Don't Fight Life

Don't fight life.  Easy to say, difficult to do.  I mean when you're riding high, money in the bank, you've just had lunch with a dear friend, window shopped on South Congress, worked out, basked in the sun, the words "Don't fight life" trip off the tongue easily and the belief that you can do this is full in your heart.  But when you've spent your last dime on something ridiculous and now don't have any cash until Tuesday and the only thing you want to do is get out of the house and toss away a buck or seventy, when you feel like you lost out on the possibility of a good friend that you have a lot in common with because you did something  like tell him you've developed feelings for him and things have seemed a little awkward ever since, when you don't feel inspired by your work nor do you feel motivated by the rehearsal process of the play you are currently working on, it's difficult.  Don't fight life.  I mean, I know I've got it good.  Relative to a lot of folks my life is amazing.  It's important to remind myself of that.

It's also important to remind myself that all this is temporary.  As in everyone's life, everything in my life is temporary, especially my feelings.  Ask me how I feel about the play tomorrow and you'll probably get a completely different response, because overall I am really enjoying it: Enjoying the challenge, enjoying the people, enjoying the script.  Same with work.  Same with money.  As far as the friend, all it would take is one good connection or two and my opinions on that would change, too. 

I know what I need to do to get out of this slump.  I've done it before and it works wonders.  Make a list.  Schedule my day into increments.  Do those things, make tiny changes in my life to prepare for tomorrow and make the best out of today.  So...that's enough rumination for now.  On to doing something about it.

Being Alive!

It's Saturday night.  Saturday has a lot of expectations on it, and I'm not really living up to those expectations. I'll admit it's making me feel a little blue.  I had opportunities for socialization and chose solitude, so it's kind of like when I purposefully don't make plans for the weekend so I'll have time to organize, clean and lay back.  Then the weekend comes and there I am "laying back", but feeling like a loser because I'm not doing anything, completely forgetting that I took my own ass out of the game.

Before I decided to head home I was singing at a benefit for Zilker Hillside Theater.  They do a free summer musical every year.  It's free, family oriented fare, and the production values are usually pretty stellar.  People ( a lot of whom won't see any other theatre throughout the year) sit out on the hill on warm summer nights, picnic, and watch a really nice show.  I've been in five of the shows over the past years, and it's a cause close to my heart.  I was also really excited by the opportunity to sing Sondheim's "Being Alive" which is one of my those songs my heart has really connected to from the first listen.  It perfectly captures that desire to have someone to love you, adore you, boost you up when you're down, to look over your shoulder when you're reading, to get in your way, to drive you crazy with their filthy habits, to make you feel like you are really participating in life.  

Of course, I worked on the song quite a bit by myself, got it ready, felt pretty secure...and then standing up on that stage with your voice faintly echoing in your ear, the people in front of you (some of them not paying ANY attention) the uncertainty of whether or not your voice is carrying causing you to push your  voice- it's like someone pulled the rug out from under you in front of an audience.    It's like you're at home singing joyfully in the shower and then someone comes in unbeknownst to you and yanks the shower curtain open to expose your tender bits to strangers and friends alike.  And it comes out of nowhere.  Two seconds before you go on you have plenty of power and then it's go time and your struggling to keep your head above water and not let anyone in the audience know you are not completely comfortable.  Uggh.  Anyway, people were perfectly complimentary, some of them very effusive.  So I'm going to trust them a little bit, and next time make sure I get to hear myself in the monitor during rehearsal so I can trust that what is there, is there.

Some of us hung out afterwards, drinking and eating, and I stayed for awhile, but then the urge to come home and write overcame me, and hear I am.  I guess after awhile I began to feel like I was alone in a crowd, and being social and participating in the conversation was a battle.  Of course it wasn't because of the company, but it is something I deal with from time to time.  I think I'm sixty percent social, forty percent loner.  But the part that's social is really vocal and when he needs social interaction he makes it happen.I guess it's all about knowing yourself, trusting it.

