a word to the boy (not-quite-yet-a-man) at the gym with hair resembling that of patrick dempsey:
sometimes it's not so much what you look like as how you look at the girl.
ned be gone. and a bad southern accent.
today at work i was standing by the bar, waiting to transfer a bar-tab (yes, yes, my parents are very proud) when one of the regulars asked me if i was losing weight.
this threw me off.
1. i did not know he was that regular
and
2. this suggests i've been working there too long
i looked at him, surprised, and said, why do you ask?
why do you ask? i'm quite sure that's neither a usual or appropriate response to the question. in fact why do you ask, doesn't really make any sense in the context. but without thinking that's what came out.
he, perphaps more surprised than me, countered with, well, you are, aren't you? and then quickly added, it's never a bad thing to say to a woman is it?
i, realizing my mistake, said, no, no, of course not, thank you.
having an eating disorder is like drowning. being thrust into cold, choppy waters and not knowing which way leads to the surface.
and so in the past, these comments gave me a sense of direction--were anchors by which to grab hold.
today, this comment was kind, but unimportant. now, the only useful and important feedback comes from myself and my beautiful body.
holy smokes, did i just call my body beautiful?
why fancy that miss susan, i believe i did. (this last line has to be said in a truly bad gone-with-the-wind-southern accent coupled with a little head bobble to make any sense, and even then it falls short, but...oh, well.)
this thing.
anytime i develop the slightest inkling of...mmm...let's call it infatuation, i experience the complete breakdown of the english language--or rather my grasp of it.
my native tongue becomes a foreign anomaly. foreign anomaly? can i say that? or is it repetitive and therefore grammatically incorrect and unnecessary? see what i mean, this thing is throwing everything off.
words do not come.
except when they do (see above rambling for example).
which is no better. because, as if collected in too small a space during their forced hiatus, they catapult out. slamming, careening and ricocheting, abutting one.in.to.the.other.
this is not the worst of it.
my hearing goes as well.
he speaks. i listen.
and do you know what i hear?
words interspersed with blips. great, universe-descending blips. holes in sound. and i am left to look questioningly and ask him to repeat himself. once.again. at which point, if i still hear more blip than word, i simply smile and nod, hoping it wasn't a question.
he must think the elevator doesn't quite reach the top floor.
but its just so hard when i so like the way his eyelashes curl.
image via daydream lily
When I started to read Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close I didn't know it was about September 11th.
If I had known, I probably would never have begun.
Thank God, I did. It's the best book--the best piece of art--I've ever come across.
"In the days and weeks that followed, I read the lists of the dead in the paper: mother of three, college sophomore, Yankees fan, lawyer, brother, bond trader, weekend magician, practical joker, sister, philanthropist, middle son, dog lover, janitor, only child, entrepreneur, waitress, grandfather of fourteen, registered nurse, accountant, intern, jazz saxophonist, doting uncle, army reservist, late-night poet, sister, window washer, Scrabble player, volunteer fireman, father, father, elevator repairman, wine aficionado, office manager, secretary, cook, financier, executive vice president, bird watcher, father, dishwasher, Vietnam veteran, new mother, avid reader, only child, competitive chess player, soccer coach, brother, analyst, maitre d', black belt, CEO, bridge partner, architect, plumber, public relations executive, father, artist in residence, urban planner, newlywed, investment banker, chef, electrical engineer, new father who had a cold that morning and though about calling in sick..."
page 273
I forget all the time. That it was someone's mother and another's daughter, and another's love-of-his-life.
I hate that people use the phrase 9/11. It's so small. And is so easy to say. Why did we have to condense the term? To make it easier to live with? I don't think it should be easy. Or pedestrian.
We have to remember. Not the timeline, not the ticker-tape of events, but the details. Because it's in the details that we find the humanity--of others as well as our own.
So for today, try.
oh boy oh boy.
i was first drawn to blogging because i liked the optimistic slant of everything.
i promised myself this would not be a place to air dirty laundry.
oh, but mmmmmmmm.
i am in a crabby mood.
and i am so over some stuff right now.
like the dirty dishes that pile up in the sink.
over it.
and friends who make plans and then fail to follow through.
over it.
and feeling like everyone at work hates me because i'm just trying to ensure we all do our job well.
over it.
and yes i know i need to be a better listener. and yes i know sometimes i too bail. and yes i know i'm imperfect.
so very imperfect.
so i'm working on it, okay?
but i need you to try to work on it too.
okay?
because i sure as hell hate feeling like i'm over everything.
or blemishing the face of my blog-spot-lover with rants. i really hate that.
a c-jane inspired POST-EDIT (you know because she's taken to doing post-edits and i love that):
the dishes in the sink were cleaned (not by me) mere minutes after writing this, so perhaps i spoke too soon. then i got myself a thing of ice cream from the grocery store, set my laptop on the floor where it played 30 Rock (season one) via insta-netflix, and set about organizing all my under-the-bed-storage (cleaning and organizing are favorite activities of mine). so the night turned out just fine and again life is la-la-laaaaaaokay.
oh and there might have been some beading go on too. and that's always good.
image via sabino.