Friday, November 20, 2009

Watching the clothes, like Chrissie Hynde

Sitting in the overstuffed chair-ottoman combo, I'd just finished my second and last glass of red (told myself I had to ration). Tonight, home alone and left to my own devices (dirty), clicking through Facebook and gossip blogs waiting on a load of towels to dry. Yes, Virginia, even a fun and frolicking pepper pot spends an odd Friday night doing nothing more than her laundry. I do, however, sit atop the washer during the unbalanced and banging spin cycle. I am, after all, me.

Told myself I should blog. Haven't in a while, sometimes tired or written out, often unsure of what and how to share some personal tales and torrid thoughts. Toyed with the idea of exploring more under the veil of fiction, blur the line between me and me.

I do love to write, express the noise from the buzz in my head.

"Fine," I ration, "If you blogged exactly one year ago tonight, you will not break the self-imposed-two-cocktail rule and drink until sleep is dizzy or you find old trouble. You will write."

And one year ago tonight I blogged.

So I poured a Hansen Vanilla Cola over loads of ice (chances are I’ll crunch through it on my right back molar despite the new sealant over old) and tuned to an 80’s station over Internet radio on the Squeezebox™ (dirtier), a gift from the manfriend. He’s a gem, knows and keeps on hand the kind of wine I drink and brand of soy milk I prefer. We shared a cozy late Sunday afternoon, him splayed on the couch reading the paper, me in the kitchen rustling up an herb-roasted chicken and sweet potato oven fries supper. I think we’re segueing into relationship territory, but I’d still introduce him as “My friend, 'Manfriend'” in social circles if we had any; he’s yet to meet my friends or spattering of family and vice versa. Whether that’s on track or something else I can't say. He strikes me as a one-woman-guy. I don't entirely know what kind of girl I am, but he is the cheese to my macaroni.

Funny I wrote a year ago about my unhappy-hypothyroid. This morning I went for the annual “well woman” exam, the yearly lube and tube, feet firmly planted in heated metal stirrups covered with fuzzy mittens-cum-pot-holders printed with the Valtrex logo (which doesn’t instill much confidence in expected cooch cleanliness.) Today marked the end of a nearly years natural approach to treatment; a few months into the traditional daily pill meant to trick my throat gland into performing, after much reading and research I approached my doctor and suggested a holistic plan - more soy and iron fueled spinach in the daily diet, yoga and coconut oil and selenium and Vitamin D3. She agreed. Three tubes of deeply burgundy blood now await spinning and lab analysis. I've been more tired than usual, get the blues on occasion and my finger and toenails are brittle regardless of the biotin supplements that make my hair grow even faster and thicker - all signs of an endocrine system off kilter.

They inspected my still gray-black big toenail; her assistant called fungus, the doctor bruising from traumatic injury. We all agreed I should simply paint over it. Did I mention the diaphragm fitting? Something slightly porno, off-putting and oddly hilarious about reaching deep into oneself to fish for a hard edge while in a gown that ties front and another set of eyes at stool level. Talk about comfort with one's body and health (the secret to swift removal, ladies, a good hard push or two - Kegel it out.)

Funny I wrote a year ago about a live performance at the art center in Boulder. This past Saturday returned for a theatrical dance program, “40 Women Over age 40.” Each year (although this was my first) choreographer Nancy Cranbourne puts together a dance company of ladies over the age of 40, some former pros, some not. The show was titled “Feels like Falling” and many of the avant garde pieces dealt with loss and the process of healing after. Although I couldn’t really groove on interpretations of sour relationships, marriage and motherhood, the idea of figuratively and literally falling to the ground and laying alone for a bit before other arms pull you back to feet - with help from your own legs - was moving. And I saw something else. The soft bellies, the frontal pooch, the near FUPA. The small, converse slope of stomach found in even the most fit, sinewy bodies of older ladies. Jutting out just below the breasts, it looks happy and made from whole milk and sweet sugar cookies, like the tummy on a toddler girl.

Most ladies get them. It is our destiny. And a nice soft spot to allow ones head to rest on, lips to brush and hands to explore.

And it smells like sweet sugar cookies.

1 comment:

jorg wobblington lopez said...

I have always suspected the ladies partaking in spin cycle fun, and you have confirmed my suspicions. I have had sex with a warmed up watermelon.

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