A very wise and funny friend of mine gave me some good advice over lunch recently.  Of course she wasn't really dispensing advice, just discussing how she faced a recent situation, but I took it to heart, because it seemed like a really good approach.  The approach is simple.  Don't fight life.  When things come your way unexpectedly and fate throws obstacles in your path, you can become fearful and rattle the bars of your cage, or you can go with them.  Choose the latter choice.  Just accept them as reality and work with your circumstances.  Don't judge them.  The judgement and nervousness usually creates a problem where there might not have been one.  Certainly, look for resolutions to the conflict, but don't over excite yourself with worry and don't burn bridges, because things will be ok if you let them be.   I'm going to work with this philosophy for awhile, see how I fare.  Because in the past I've been a worrier, filling in the gaps of my knowledge with the worst possible answers, all fueled by my negativity and fear.  And it never does me any good.

I'll report back on this experiment as evidence comes in.

Wedding Bells

I ate my feelings today.  Let's just be honest.  We all know when we're doing it, and I did it in spades.  And didn't spend a cent.  The office was loaded up with treats today flowing in from all directions.  It was also loaded with the stress of ringing phones and employees needing assistance, asking for special requests, etc. 

To explain, I am the operations/communications admin for a corporate office of about 170 employees.  I work at the front desk, greet visitors, answer the phone, handle incoming deliveries, make announcements, order supplies, process employee paperwork, handle office equipment, the security system, blah-blah-blah.  Most of the time enjoy it because I get to use my personality, cheer people up throughout the day, provide a zany but professional spirit and give good customer service.  But on the occasional day like today???  There were several times I wanted to grab my rhinestone handled letter opener (which makes me feel like Joan Crawford every time I use it) and gouge my eyes out like Oedipus.  Instead, I ate.  The ironic thing is that I've been worried about gaining weight lately, and those concerns coupled with seeing myself in a couple of unflattering photos and being unhappy with my mid-section only made it more difficult to refrain from eating.  I piled my plate high and somewhere in the back of my head I thought "who knows when this will come again?  Grab it while you may!!!!"

Of course, it's not the end of the world.  I skipped dinner tonight and will just go back to eating like normal again tomorrow, waiting until I'm hungry.  I can do it.  I can.  And the few pounds I've gained in the past week will melt off. No worries.  In fact they could just be the daily fluctuation of 3 lbs that they say occurs.  I can't pay any attention to the feeling that my thighs have grown two inches, it will only compel me to give in and say "Awww, what the fuck.  If I'm gonna have tree trunks for legs, let's live it the shit up!"  No.  Instead, remember how you lost the 30 pounds you've lost, how hard it was to get here, enjoy the results and keep up the good work. 

One of the events that helped to pack on a pound or two was a wedding I went to on Saturday at the Saint Mary's cathedral.  It's unarguably the most impressive church in town, nestled in the heart of downtown Austin.  Stepping in it immediately made me feel like a kid again, being with my Irish Catholic Grandmother, standing by her side as she lit a candle in remembrance.  There's something about the majesty and grandeur about Catholicism that makes the whole world seem just a little more sacred.  And when you step out into the world again, you take just a piece of that majesty with you.  So in spite of not being a practicing Catholic anymore, having found a church most folks would call New Age, I still love feeling like a Catholic again and will never pass up the opportunity to go to Midnight Mass.

Anyway, the service, and the bride were lovely.  She looked like a Princess out of a Disney film. 

Really.  I'm not just saying that, because she's not likely to see this.  And anyone who's first dance starts with "You're the One That I want" from Grease?  Come on.  I have to say, everything about this wedding was pretty extravagant.  The reception was held at the Driskoll, a very chi-chi hotel in Austin, it was stunningly decorated, everything was impeccable.  Her little girl dream come true.  And of course, being at a wedding, you can't help thinking about your own, even a little...even if it's not legal in most states...

                                                         

Me, I'd want something pretty informal, with a reception at a Barbecue Joint, seventy-five close friends and family, and a swing band.  I know barbecue and swing don't necessarily go together, but we'd make em fit.  Oh yeah, and the grooms cake...would have to be an armadillo cake, grey frosting on the outside and red velvet on the inside.  Tacky, maybe, but to my mind, delightful.  Of course, you've gotta get a man first...

Goldfinger?

I've never been one of those people who tans.  I think this comes from having been a very fat child starting around age twelve and feeling that my body was something to suffer through, not something to show off in even the most casual of manners.  In fact, when I started doing shows and discovered that most dressing rooms were big communal areas where men dressed and undressed in front of each other, quickly and efficiently, I was terrified.

