Gym Culture and the Female Condition: and now I remember why I stopped going —

You walk into the gym and they have to scan your membership card. Inevitably, you have to interrupt a conversation to get one of the juiced up trainers to notice you.

I mean, don’t get me wrong.  I actually prefer they don’t notice me.  It’s those blissful times when they are so busy flirting with the girl in the spandex hot pants that I slip by unseen that I am most happy.

You see, 

when I go to the gym

I want to be invisible–

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Wait, wasn’t I mad at you? or Women v Men: Sorry, not sorry!

As you lay there in bed and address me gruffly one last time before turning your back towards me, I wondered, again, what it was that I had done?  What had I done wrong?  Did I disrespect you?  Did I ignore you?  Did I offend you?  Did I break your heart?

I think to tap you on the shoulder and question you about it.  I think to tap you on the shoulder and

tell you
I’m sorry,”

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Understanding food: Italy as a family–

As a senior in high school I moved to Italy to live with a family. Before moving there, I had many preconceived notions about Italian culture and what the Italian lifestyle was like. Having always had problems with my weight fluctuating, I worried slightly over the abundance of pasta dishes and massive meals.

A handful of times, as a youngster, I had been to Italy (and around Europe) to visit my expatriate aunt and uncle during summer vacations, so I had some idea of what my time in Europe would entail. I also seemed to remember, however, that regardless of the elaborate meals, I always seemed to lose weight on these short vacations, so I wasn’t obsessing over avoiding (host) family meals like the plague. Continue reading

Oh, yeah boundaries! (And why I forgot I had them)

For a while I have understood that I am in a codependent relationship. Perhaps to begin to work on my issues (or, even, distance myself from them), I have been reading material about similar situations, what they mean, why they happen, and their consequences.

My research has brought to light many things I didn’t know – or, perhaps, I did know, but I convinced myself that I didn’t (in order not to suffer them so profoundly).  There are the normal concepts – fear of abandonment (both of being abandoned as well as abandoning my partner that is hurting), the feeling that I’ve held on so long that if I just wait a little longer it will all get so much better and have all been so worth it, letting myself be convinced that I deserve the treatment I’m receiving because he’s having a bad day (everyday), fixing all of his mistakes because he doesn’t care about consequences, and letting myself be controlled by the fear of what he’ll do and the mistakes he’ll make if I ever truly leave…

But what I wasn’t considering, 

was the fact

that I have boundaries.

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The Old School Yogi v the Yoga Poseur: or Yoga, it’s all the rage —

People that never did yoga are now, all of a sudden, all about it.  People that, up until recently, poked fun at that “new-agey, grass-eating spiritual crap” now live by it.  Yoga used to be this niche market where those of us that did it were so cool because we were so different from everyone else.  Similar to the tattoo market, the fetish market, the drama kids and every other clique group you can think of, we identified with a small (and in our eyes) elite group of yogis that helped us to better define ourselves when, otherwise, we were lacking.

We knew

who we were

because

we knew 

who

we weren’t —

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The Great Depression: and The World Standard

At what point do you admit that if it’s you against the world that you must be wrong about something If you are constantly angry, if you constantly feel slighted, if every day is a fight – at what point do you stop to think: 

I must be

wrong

about something —

For every four days of fighting, you have two of apologies and one that really doesn’t seem so bad.  Then the final night passes, and it all starts again from the beginning like a broken record that keeps spinning the same lilting melody.  Your life becomes this daunting, unfulfilling thing, and you can’t help but to wonder why?

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My left hand does all my dirty work —

The other day as I (stupidly) reached for a hot baking dish with my left hand, I stopped to wonder.  (Rather luckily for my left hand, I might say – but the fact that my mind can’t comprehend that even once the heat has been removed from an object that object, however, is still hot is another topic entirely.)  I am pretty much right-handed.  Yes, I can scribble down a note with my left hand, and, at some point during my childhood, I considered pursuing

a career in

avant-garde 

caricatures

drawn with my left hand

However people always seemed slightly offended by the finished product.  I could never understand why exactly… But that pretty much put the kibosh on that idea… Continue reading