Not A Good Spread

I am going to yoga 3 times a week now to take care of my own self, as all the women's magazines that I don't read and all the people around tell me it is good to do. At times I love it, but when I've been away for a bit, my legs tighten up like a preacher's wife. Everyone's down there on the floor, breathing the oo-jai breath. From the throat, like Hebrew or German, but lighter: chuuuhhh. We're all focusing on ourselves, at this moment, in this space, but clearly some women can spread it better than others. And when my legs look tight enough to strangle my non-stop talker instructor it's a bit disheartening. It's like "Hello! I'm a lousy fuck! Nobody ever had any fun in there!" The things won't obey me - they're like my evil twins, taking revenge for too much thoughtless sex in my youth. Some twenty-year-old behind me usually has her legs wrapped behind her neck like a spider. A few weeks later, after torturing my thighs and calves to let go and let labia, the legs splay a tiny bit more. I'm grateful for the old guy in the back who can't touch his finger to his nose.

My back is a different story. Although it is the root of my leg distress - I had a ruptured disc a few years ago - my back is heavenly. I can practically put my head on my ass the first day I return from a yoga hiatus. After a few classes, I'm doing the bridge, I'm twisting, I'm all yoga-lady, and then someone says "spread your legs," and it's back to the preacher, the missionary position, and the vindictive and non-compliant twins.

Yesterday some buff guy around my age left at the same time I did, and instead of chatting him up - my usual mode of life - I avoided eye contact as if he had caught me naked on the toilet. Objectively, he probably got a good whiff of my provocative scent, took one look at my classic features (never mind those red marks), and lost the ability to speak. I know, I know, it's always the true beauties who don't realize how stunning they are. But in that parking lot, outside that gym, in those sweatpants, I was a schlub who had just spent a good part of an hour struggling to spread her legs.

Pussy-Whipped in the Comments Section

I had heard about a ridiculous blog in which a woman describes her obligation to be thin for her husband, and I thought, old news, I've heard that crap before. But then Becca wrote an insightful blog in response to the original. I was intrigued because Becca makes the important distinction between living a life together as two people and actually identifying as one unit - that old thing about two branches, one tree, that always bothered me. I wrote in a comment, and when the original blog writer said something about my assumptions, well, I sorta caved. I was so goddamn typically female. I apologized -because in part she was right - but then I went on to analyze the reason why - my fat family - I must really have been talking about my own faults rather than making social commentary. I was pussy-whipped by one of Martha Stuart's foot soldiers, hammered by a laundry-detergent advocate. I even pledged to go to her blog! And when I went, it was like stepping into Stepford, only without the warm, fuzzy feeling. Holy shit!

Worse, I had had the knee-jerk reaction that so many women do when a conflict arises: make nice. I am sick of making nice. I tire, I sprout gray, from following the fucking rules. It is absurd that I practically get ill every time I think someone is mad at me, or maybe I haven't done a good job, or I've been insensitive in some way. I have never even met this blogging person before, and I'm fucking apologizing to her. One of her claims is that it's bad to have a fat spouse because sex could hurt. Like, how? Is that when the fat is sharp, or sprays cholesterol bullets?

How many times have I apologized or covered or basically lied to avoid conflict? I am guessing a lot. The advice columns are filled with ways to politely spare feelings, not from brutal unkindness, but even shit like, "could we just have adults at dinner?" So in the spirit of making lists, and especially because I read Bonanza Jellybean's excellent list today, I am making a partial list of things for which a woman should never apologize:

1. Farting. Hey, if we have to operate and maintain all the machinery down there, we should be able to fart in peace.
2. Any aspect of our appearance. You don't like it, change the channel.
3. Telling off someone else's kid. An under-estimated pastime, especially when the responsible party is ignoring his/her progeny. Just yesterday, I said "I don't like it when you stick out your tongue at me," and the offending party disappeared for the rest of the night.
4. Sticking out your tongue at someone you dislike. Very satisfying.
5. Swearing. What bastard decided that some words are off-limits to proper-fucking-discourse? To hell with that.
6. Being bumped into. When a person bumps into me, I often find myself saying "excuse me, I'm sorry," pausing, and then saying to mysef, after offending party has walked past, "what the fuck? He bumped into me!"
7. Not being interested in sex. Obvious reasons.
8. Over-cooking dinner. Ditto.
9. Not making dinner. Isn't raw the new rave?
10. Disagreeing with one's spouse. Not only should you avoid apology, but this should be embraced as a sport.
11. Being your own self. If you're fat now, or somehow looking less 'attractive' than you did when you first met your partner, consider yourself human, consider him or her lucky, and open a bag of chocolate chip cookies.

I'm sorry - was that one too many?

Anxiedote

Please accept my apologies if your problem is depression. Depression is my problem too, but not today. Today my problem is anxiety, and also tiny little bumps on my forehead. Not a rash, just a buch of little blech I hate the word - whiteheads, or maybe hardheads - that I keep patchkying (messing) with, causing them to make a slight barely visible scab. They perpetuate themselves like a little colony of chorale singers calling to me every day: you are skanky, in the chipmunk voices. They're little and irritating in every way. Yes, that's anxiety for you. It permeates every pore.

I am naturally anxious about my anxiety and I hold onto it as if it is my life raft and without it I will drown in the misery of acknowledging real feelings and the slow mild mediocrity of life. Anxiety is fast, pert, I-can-do-anything type stuff, without the mania that is probably not in this category, although I have nothing against mania per se. It's just that my anxiety remains within the realm of the real so that there's no one to tell me that my goals are unrealistic: I can stay up for hours working; I should worry about my job; I could do a little better; my mom might need a phone call; there is too much laundry waiting. Must remember to worry more! Picking at my forehead as I consider this reminder.

One useful trait in anxietiacs is that we can multi-task our thinking. I can drive to work and plan my day. No sweat. I can drive to work, plan my day, talk on my cell, and work out a lesson in my head. I can drive to work, talk on my cell, plan my day, work on a lesson, and worry about stuff all at once. In the middle of multi-thinking - as opposed to multi-tasking - I'll realize I haven't been back to the dentist to deal with that old filling. By the time I am at work, I have heard the headlines, said good morning to a couple people, figured out what I will do when I first enter the building, and finally learned all of the lyrics to Tracy Chapman's obscure song about a sailor.

Some days I get the anxiety hangover. Same ride to work. Radio's going but I can't concentrate on it. Houses slip past. Squirrels stop by and I roll down the window to chat. I call my mother. "Hi, Honey," she says, in a vaguely southern accent. I have the idea that I am heading toward school, but the anxiety shift to my stomach has changed my speed to such an extent that I almost think I'm depressed. But I'm not. I'm happy as a clam. Just bored, or even a wee bit boring. No fast music, or multi-thinking, just a gal in a car going to her job. It's a relief from the tension, but then it's a bit of a downer, too. Not to fear: this little anecdote has a happy ending. The anxiety always returns! I have hundreds of things to do, my mind races, I talk quickly, and I worry about each item in overlaps, in triples and quadruples. Right now I am worried about staying awake to do work, managing my arguing children, editing this writing, scheduling my writing group, doing the laundry and remembering the phone calls I hafta return. See? I'm okay. And I'm just about to pick at my forehead.

