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We bemoaned our changing hips, diminishing energy, and appearing lines. She was once legend of the hollow leg, because she would eat so much and still be pencil thin. I was psychotic, preferring squats over a beer. Now a grim reaper in training shadows us. I refuse! Genetics has claimed many areas of my health but it will not turn me into one of those women who accepts the arrival of the 30's and doesn't quit butter. The body is capable of taking mold until we die, and I will show them how its done. It takes hard sacrifice, fatties!
Like yoga, I should set an intention this month. Maybe every month. This month the focus is being tough as nails. Not just drinking black coffee and cracking my knuckles, but action. Not just thick skinned, but the process of conditioning my resilience through every obstacle... with minimal tears. More sweat. Every couple of days, I'll check in and see how I'm doing. Obviously, in relation to the full moon, my hormone cycles, etc. As stated previously, I need to build muscle again. It has memory; embedded deep in marrow. I've just fallen out of practice. No crying in baseball.
I don't want pleasant days to feel like they're racing by. I want for time to move like a monumental glacier gliding, endlessly making progress. But we're prisoner to the limited understanding of the so-far unchallenged theory of relativity. Time flies away from us when we're having fun. We barely have time to record it into memory. Then on the days it hurts to be awake, we feel every stalling eye-pricking moment of it, tasting it before we can arrive to our bedtime relief. Next thing you know, dawn violently shakes you. You never slept? Or did you?
In my flakey trance, I placed my pink lady apple atop my import paperback, on the vacuum station of the self-car wash facility. With all intentions of returning all exited items back in my like-new vehicle, we drove off instead. A few cities away, some hours later, when the hankering for my fruit surfaced, it dawned on us. I had brainlessly abandoned my beloved book. He thought it was worth a try, late-night and all, to drive by. There it was, as I left it. Theives want cell phones and wallets, not reading material and unprocessed foods.
In some Carlifornia late 90's abandoned building, where the ephimeral trends were invented, lies the last pair of chunky heel, moderate platform, lace up, black boots. It's box, a coffin. Decorated in cobwebs, lined with dusty tissue papper, the shoes never even had a proper eulogy. They were unceremoniously hauled to the back of a warehouse, where unsold merchandise goes to die. Post-armageddon, nobody will appreciate the torture spiked heels that are so in vogue anymore. My mission will be to backpack across the country in search of them, and rescue them to repopulate the world in vintage style.
Do you know what republic I'm in? I'm in the state of Hypertrophy. It's been three years I haven't been there. Rotting away, my muscle have been, while the rest of the world boasts their fitness levels in my face. All the workout magazines, the new-year sheeps with new gym membership goals, the sidewalk runners. I have hated them, envied them, because I've been stranded on Lump Island. Every time I tried to escape, I was prisoner to weak immunity and oxidative stress. But here I come again, rising to power. I'm gonna be the mayor of Quadriceps town!
Some days, all the tannins, polyphenols, antioxidants, ECGC, and caffeine in the world won't do jack shit. One's cranky and fatigued system slams the override button and instead of a temporary of genius, you end up staring at the wall, tongue and all, dangling out your mouth. Nothing will quiet that blaring submarine alarm going off in your head telling you, "You should've slept more, you idiot!". And like the inane zombie you are, you finally attempt a third or fourth cup of stimulant in fancicul hopes one more will do the trick. You just end up catatonic AND anxious.
In a fit of anger, there's not much I can think or talk about. My main focus, is not to feed the rage, but tend to it. I don't know why I must hold its hand through the process. It'll calm down eventually (or turn to resentment). But I can't pull my dick out and hammer away happily at one thing while the other hemisphere of my brain saves the stewing for later; or better yet, completely buries it. It must remain grotesquely exposed like a blinding open wound, until it's so painful I succumbingly accept it. Must.cope.better.
At the gym, my judgement for corpulence and obesity dials down. On the streets too, if in glance I see an overweight person riding a bicycle or wearing spandex and iPod arm band. I am suddenly proud of this hefty stranger and think, "That! there is badass!" A great flaw is how heavily I criticize, not so much the person, but society. Yet so easily I can switch my compassion button and see the individual, his struggles, her history. So when they've had enough and commit to change, nothing makes me happier than seeing them puffing away on a treadmill.
