Thursday, March 5, 2015

My Addiction


I'm not an addict. But, I was in denial.  Then I said it over and over, as if saying it out loud would make it true. I AM NOT AN ADDICT!  Words can lie, but actions don't.  Especially when you repeat them over and over.  The way an addict does.

My name is Marie and I am an addict.  

I'm not addicted to:

Alcohol
Drugs
Smoking
Sex
Gambling
My phone
Video games
Junk food
Or proper grammar & spelling (obviously)



I'm addicted to my pole.

The thing about pole is, there are so many things you can do on it that you can never know or be able to do it all.  Which means you always have something to aspire to.  Which is both really good and really bad.  Especially for someone with a hyperactive perfectionistic, competitive side.  So even though I have some cool pole moves in my repertoire, I'm never satisfied.  It's never good enough for me.  I want better.  I want more.  Like any other addict.

I spend my days trying not to look at other pole dancers' videos and photos, but then the thoughts fester until I give in to them.  Then I head to my bedroom, strip down to my underwear in the middle of whatever I'm doing in the middle of the day to give it a whirl.  Feeding my insatiable need to feel defeated.  (I just did this very thing 2 minutes ago while writing this post when I went to link my video and caught a glimpse of someone else's pole video.)

I'm always seeking the next hit.
And it's never enough. 
I'm never enough.  

Me in flag.
It doesn't matter that I can do this.  Because I've been able to do this for a month.  Maybe even close to a year now.  So while it may look impressive to you, what I see is that I'm not perfectly straight and my feet aren't together.  (And WHAT exactly was I thinking with that wall color?)

Yesterday morning, even though my arms were still burning from my last pole workout, I decided to attempt an aerial flag. Meaning, you start on the pole, not from the ground. Which greatly increases the difficulty.  But, I'm strong, so I can do this.  I can so do this.


I CAN'T DO THIS!
I HATE THIS VIDEO THAT PROVES I CAN'T DO IT! 
AND.....I SUCK ^20!

And then somehow none of the things I can do matter.  All that matters is I can't do that.  Whatever 'that' is at any given time.  I know it's not really pole that I'm addicted to.  It's self defeatism.  But, it's the one thing I'm truly awesome at.  So why would I want to quit that?  Because it hurts so good.

Monday, March 2, 2015

Lust


Your heart pounds.  Feasting your eyes on the object of your lust.  If only.  Imagination running wild with possibilities.  A visual daydream of what could be, if only for a moment.  Before it ends.  Because primal passion always ends tragically.  Sometimes our appetites aren't meant to be fed.   Sometimes starving our desires is the only sane thing to do.  

I've learned this lesson over and over.
I try to contain my lust.  
I really do.
But it's just so tempting...

It was a Sunday morning and I couldn't stop my eyes from wandering.  Lust does not take a day of rest apparently.  Especially at Target.  Especially in the shoe aisle.  That's where I saw them, the sexiest and tallest stilettos I'd ever seen.  Ones that would surely lead to my untimely death if I wore them.  I fantasized about having the balance and commitment to discomfort to justify buying them.  But I knew it was a delusion.  Somehow, I had the strength to walk away and leave them there on the shelf.  For now anyway.


Until the next time I was at Target.  When I visited them again.  My lust compounding.
There had to be a way to justify buying them.  
And I would find it.

So I did.  It wasn't so I could dance on a pole in them.  It wasn't for a fancy dinner.  It wasn't to put them on display on the shelf in my closet for ogling purposes.  Which would only lead to my youngest daughter sneaking them off the shelf to wear while she brushes her teeth.  Which accounts for most of the wear and tear (and toothpaste drippings) on my heels.  

No, my plan was even more creative than that.


So I texted friends.  Tried them on.  Put them in my cart.  And bought them.  Finally. 

So I couldn't find the scotch tape and all I had was Christmas robot paper from 8 years ago.
It's the thought that counts.  Right?

And wrapped them up and gave them to my friend who is a complete heel whore for her birthday. 
She could even dance in them.  And she did. 

Thursday, February 26, 2015

My Stalker


I wasn't ready to talk about it before now.  No one wants to be stalked.  Much less to talk about it.  Every move watched.  Close.  Then closer.  That's when you start to notice things out of place or missing altogether.  Wondering what they'll do next.  While trying desperately not to engage the pursuer and make the situation worse.    I know because I have a 13 year old daughter.

Oh she pretends to ignore me, especially when she's with her friends.  But, I know her dismissive attitude masks her true feelings of disdain, curiosity, judgement, wonder and ultimately embarrassment.  I know this because I was once a 13 year old girl myself and I had all these feelings towards my own mom.

I felt perfectly entitled to go through all her things, make her life difficult, take a few bucks from her wallet without asking and analyze her every move, simply because she was my mom.  Thus, not even human, but both subhuman and superhuman at the same time.

It's not our fault really.  We're females, born to over analyze and compare ourselves to every other woman on the planet.  It's what we do.  And we're damn good at it.   But, there's a whole different standard with a mother-daughter relationship.  And it's an impossible double standard.  I'll never be enough while simultaneously being too much.  If not in this way, then in that one.

It's only natural that one day the stalker becomes the stalked.  Because of the circle of life and all.  So, I'll continue to hug her when we're home if she'll allow me to and hold her at an arm's length when we're in public.  I'll let her criticize my outfit knowing it will mysteriously disappear from my closet the next day.  But most of all, I'm going to stop being so hard on myself, for her sake.  Knowing she emulates what she sees me do.

 Because of the circle of life and all.  