Abstract Theory on Random Behavior

The Theory: if you have far too much work to do, and your children will be neglected if you do it all, and you will have no time for your own personal needs, never mind your hygeine, and all will go to hell in the proverbial handbasket, you should begin by getting on the computer and looking for a different job. This will solve your problem in two ways. First, and I hate it when people make lists like this and say first so I'm just going to list as many things as I wanna; second, you will think about the future and the possibilities, and your anxiety and frustration in regard to your current job, and its innumerable requirements, will be softened - the anxiety and frustration, that is, because you will be avoiding it; second, or third, if you like, we're not really counting, remember? Fourth, you may actually get a sense of accomplishment because you will find jobs listed where they are waiting for someone exactly like you, no, actually, they are waiting for you, or to be precise, me, personally, to come on over and finally make the dull workplace that they inhabit a well-run and dynamic place to be. I did find several such places and actually wrote a cover letter to one that looks eager to have me, and to pay me perhaps a sizeable fraction of what I make now. Seventh. Eighth, you should be doing the actual work you are avoiding in the first place, you know, and I know, and we both know the other knows, but it would seem so mainstream, so with the crowd.

Where does one find an identity if it is not an anti-identity? I am not just like everyone else. I do not take pride in paperwork, and I am not a concrete fucking sequential thinker, so now let's all stop telling me that I'm 'random abstract' as if that's non-judgmental. Twelve: these terms are related to learning styles and concrete sequential people are organized, together, love lists, sorting, robotic chores, bad literature, and uninspiring art. But I don't judge them. Abstract random persons, such as myself, enjoy typos because sometimes they're funnier than the original text, love a good mess, listen to loud music, and have better fashion sense than any of those organization freaks. We are always better looking, better dancers, and the people with the big ideas. Fifty two. I think I'll stay up late to get my work done.

I Am The Reality

What if I wrote a post in the middle of a typical working-mama anxiety-jag? What if I have too much work today, and tomorrow I am going to be judged on all of my work for the entire school year, based on one observation? What if at least one motherfucker is going to come in and tell me how incompetent I am because her daughter is smart and I should give her high grades? And despite the fact that that mother wears belly-shirts and her very sweet daughter seems to have a memory problem, I am utterly anxious about the conflict? Despite the fact that I am known for my sharp wit, etc, that having any parent kvetch is like a case of salmonella in a public school? What if my new-moan-ya is coming back, just a bit, and I had to sleep the past three days, way more than I expected? And last weekend, instead of work, I was attentive daughter to ailing parent? And what if I am doing laundry, right now, for crissake? I'm 10 minutes from fold and sort.

Instead of a theory, I am the reality, right now. I took the meds I take for the goddamn anxiety disorder, but if I take the PRN for bad days, I'll be sedated, and then what? Why did I choose a profession which earns me just enough? I was brought up to have what I want, and I want my own bathroom. I want to take a leave of absence after a family member dies, or is quite ill. And what if I am quite ill? Must I say always that I am lucky because I am not starving? Or the pathetic line I give my children: "we're actually rich, compared to the rest of the world." Can I just be a product of our piggy lazy society and say I wanna lie on the couch, I wanna minute to volunteer at my kids' school, I wanna go back and get my hair re-done without thinking about the goddamn money?

I am not a sociological theory, I am a lady barely managing financially and emotionally in the lovely woodsy suburb so my kids can get an education worthy of the best private schools around. Somewhere along the line I forgot about me, or maybe money and me. The brawny psycho-pharm guy said it was impressive how much I've done, considering my psychiatric history. Oh, puhleez. Isn't raising two kids, getting a master's degree, trying to live with a man, and working full time enough to actually give someone a psychiatric condition?

I'm off to persevorate more, the imaginary print lining the inside of my skull.

The Oscars Are Bullshit and The Wrong Kinda Whine

Brokeback was a precedent-setting film: every movement and still moment on Heath Ledger's face created a character utterly believable, miserable, and sadly wise. The chemistry between the two actors was also precedent-setting: in what other film have we seen two people pressed up and seeking each other like Ennis and Jack the first time they reunite on Ennis's steps?

The Oscars were pathetically mainstream. How innovative is a running fag joke? Everyone is scared shitless to offend African Americans in any way, but we can say whatever we want, we're all pals with "Will & Grace."

Movie actors are not the self-sacrificing altruists Mr. Clooney described: they may be artists, but they are not as innovative or political as some of them think they are. Reese Witherspoon, for example, is not an Oxfam worker, despite her yearning to matter. And would someone please reach down Ms. Witherspoon's throat and adjust her voicebox? That thing is like interference on an old radio.