I've never really minded being pale, though.  It's part of who I am and it's assertive in it's hold on me, meaning that I do not tan easily, being from Irish and Welsh stock.  Plus, avoiding the sun mixed with moisturization has kept me looking relatively young, which is one of the benefits.  And whenever I felt a little pasty I could always tell myself, "After all, Marilyn never tanned, would openly shun the sun,  and she was one of the most beautiful women in the world!" It was as if, by not tanning, I was one step closer to acheiving immortality.  At least that's what I old myself. 

The one thing I do regret, is that my skintone is not as even as everyone elses, my neck, face and arms are relatively tan, and that cuts off right around chest level, fading to pale.  I did a publicity photos for a show I'm working on currently, in which I play a chicken terrorized by the possibility of the processing machine, and it required showing a lot of leg.  Upon reviewing the picture, someone said "He has great legs.  Is he wearing white tights???"  Ummmm, no.

Solutions to this problem?  Well, there's always prolonged exposure to the sun, but I've always been a burner, and witnessing the searing sunburn my cousin experienced when we were around twelve, I knew I would never want to go through that.  Tanning bed?  Hells, no.  I've heard enough about them to keep me away.  Plus, I recently had a body scan and some abnormal cells were found under a mole.  They were removed and everything's fine, but I want to avoid the procedure again in the future.  I did try the lotions you by from the drugstore, but application is difficult, and they streak and leave you looking "drippy".  Mystic Tan?  Well, I'd tried it before and it seemed to work and was worth another try.  Besides, I had a free one left over from a two session pass I had purchased a few months ago.  Mystic Tan it would be!

I went in yesterday after work to the place across the street from my office.  I had exfoliated that morning which I'd been told would help keep the solution on for a little longer than a week.  The guy behind the counter should be the poster child for sunless tanning.  Lean, mid twenties, thick-black and tossled hair, almond shaped blue eyes, an over all tan, and a bewildered expression.  The expression was largely do to the line of four people that had formed in front of him as a small and "voluptuous" woman with bleach blonde hair talked assertively in his general direction and chatted with a man who seemed to be the manager.  She seemed friendly enough, but she was exactly what you do not want to be:  the seasoned, over blonde, over tanned, "coconut and lime" scented.  When she turned around I could see that sunless tanning was not the only thing she liked to do to enhance her physical appearance. 

After she made up her mind about all the "Power boosts", primers, scents and accelerators she wanted added to her potion, the line went pretty quickly and I stood before the poster child.  He was friendly enough, and I knew that if I wasn't careful I could easily lay down extra money on all the upgrades he was reccommending, so I steeled myself and kept the extras down to one lotion that was supposed to make the color look a little more natural.  I selected "Level 1", the lightest level and went into Room 11.  I had chosen to do the Versa Spa rather than the Mystic Tan, which is again supposed to make you look a little less orange.  I love Barry Manilow, but I do not want my skin to be his shade of citrus. 

I realize as I'm standing in the room by myself, naked as a shelled clam, that I don't really remember what I'm supposed to do from this point.  Lotion the fingers, nails, palms of your feet and palms of your hands.  Done.  Put on this blue cloth cap.  This part was a little more difficult.  The cap was oval shaped, a little tight, and I couldn't tell why it had a mate next to it until I turned and saw the much larger, white shower cap.  I was apparently wearing a blue booty on my head.  Whoops.  I peeled the booty off and put it on my foot, it's mate joined it momentarily.  Next I put on the lotion I'd bought, getting it everywhere except for the small of my back, which I couldn't reach no matter how I contorted myself.  Then I stood in the machine and pressed the green button.  The moment of truth.

A mechanical female voice said "Get into position 1".  Position 1???????  What was that?  I craned my head to view the chart on the wall, but couldn't find position 1 in time.  I leapt into what I hoped I remembered correctly from 4 months ago being position 1.  Then Position 2, 3, and 4, moving into positions that resembled "walk like an Egyptian", and before I knew it, I was sprayed, finished, and left feeling a little like those women in "Gold Finger" who are all painted up and dead from lack of skin ventilation.  When I stepped out and checked the mirror, I couldn't see anything yet because I'd chosen the "clear" option as opposed to the Extra Bronzer, but I could smell it all right.  So home I went. 