Contrarily, nothing irks me more than a fat person at the gym, not trying. (See previous entry for an explanation of personal flaws regarding unwarranted criticism). While one heavy set person is sweating every last bit of twinkie away, there is always a set of blubbery women, yammering away, sluggishly burning less calories than the effort it takes them to shovel down at a pizza buffet. It's not that they're big, it's that they're quarter-assing their effort. They did not educate themselves. They didn't want it bad enough. You want the easy way out? Go drink some light mayo.
The more prudent reaction I can practice is being grateful. In this economy -a phrase people use to excuse way too much - I'm lucky to be employed at all, correct? I'm should be appreciative that even though they take advantage of my circumstance, I still have an income. But they don't know squat about how money works when you're not rolling in hundred dollar bills and buying new Beamers and parking them next to our clunky sedans without air conditioner. The disparity of class is too evidently large for me to carry on without contempt for my elitist stingy employers.
The Salvadorian river he speaks of is a green, willfull flowing body of water. He grew up there, about sixty years ago. He still remembers the woods like the back of his hand, which seem unaged. He's acquainted with the peaks and valleys on the river bed; where the current stirs lightly or swells. When visiting his homeland, he witnessed a young man drown. A group of locals, slightly tipsy, were hopping across the stones. They thought he jested motions of distress. Without hesitation, Dad jumped in and searched the hostile stream to nary avail. The river claimed its sacrifice.
If my husband were fat, I wouldn't have sex with him. When I got ill and gained weight, I let him off the hook and told him he doesn't need to sleep with me. He still forked me. It didn't gross him out. But I think it's disgusting and I don't want to have to desensitize myself from nasty things. Violent murders on tv, snuff porn, child abuse. The implications of obesity are no different. Maybe I say that because I have the luxury of a spouse, rippled like a washboard. I'd still love him pot-bellied. But no fucking.
Last year, this time-ish, I was miserable. Rather hopeless. I probably wouldn't have willingly admitted it unless I was four drinks in or too deep into a pizza, already in self-loathing. But this year is full of hope and progress.
Oh shit. I realize what I just did. I said it out loud. I just stamped a target on my forehead and invited the universe to rain shit on me.
I take it back! You hear that, whoever you are in space, the ether, the beyond! I was just kidding earlier. I hate life! I couldn't be sadder!
God bless America right? For three decades, our family protected us from these atrocious truths. They were forced to secrecy, the coercion a child believes and becomes ingrained.
Straight from Wikipedia:
"Additionally, the CIA and U.S. military advisers reportedly financed, trained, and advised Salvadoran Army and intelligence units that routinely engaged in clandestine terror operations. As part of their function, these units would disappear political adversaries, torture them at the general staff headquarters and then execute them."
Some of our boys slept on tin roofs to avoid being recruited. Others, caught and trained to kill by the white men.
Safe to say, my ability to unload and unorganize the buildup of neuroses goes in cycles. A few weeks ago, on top of the world. Bottom of the barrel now. Terrified down here, peering at the blinding moving lights from above. People casting brief shadows from so much movement, turning the brightness off and on, makes it seems like everyone is just moving forward, no one notices the lame. Me in this musty wooden container, miniscule, in my hole where I find myself muttering to the fluttering moths. I start to believe I truly belong cast out, isolated, demented, alone.
Usually, I considered myself an intuitive judge of character. Without consciously deciding what a person's character is made of or what general characteristics they wear and how, I know. I don't have to put it into words before I know if I can trust a person or if they're just having some bad days or years. But I completely misjudged him. I even came to the point of disliking him, with his scowl and curled lip, nasty hobble, and inability to greet us before getting to businness. Turns out he is a super humble guy who can make me laugh.
Last week, I ungraciously put on my dandy act. Somehow I functioned through the nauseau and wandering light-headedness of a concussion. At the show, the mind-bending seizure-inducing beams of colored lights sped past us, over our heads, down into the black hole of our subconsious. Beats so penetrating and booze does not belong in that realm. I convulsed and kicked like a possesed shaman regretting initiation. I have no recollection of the blow to my head, but the bump was there to prove it. And the shooting pain down my neck and back for days to follow.
Whole Foods most heavily deceived me, although what I feel is violently bloated more than anything. A rare trip, I picked up a beautiful sugar-free chocolate muffin. No sucralose, aspartame, or sugar, no side-effects...heaven on earth, right?
Later that evening, I peel fresh ginger and boil it, add honey, and offer this libation to my stuck pregnant in-law who just wants to appease the birth gods and get it out. It's an old-wive's Salvadoran tale. Her baby just stews, while my innards immediately begin contracting. I go into labor, but the muffin does not budge.
