Posts tagged ‘Beauty’
Happy Birthday, Little Brother
May 11, 1986 was the most significant Mother’s Day our parents will ever celebrate. I don’t remember you coming home from the hospital, but I do recall sneaking up to see you in your crib. We fought like wild animals until I went off to college, but unconditional forgiveness followed each of our clashes.
In my absence, we started to grow closer, and I wish we had more time to continue on that meaningful trajectory. Our visit to New York was a blast as you bargained in Chinatown and navigated the subway. People started to ask if we were fraternal twins. I took this as a compliment because everyone I know thinks you’re incredibly handsome. We laugh and sometimes even talk the same. The high-pitched hoot distinguished us in theaters, hallways, and classrooms. I’ve hardly laughed like that, though, since you left. I wish I could, if only just to hear your voice.
Yesterday, I saw the live oak tree planted in your memory. Dad can see it from his office, and there’s plenty of space for its roots and branches to flourish. It will outlive me and my children and my grandchildren, and I like the thought of that. I wish you could have lived to see old age. Maybe I will be fortunate enough to do so.
Your birthday always coincided with my return from college for the summer. When I visited home this weekend, I almost expected you to drive up in your red Civic and talk smack with me. Pluto’s not fat anymore, and we have a brand new toilet upstairs. That’s about all that’s changed since January. Seems strange. It still baffles me that time has the audacity to progress as usual in your absence.
There’s a hole in my heart, but I can’t seem to bleed to death. I feel at once devastated and honored to live the rest of my life in your memory. The dichotomies that often govern our existence are overwhelming. Perhaps, over time, you can help me reconcile the contradictions, loose ends, shades of gray, and injustices within this life.
It’s so difficult to articulate my love for you, and I never had the chance to tell you just how proud I was. Am. I guess that’s because all of those feelings of compassion, fondness, and respect we shared went without saying. I know you knew how much I cared. And for that, above all things, I am endlessly grateful.
Happy Birthday, Alex. The intense sorrow following your death can never compare to the endless joy your life created. Today marks your twenty-third year. And in death, as in life, your gifts continue to arrive.
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Collecting Shells
(written May 2002)
Collecting shells
Some people spend most of their trip to the beach
Doing it
Others, occasionally
The best thing
To do
Is stand right where
The ocean’s brim meets the shore
Each wave
Brings in the new
And replaces the old
Shells
Many options
Limited time
Few worth putting in the bucket
One, in particular
Might catch the eye
But seen hitting
The bottom of the pail
Already has lost
Its luster
The pretty ones are always the broken ones
The plain white,
Complete
Shape, size, color, texture
Smell, taste?
All taken into account
The bar rises
As the collection increases
Carelessness,
Selectivity?
There it is!
It
The
One
Floating, lingering
In the foam
Fluttering, fumbling, tumbling,
Hiding?
Whether or not the imagination’s figment
The Moon speeds up the tide
And on One
The
It
Slides past
With the next wave
Out of reach
Out of dive
Out of mind
Out of sight
So good
That it is missed
Without being experienced
Let’s ignore the
Sandcastles
And plastic shovels,
White tummies,
SPF 30
Sometimes the best ones get away.
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I Didn’t Mean to Be Mean
I didn’t mean to be mean
When I screamed, when I wept
I didn’t want to be wanted
I just needed to be kept
I’m so used to being used
Your pure intentions
Are abuse
If you’d struck me, if you’d fuck me
You’re like the others –
Cold but lucky
It was simple being easy
So I blame you
When you please me
For saving me from deadly habits
That die hard
For making me smile
For taking me far
Far from here
Far from blue
Further from home
Furthest from you
So, to that end, I must implore:
If you hated me
Would I love you more?
Disparate but never desperate
We’re violently in love
As luck would have it
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The (Out of) Shape of Things
For the first time in my life, I have tits.
Don’t get too excited: I’m not filling up shirts with a set of 36Ds, but I think I can safely throw away my training bra. That’s what happens when a person stops working out obsessively. So, unlike the loons on tv, I’m telling all my friends to throw away their running shoes, quit the South Beach Diet, and park it for a while.
We are constantly hearing that obesity is a HUGE problem in America (which I don’t deny), but I think it’s more accurate to identify the discordance between body images and body realities as the bigger epidemic. As a collegiate athlete at a prestigious university, I was once surrounded by a population with a higher risk of eating disorders than the general public: I wasn’t out of place with my obsessive compulsive tendencies or relentless drive toward “perfection.”
A look at my training log would have suggested I was in the best shape of my life when I ran cross country and track in college. I averaged about 60 miles per week, supplemented with pool workouts on Monday and Wednesday mornings and weight training on Tuesdays and Thursdays. During each of the three seasons (cross country in the fall, indoor track in the winter, and outdoor track in the spring), races occurred on Fridays or Saturdays. A lot of endurance coaches use an athlete’s resting heart rate as a barometer for aerobic fitness. The average adult female has a resting heart rate of 75 beats per minute. Mine dipped as low as 44.
The epitome of cardiovascular fitness, I still couldn’t honestly call myself “healthy.” My muscles were constantly sore and my joints achy. I began seeing a psychiatrist for bulimia during my sophomore year, and he required me to take weekly blood tests to make sure my iron and electrolyte levels did not drop too low. I tricked him by chugging Powerade the night before each test and by taking over-the-counter iron pills with my meals. He always seemed confounded that my levels appeared normal, and I found his naïvety discouraging.
One of the events that precipitated my resignation from the team occurred at the end of my junior year. My assistant coach pulled me aside after a track workout and asked me “if [my] bulimia had improved.” Apparently, one of my teammates had told her about my eating disorder. Why she let over a year pass before approaching me about it seems baffling and irresponsible, especially considering her similar past. Her expression of concern came too late, and it reinforced my belief that many members of the running community tacitly accept (even promote) the prevalence of eating disorders among female endurance athletes.
After I quit competing, I slowly weaned myself from pounding the pavement. Now I rarely run more than two days a week, and I am proud to say that that’s OK with me. If I run more than a few miles, the burning sensation in my chest feels unfamiliar and surprisingly delightful. I have come a long way since the time when I ran over 1,000 days in a row or did at least 800 daily sit-ups. It’s taken me months of being low-key to begin to refuel the passion I had when I started running over a decade ago. I’ll train seriously (but not compulsively!!) again when I’m ready, and I think that day is quickly approaching.
I just hope I don’t lose my nice rack.
The Lollygabber 
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