“I want 16 more of these”, he says casually as if commenting on the rain outside. I remind myself why I’m here, what I want, and I say nothing as I stare out beyond the hard bodies and weight machines to my other self, the self I’m moving towards. “Eight, seven, six”, I hear the numbers that lead me to relief as my body shakes. I know that tomorrow will remind me in very clear ways of what I’ve done today. Every time I feel the pain I will smile and see myself, my future self, with gratitude. “Good job, Kiddo. Drink some water, you’ve got 30 seconds and then I want 20 more.”
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I am 5′ 3 and 3/4″. I just say five, four to keep it simple. My friends tell me that I seem much taller than that, and I suppose I feel more like 5’10″. I love to dance, especially salsa. Dancing makes me smile out loud. All the bits of life that aren’t important slip to the floor and you squish them with your turns and cha-cha-cha’s. I find that most salsa dancers are very cool people. They are there because they love the music, the energy, and they love sharing this interest with other cool people. Now and again there’s a challenge.
One evening I danced with a guy shorter than I who stared at my chest the entire time. Was he too shy to raise his head? Ummm, I don’t think so. His eyes pierced through me. After one dance I’d had it. He asked to dance again and I declined, walking to a nearby table I made instant friends with a fellow female who’d witnessed the scenario and didn’t appreciate his lack of manners either. A couple of songs later he asked a second time, if I’d dance with him. I said no, then danced with a woman instead. I’m not sure why, but he persisted, and asked a third time. ”I will, only if you look me in the eye and stop staring at my chest.” I said as nicely as possible. He didn’t feel like dancing after that.
I look up at people’s eyes all the time. I have to, most people are taller than I am. This hasn’t deterred me from dancing with imperfect strangers. I’ll have to post some of my awesome experiences on another day. Today I’m grateful for those who take the time to truly see me by looking in my eyes.
Horror. I don’t like it. Never have.
(phone, tangerine, caper, river, lemon, bassist, twilight, Quan Yin, moon)
It’s spring here in Madrid, and it’s a little chillier than L.A.
I’d been following the weather before I moved out here
and was a bit worried about the cold weather.
I know, low 60′s is not cold compared to Chicago, New York,
even San Francisco…
I’ve lived in Michigan and Maryland.
I know cold.
But I’ve been in southern California for so long
that low 60′s feels cold to me.
Hell, it’s been 80º on Xmas day!
So as Google told me that it was 15º & 17º celsius in Madrid
I was preparing for cold times.
It’s been so gorgeous, sunny and warm.
Today it was 24º celsius.
That is 75º fahrenheit.
Twenty-four is my new favorite number. Veinticuatro.
Moving the stuff of our lives
boxes labeled, crossed out, relabeled
heavy, light, X-tra fragile
kitchen, bedroom, office
things that make us smile, hope, dream
We keep them to remind us
to acknowledge our existance
I have stuff, therefore I am someone
I have good taste
Box, after box holds stories
What would we do if we had no thumbs?
We’d find a way to haul our stuff differently.
Two weeks of moving my things in L.A.
Now I help Zani
move her things from Marbella, her life.
Both in transition, a new phase
A phase filled with boxes – in her case
very few boxes – in my case.