A titillating quandary

This post brings up a discussion I've been pondering for many years, and have been a bit wary to address, mostly because even my own feelings about the topic are so incredibly mixed.  Bear (or bare, which might be more appropriate) with me, feminist friends, I think there are some interesting questions in here that as "liberated" women we're trained to ignore or dismiss.  Perhaps instead they're worth discussing.

So, a couple of days ago, I walked into the locker room at the gym and was greeted with, "Hey, are you a dancer here?" I looked over to see a slight, blonde girl, who was probably about my age, but who had pretty clearly lived a lot harder than I ever have.  She was maybe six inches shorter than me, and every part of her five-foot frame was absolutely tiny.  Like someone had put her in a Willy Wonka machine and miniature-ized her.  Her hair had probably been processed 20 times this month alone, and her smile was more trained than genuine, but there was something very girlishly pretty and yet authoritative, about this diminutive woman.  She was also strong and toned, in a way that made me think she could probably back-handspring her way through the locker room, and do a layout, full-twist landing onto the treadmill in the cardio room.

As she stood there, naked, looking at me and waiting for an answer, I contemplated how to respond to this question.  I mean, yes, I'm a dancer.  But I knew she didn't exactly mean ballet.  This little powerhouse was a stripper, an occupation that has fascinated me as often as it's turned my stomach.

Learn something new every day

So, I haven't blogged for a long time.  Okay, a really long time.  I thought at first I'd write some kind of long apology, listing all the various excuses for my absence, then reprimanding myself publicly for creating the excuses, and then coming up with some passionate manifesto for how I am going to write all of the time - no - every day from now on.  I thought about making myself write 100 times that I will not take a day off from blogging ever again, even if I don't feel like it, because writing something  is better than nothing at all.  And that getting started is the hardest part and the first step...blah blah blah.

Fuck, no. That just seemed pathetic.

But!  It got me thinking about lists.  I fucking love lists.  Love 'em.  Like a beyond-all-reason-and-sense, cannot-function-without-them kind of love. So, instead of a self-deprecating, pitiful diatribe about my shortcomings as a writer, I am going to write a list. (Hear that? It even sounds cool. Lisssst.)

Here it is: My list of 50 things I've learned since the last time I blogged:

This boot was made for walking

I have a torn Achilles tendon.  Fabulous. 

The whole time I've been injured, I've been looking up websites where people talk about this stuff - real people.  Not searching for medical advice; rather, looking for real people's stories of what they did and how they recovered.  I found my searches pretty lacking.  People really aren't talking about it.  Which seems like a shame to me - and unfortunate.  We have this huge resource of the Internet, so why aren't we sharing?  I'm not talking life stories or sex tapes here - just a little information on what actually happens in real life when you're injured.  Or sick.  Or struggling with something.

I think part of the problem we face in our society - particularly in the medical community - is just that: No one is talking.  Because it's hard.  And sometimes painful.  But I really believe it's necessary.  After coming through cervical cancer, I will talk to anyone who will listen about the importance of women's healthcare and preventative medicine.  I will go on for hours about pushing your doctors and being aggressive about treatment.  I'll also talk about eating disorders.  I've actually spoken to teen/pre-teen dance classes about that one.  People need to be talking.  Science only gets us so far; we need to learn from each other, too.

Cap'n Crunchfoot goes to the ER

Since Monday, every time I've thought about this morning, I've gotten that sick, butterfly feeling in the pit of my stomach.  The kind of dread, mixed with fear, mixed with nerves, mixed with hope feeling.  I just hope that by lunchtime I'll be able walk around a little lighter.  One way or another.  Whatever happens, everything leading up to this morning has made me take a really careful look at my priorities.

As I believe I've mentioned, I have this foot injury.  What started in the top of the foot somehow moved into the Achilles, and I've basically been in a constant state of "What the fuck is wrong with you, ya damn foot?" for nearly three months now.  I've tried pretty much everything - rest, no rest, ice, heat, cross-training, more rest, stretching...you name it.  Except...well...go to the doctor.  (Yeah, duh.)

Time to make the doughnuts

There's a going away party tonight for a friend of mine.  She's moving to Oklahoma.  To the middle of nowhere.  To write.  Indefinitely.  A Staten Island native and Brooklyn resident for more years than I can count, she is moving to Oklahoma.  To write.

She and I haven't been particularly close in the last few years, not since I moved back to New York.  So when I found out this weekend that that's what her plans are, it sparked a rather interesting conversation with my husband that's been kickin' around in my head since yesterday afternoon.

A couple of months ago, my husband and I watched a documentary on the life of Charles Bukowski.  Bukowski worked for the United States Postal Service for over 30 years; it's no wonder he spoke of work as torture.  But this idea of work, the way we know it and the way it runs our society, being torturous, doesn't just apply to jobs as notoriously soul-crushing as that of working at the post office, and it got both my husband and I thinking.

Chills in the sand

Speaking of making art and inspiration as I have been,  I couldn't begin to guess how many times I have watched this video over the last year or so.  I even watched it again this morning.  If you haven't seen it yet, you really, really should.

This woman uses only her fingers, sand, music, and light to tell a beautiful, heartwrenching story.  Every time I watch it, I get chills and am left dumbfounded and awe-inspired.

This. Is. Art.

Wall with a view

Have you ever gotten a chill while listening to a particular song or piece of music, or while watching the end of a perfectly devastating movie, or reading the last few pages of a tragically beautiful book?

I always wonder what that is - what receptor in my brain is sending that message to my body to respond with such a physical manifestation of my emotions.  It's almost like the emotional receptors get overloaded and shift, sending a ripple of feelings down to my toes.  I often wish I could stop time just before it happens, so I could catch whatever the brain is saying and put it into words.  Because sometimes people in my life give me that same reaction, and I'd really like to be able to tell them, out loud, just how they make me feel.  In words.  In a way that actually captures the shockwaves of emotion they just caused.