoon, just shy of leaving the office, I started writing Alaska an email. I wanted to let him know I had downloaded the app necessary for me to kick his ass in Lexulous. But mostly I wanted to elaborate, give the full answer to the question about me still being available.
I confirmed that my original statement was correct. But for the balance of knowing him, for the last two years, I have been struggling to get my footing. I had dated someone else in early 2008 and, though my heart wasn’t broken, I came out the other side of that relationship overwhelmed by how easily I had been manipulated. My vulnerabilities and weaknesses had been blatantly exploited. And so I have spent the last two years trying to understand how I played a part in that debacle and then finding ways to alter my behavior, my thinking, my wants.
“I feel like a player without a playbook,” I noted in my email before clicking send.
I didn’t say any of that for Alaska’s sake. I shared what I did because, for me, owning your truth, being able to articulate who you really are, is the only way to fix the flaws. Otherwise you’re just dancing around a reality that in fact dictates where you place your feet and who you partner with as you waltz across the dance floor.
Alaska didn’t respond to the email. Instead, I received a notice on my phone that he had played a move in Lexulous. Using the C from my first word - COOP worth 22 points - he built CREATIVE. It was worth 50 points. It was a nice start that quickly put me behind. But I wasn’t intimidated. You can’t let one play knock you out of the game.
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