Daughtering

I thought I would spend the weekend writing, doing laundry, and preparing a presentation at work. Then came the ring. Don't people always talk about the ring? It's probably nothing, but my dad is in the hospital with chest pains. It's probably nothing, but he's had some heart problems in the past. They put some balloons in there about a year ago, and told him to lose weight. He's very heavy. It's probably nothing, but I remember that documentary that Tim Lehrer did about his heart attack - he described it as a train running over his chest - and the doctors keeping him for observation before the train left the station.

One time, Dad felt chest pains, so he got up out of bed, took a shower, and waited for my mom to wake up. Like, duh! He wanted to be sure he smelled good or something? The doctors said later that a heart attack had been imminent, but the balloons opened up the clogged arteries. I knew then that that would be the first of several future cardiac-type visits. The folks there seemed professional and friendly - occasionally a rural hospital will be comforting rather than eerily backward. They had automatic doors, so they seemed hip to the high-tech thing.

Isn't it odd to be at an age when we consider a parent's death, not as a remote fear, but as a real possibility? It's not that he is in a dire situation at the moment, but the ER visits do give one pause. When my father was thirty years old, his sister died. A year later, his mother died. Dad sometimes said it was a broken heart that killed his mother. My brother died last summer. Both of my parents have been determined to continue to participate in the world, to grasp at what they do have, while they mourn. So I am going to be with them and to kvetch at him (nag) about eating the lousy food and drinking enough water. And I'm sort of hoping that he is not thinking about the irony, or even that he now shares an experience with his mother that he never imagined he would.

For my own mother, I am hoping that she has many years with her companion, a night with some sleep in it, and a little relief from the sadness. The latter two seem 'highly unlikely,' as we say in my family. She likes to 'think positive,' though, so despite my tendencies otherwise, I am going to join her there. This is one situation in which a little denial may be required.

Noprah on Oprah

Please register me as Anti-Oprah. She's a one-woman narcissistic corporate machine of superficial hair and false sentiment. Sure, she gives a lotta crap away. Ever catch the look on her face after all those poor suckers cheer for her? She tosses 'em a penny, and they're all like ooh, a Broadway show, we love you Oprah. Perfectly intelligent and sophisticated females rhapsodize over the phenom that is Oprah. What the fuck? She's showing us the houses she built in Texas for Katrina survivors. Saint Oprah? I don't think so. I remember when she was Ms. Why-Didja-Cheat? When that stopped working, she became someone else. Now she's all Ms. Mother Theresa. It is truly an i.q.-lowering experience to watch her expression as she asks - I had pneumonia, gimme a break - a "tough" question. Ha! How's about her brave turn-around when she condemned plagiarism, only after her followers complained?

I say she's offering herself up as the leader of a new religion. And I'm leery whenever a group of people is devoted to any religion, even if it's mine. Oprah worship is particularly repellent to me, however. What's up with the pseudo-honesty? Why does David Letterman give a shit? Am I supposed to link to all this stuff? Like, why? (I only link if I think it's a good thing to look at!) I'll tell ya right now that Oprah can hold a serious pseudo-soulful expression, while Brooke Shields describes her descent into post-partum depression, for a good 40 minutes. Maybe they inject Botox around the mouth before she takes the stage. Or maybe it's computer-generated animation. She can hawk a book like the best saleswoman around; she can go on about her favorite lady-like things. Such talent.

I don't give a shit. I don't like Oprah. Her show is dull. Her opinions are mundane. Her compassion act is all part of raking in the dough and keeping herself in an admired position of warm and beloved - ironically - mother figure. Or maybe she's going for gal next door. At this point, it could be Princess Diana. But I say she can take all of her crap and her romance-novel style, and get offa my t.v. And I'm not buying a book with her name smacked on the cover, either.