Monday, February 23, 2015

Work Ethic





I've been more focused on work lately.  I know it's because a deadline is looming.  And that deadline is summer, when my kids are home, which makes stringing coherent thoughts (that aren't motherly, martyrish rants) together difficult.  Never mind conceiving clever,  character development and coherent plot lines.  Just kidding, I don't even have a preconceived plot, I'm just writing whatever pops into my head.  Which makes writing this book kinda like reading it.  I don't know what's going to happen next either.

I read something recently that we are happier at work than we are at rest.  (You can play Russian roulette with the books in my recent Goodreads read list to determine the source because I don't remember.)  Oh we think we're going to be happier on our own time, when we retire or if we win the lottery.  But, this is completely untrue.  And this notion feeds our inner sloth.  Too much undirected leisure time leaves us unfocused and depressed.

When I'm busy in the work zone, I'm creative and productive.  I feel alive and almost unstoppable.  Almost because work always needs to be balanced with play.  And then, kids get sick, snowpocalypses and gorgeous sunny days that shouldn't be wasted are constantly attempting to divert my attention and suck me right back into sloth-leisure mode.  Which is just plain evil.

As with anything, the hardest part of getting down to work is always getting started.  Or re-started as the case may be.  And to keep going even when the momentum of the initial buzz of euphoric creative juices has tapered off and the unglamorous and relentless work of committing to the project and seeing your vision through begins.   Simultaneously  conquering the demons in your head who whisper you're stupid for doing it, because you suck. Unless they shout.  Do it anyway.

Til one day you finish and hit...

B-I-N-G-O

...then,  find a new project and start all over again.












  

Friday, February 20, 2015

In the Driver's Seat


I'd dreaded the day for 16 years.  And yesterday was that day.  My oldest got his driver's license.  

“Making the decision to have a child - it is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body. ” 
― Elizabeth Stone

Now, my heart is no longer walking outside me.  It's driving.  A car.  At fast speeds.  With strangers.  Who could be high, drunk, texting or taking selfies while driving.  Or just plain stupid.  Or all of the above.

I'm no longer in the driver's seat.
My son is.

Which scares the shit out of me.  It's not that he's not an incredible kid.  He is.  He has a take charge attitude, he's smart, kind, thoughtful, empathetic and hard working.  It's just that he's 16 with miles of road ahead of him with lots of potholes, caution signs and road work.  And he's not going to see all of them.  Because none of us do.  And my role as co-pilot is being phased out slowly.  I never even taught him how to drive a stick yet.  But, he knows enough.  And he'll learn the rest with experience.

Cause he's in the driver's seat now.






Monday, February 16, 2015

Phone It In


I didn't want it.  And everyone knew it.  I wanted to suffer.  To be a technomartyr.  To live in the Stone Age.  Where people only communicated with each other by grunting and pointing.  Because I think I could actually be pretty good at that.  What I'm not good at is anything that requires a manual. And patience. Time.  Organization. And tender loving care.  So essentially, I'm bad at everything.  But, especially anything with buttons, wires and a charger.

So of course that's why my husband went out and bought me the iphone 6.

My old unsmart, bimbo, barbie phone, died a slow and painful death.  And me constantly complaining about it's slow and painful death was tempting my husband's patience.  Which is really saying something.  Since he's the logical/researchy sort,  he asked someone in the technoliterate field what kind of phone would be best for me.  And when he brought up the i phone and was told "that's for old people who don't know how to navigate a phone", he knew it was 'the one'.  

All I had to do was accept that I lived in the modern world and get a protective case for it.

Which is easier said than done when you're as stubborn and Neanderthalish as I am.  My kids were way more excited about my new phone than me.  Not realizing of course that now that I had a phone with a pass code on it that they'd be locked out.  And I would have privacy from my kids reading all my texts.  Meaning now, my friends and I could now complain about our kids with f-bombs even, via text.  Which is obviously what the medium was intended for.  Venting.   

Except, I'm the world's crappiest texter, even on a world class phone.

It's totally true.  I don't check my texts often.  And even when I do,  I'm famous for mistexting and sending to the wrong recipient.  And in my haste to mistext combined with autocorrect I often look inebriated.  And I DO NOT drunk text.  Ever.  What I don't do is talk on my phone.  And I don't play games or have any apps, besides instagram.  Which I'm on way too often because my new phone has a fantastic camera.  And I LOVE to take pictures because all I need to do is point.  Grunting is optional.  And IG is addictive.  I think it's obvious who's fault this is.  Clearly it's my husband's.  I should call him on it, but that seems like too much work.  So I'm just going to phone this one in and call it a draw.

And this is my Neanderthal approved bamboo case.  Of course I instagramed this photo.
You can feed my addiction....errr...I mean follow me here.  



Thursday, February 12, 2015

Brain vs. Butt


I can't tell you how much it pisses me off that I could make more money with my butt than my brain. If I just swapped my occupation, writing, with my hobby, pole dance, I could actually earn a real living.  Not that I have any intention of doing that.  Not that I'm ashamed of my body, because at 45 I have to work my ass off for this ass.  It's just that, I'd rather flaunt my brains.  But there's not much interest in intellect these days.

We live in a visual world. 
Where images trump words.
Thus, tits win over wits.  


And let me be honest, I don't have breasts to speak of.  Nor am I going to go buy them.  Or photoshop them in.  Because I like to keep things real.  And as you know, there's not much interest in real these days.  Because delusion and distraction are all the rage.  

While I could cash in and sellout, that's not what drives me.  What drives me are thoughts and ideas.  Books and documentaries.  Possibilities and probabilities.  Authenticity and empathy.  That's my inspiration and motivation.  However, unpopular and under appreciated it is in today's society. 

Of course the choice of how I'm seen by others isn't mine to make.
But, I promise...
My brain is far more intriguing than my butt.









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