My roommates and I hung out and snacked and watched television, and about four hours later, I could see the results.  Mild, but definitely there.  The toning is even, not at all orange, and while no one would mistake me for George Hamilton, I'm not pasty.  Which makes the procedure a success in my mind.  Will I make it a weekly habit?  Time will tell. 

In the meantime, I have a busy weekend ahead including a wedding and a party/benefit called the Rubber Duck Party which benefits Aids Services of Austin, followed by a rehearsal for a Cabaret to benefit the Zilker Summer Musical, and a birthday party for my little cousin.   Will report back later.

Day 1- "I resolve"!

I'm in my grandmother's cozy, pale pink house, nestled in small town Iowa.  I'm maybe three years old and  and I need to use the bathroom.  I'm still of the age that I can't do it by myself and so my Uncle takes my hand and leads me across the faded wooden floor past the piano in the darkened living room into the restroom and as we go we are having a conversation, which is kind of new for me.  My uncle has never really stopped to ask me questions.  Men usually don't.  Women do.  Women talk to me, wipe my face with a Kleenex, bend down and put their soft faces next to mine to talk, play pretend if I ask them.  Men always seem too busy.  But today my uncle asks what could be a harmless question.  The kind of question you ask a kid that you don't really have anything to say to.  "What's your favorite color?".  "Purple", I answered with certainty.  Purple was plush, welcoming, dusky.  My favorite.  "Oh you don't want that for a favorite color", he laughs as he helps me off with my pants, "Purple is an old woman's color". 

And here I'm thinking "I like old women.  Old women are nice."  I think of Grandma Duck in the Disney comics.  She wears purple, and glasses and bakes piles of chocolate chip cookies.  And still, I guess I wouldn't want to be her.  So, as directed, I pick a new color to make him happy, and not feel his scorn.  I pick blue, I think.  (Blue was still my acknowledged favorite color up until a couple of years ago, when I decided, after seven years of being admittedly gay, that it was safe to reclaim purple) I finish peeing, zip up my pants and head out the door having had my first experience of shame for who I am.  At least the first one that I can remember. 

There would be others, I mean we all have them.  Adults are constantly shaming kids for one reason or another.  Shouting at them for picking their nose, farting in public, or in my case for wearing a red table cloth around my waist, kicking up my heels and pretending I was Mary Poppins in front of the television as my stepfather walks in.  And each of us, I hope, slowly realizes that a time comes to tell the world of scorners which has come to include ourselves, to fuck off. 

I read a quote recently by E.E. Cummings that really resonated with me.  It says "To be nobody but yourself - in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else - means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting.”


I fight it all the time.  I fight it as a writer ignoring that ever present critic within long enough to sit in front of the computer.  I fight it as a singer trying to find my own voice and not just parrot the great voices that have been crooning in my ear since I was a kid collecting old swing records and listening to them in my room.  I struggle with it as a dater, pushing down the urge to tone down any flamboyant quality until I can suss out exactly the kind of guy my date will be attracted to...that's the fight.  It's also the fight when I find myself riding that swinging pendulum to the other side and exaggerating those selfsame gestures and bitchy phrases in rebellion against a world that has told me that kind of shit is unattractive.  I also fight that fight when I meet who I think at the moment is the man of my dreams, and I find myself waist deep in their thoughts, passions and philosophies, leaving my own behind to dive into their world.  I fight it as part of a crowd, when that crowd is metaphorically pissing on someone I know doesn't deserve it and it would be so easy to just piss along with them, go with the proverbial flow, in order to be accepted. 
 
It's a good fight, an inevitable fight, and one I sometimes win, and sometimes, not so much win.  It's a great big part of being happy and at peace in this world, and jotting down my thoughts and foibles, successes and the surprises I encounter along the way, that's the loose aim of this blog.  And I hope, in writing it to be fair and compassionate to everyone I write about, but to be truthful as well.  People are funny, me included, and safe writing is deadly and unfulfilling, and would be another way to lose the game of being one's self.  So I'm vowing right here and now, not to do it.  Hopefully it will bring you some amount of pleasure, and make you feel cozy and comforted as you fight your own good fight.
 
Joe