In one screen is the Judeo-Masonic Conspiracy history, another are these 100 words, the last screen is a spreadsheet (my livelihood, ignored), two computer screens in my view, almonds to the left, branch chain amino acids and a cup of double brewed coffee, to the right a cheap frame with our wedding picture, a figurine of a turtle eating a strawberry and a tiny toy unicorm that seems one of his parent's was a cow. The walls: gray and shabby, dull and lifeless. The noises: drills, light typing, and a thick Boston accent. inside my head...screaming! Violent yelling!
Two things that interest me regularly. Nutrition. And Fitness. The third might be government secrets. EXPOSED government secrets already gotten away with, declassified, and watered down so thinly that people assume our ethical leaders are past such hysteria. (I'm not a doomsday prepper or anything like that. Though it wouldn't be a bad idea).
Anyway, it would seem these are the most important things to me. They are certainly not the foundation, but they lay directly on it. Everything ties in at some point. Including the major corporations running their shadow government, selling us distraction, junk, and disease.
My adult life, I've continued to dream of this kid, in which my best friend stole his sights. If things had gone differently.... She was charismatic, even though I was thinner. When she was over him, I received some residual attention. Matter of fact, the first compliment that changed my life course was from him. "Do you workout? Your legs look strong!" (I didn't know the word exercise). This point henceforth began my fascination with hams, quads, and calves.
All this time, I've schemed ways to randomly show up back home, inadvertently seduce his now fat-self, then reject him.
A new one is being born today. One with my new last name. Not mine, the other lawful side of my husband's blood. Everyone is so thrilled. I'm pretending to receive this new baby with nothing but rainbows and lace. But frankly, I think he's as doomed as the rest of them. Not one of them is saved on this Earth. Only in the Lord's heart. Which would not be a bad thing is suffering wasn't so destructive. He'll grow up and up until that switchpoint where the life starts chaotically seeping out of him. Bless this baby, please God.
How many more years would my life have been allowed to extend if only I'd been born with positive tendencies? With that sparkle in my eye that sees the one sliver of hopful glimmer in a dark cavernous cave. With that ability to overlook the odds of survival and push right past it. How many less lines would my frown have if I'd allowed myself to smile more, despite the conditions of the world? To see only my little environment, instead of everyone's hurt and sorrow. I am an uninvited martyr, wondering so curiously what it's like to be optimistic.
After four, my real life begins. The one where the colors come alive like Dorothy landing in Oz. Although its dull as a rock paperweight, it's mine. It sustains a stressed but beautiful husband and a wife who can never find her keys and always has chipped nail polish. I will rush to the grocery store, return a French rental dvd, buy an organic tomato and a few ripe avocadoes, speed home and stretch, fit in an impromptu HIIT workout, mad-dash dinner, go to worship, come home, get some/give some, and complete similar rounds each day until Friday.
As I suspected, I cry less, and I'm more calloused mentally, when I work out physically. Still a realist though, so I don't practice the art of perkiness or bushy-tailism. But I work through things a lot better. A metaphorical manifestation of pushing through pain, breaking fibers to grow newer, stronger ones. The active sweat, blood, and tears, the discomfort. As a matter of fact, I like it. It makes more sense to me and I can relish for hours in that hard environment. There, I have the tools for anything, easy or difficult, but built for ongoing strife.
Such a gorgeous day of plentiful sun. Inside my mind is gloominess, but it's being outweighed by the unbeatable power of nature. Sometimes I scheme of blowing up these walls, just to my desk would be outdoors and I could smile at all the kids, the homeless, the pedestrians walking by. Inside, I sneer at customers who come in. Those bastards get to be out there, absorbing cleaner oxygen, listening to sounds of the planet. Wispy trees, birds chirping, wind blowing, space...just space. I'm grateful for the balance, for the perspective of the outside. I hope it doesn't rain.
He says I don't do anything, nothing fulfilling. Bringing is a full time income is nothing. Then going straight home to clean and make meals from scratch is just a non-sense hobby. Cleaning after the cats he promised to cover is just passing time. Washing and folding laundry, I just like playing maid. Paying the bills, because headaches are fun! Working out just every single day...no words. It's not so much a marital disagreement as the male incompetence of understanding that we don't do this shit for fun and that left-over energy might be used to shower.
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