Post-Vacay

Went to Texas on a family vacation last week. I'd been looking forward to it while I was dragging myself through that last class set of research papers and putting the final touches on my exams questions.

I achieved a state of 100% relaxation and maintained it for pretty much the entire week. It was great to spend time with my family doing the things we've always loved to do, like "rafting" over low rapids that are basically just piles of rocks, racing each other down the double slide at the waterpark that has the smallest line (so you can run up the stairs and do it again), playing scrabble before bed, and day-drinking. Bickering was present but minimal.

Diet-wise, I ate whatever I wanted whenever I wanted, including Hershey candies and cookies, and I only remember feeling uncomfortably stuffed on two occasions: the time after tubing when I went to town on a hefty bag of cocoa-encrusted almonds, and the margaritas, tortilla chips and fish tacos at a restaurant after we went boating. Though there was a sassy band playing and I danced hard enough that some of the fullness wore off or shifted downward or something. I can't tell how much weight I've gained because I don't own a scale. My underwear feel tight, though. Which brings me to my next thought:

I'm glad to say that I watched hardly any TV and spent a lot of time reading. I read parts of Jane Eyre (mostly because I watched a good ole BBC miniseries version from the '80s recently) and Portia di Rossi's Unbearable Lightness. I started reading that one because my mom had just finished it and it looked addictive (which it was), but I've been thinking about it days after finishing.

One of the things it got me thinking about was that spending time thinking repetitive thoughts about food and exercise is a disordered way of eating and being, even if you are not restricting your food intake or binging and purging. Ordered eating, at its best, would mean choosing a nutritious and tasty food, enjoying the food, stopping when you're full, and not thinking any more about it until you are hungry again. I'm interested in experimenting with this concept--eating basically anything I want (including chocolate) until the point of semi fullness, not trying to "clean my plate" or restrict my intake, and then not thinking about it afterward. A novel concept indeed. As evidenced by my blog posts, I usually think a lot about whether I'm on a path to weight gain or weight loss depending on my patterns of eating lately, such as whether I've been using food as a distraction to boredom or as an event to look forward to, or whether I've overeaten because I felt out of control with the portion in front of me, if it tasted particularly good. I've never made myself throw up and I've never gone on a diet or restricted my calorie intake, but I do tend to think a lot about what I've eaten, and I do tend to regret a lot of the things I eat or the ways I've eaten them. I do look in the mirror and want my arms, flanks, thighs and butt to be smaller and more fit. I do feel pleased (and physically well) when I've made good food choices, such as cooking and eating a natural meal with all four food groups and a glass of wine. And having one hearty serving instead of two or three.

Since it's summer, my usual schedule doesn't exist, and that opens up a lot of space for me to "play" in terms of celebratory eating. It also opens space and time for me to think for long hours, and I don't want to waste that time obsessing about whether I'm gaining the usual summer weight or not. I thought about buying a scale the other day, but now I think I might not, just to keep myself from focusing on the number. As long as I am cooking most of the things I eat and not boozing it up too hard, I should be able to maintain or at least not gain too much.

I also just got a text about company dance classes starting up again, and with no school, I should be able to attend all four this week. That'll take care of this week's exercise schedule. I've also got a run scheduled with Reid this evening. I'm still trying to put my finger on what it is exactly that makes me feel like I need to go back for more when I'm not really hungry.

I had a little moment of clarity two Saturdays ago.

I went to a "literary salon" (i.e., a long chat about writing) at a girl's house whom I hadn't met before then. Her house was in a neighborhood near mine, and I had eaten lunch that day with Leif and his brother, who was in town for his class reunion, at the Chimes. I'd had a beer with lunch, which made me tired a cranky that afternoon. About an hour before it was time to go to her house, I started digging in my heels. I walked around the house forgetting why I was in a certain room and trying to figure out what I was going to wear, announcing to Leif at different intervals that I didn't want to go, and maybe I would skip it, and should I bring wine or beer, and which story should I bring with me. I ended up buying a big bottle of Sauvignon Blanc at Calandro's and showing up almost half-an-hour late, which makes me feel selfish and a little ashamed to admit, but I'd told myself that it was probably a loose event with a lot of people who were probably flighty writers who show up late to things.

When E., the host, opened the door, I saw that she was calm and kind and a little shy. She had no makeup, short hair, a mint-colored vintage dress with polka dotted bra straps just barely showing, and she offered me a little round wine glass that looked like it was from the '60s. In fact, her kitchen a living room looked like it came out of the '60s, and I told her I liked her house and she said everything in it was pretty much from the place she worked, which is a little vintage/antique store called Honeymoon Bungalow. But I didn't get any elitist indie vibes from her. Rather, I instantly liked her because she seemed like one of those rare egoless people that don't try really hard to be funny or cool or the-smartest-person-in-the-room, so all of my own ego issues didn't flare up around her and I felt welcome to share a little of my writing. It ended up that one other man (R., a coworker of hers who seemed to be somewhere in his fifties) was there and it was going to be just the three of us. He stayed seated and shook my hand firmly. He had white stubble, a round belly, and a Hawaiian shirt. I asked him what he writes, and he said "mostly dirty stories." I guess I made a face and an awkward chuckle, because he qualified that with "You don't have to have much talent to keep people interested." He ended up being the anchor of the conversation because of the three of us, he seemed the most comfortable talking about himself and his current novel. At first I thought "Oh great. This creepy windbag is going to dork out about every detail in his novel all night," but it turned out that he was decent at listening and giving feedback to other people, and it appeared that he and E. had been writing buddies for a while and she seemed like a smart, nice person was good judgment. Also he was married and he told a few anecdotes about how old cat ladies use their store as a place to put their kittens temporarily. He puts the kittens in a cage with an open top and lets customers play with them and carry them around while they shop and then the kittens turn out cool because they were manhandled in the perfect window between six and eight weeks (or something like that). I figured only a decent person would go to such trouble for a litter of stray cats, even if it's good for business.

E. said R. was really into reading aloud, if I was okay with that, and she read her story to us with his encouragement. It was based on a story her grandmother had told her about herself, and I thought it was really good. Besides the fact that it was well-written, E.'s culture was interesting to me because she's from central LA and grew up Pentacostal. It made a little more sense as to why she and her living room had an anachronistic, outside-of-pop-culture energy. Her living room felt more like a gallery with its wood floors, bookshelves, mantel, two couches facing each other and miniature TV in the corner. I was also comfortable because I was drinking white wine and her lazy cat was bathing my hand. We gave general comments on her story and then another girl came in and used E.'s computer to print a two page beginning of her story, which she distributed and read aloud. It was conceptual, sloppy, and vague, which made it hard to follow and discuss. Then it was R.'s turn, and to my relief, he only read one scene and it was strong and interesting. It was nice to see that his long-winded confidence had some backbone to it and that he was the strongest and most experienced writer in the room after years of work (and not just somebody who dabbles and carries the delusion that they're the shit, as I thought might be the case). I went last and read a scene from my Tin House story (well, orginially Aspen--I guess the first version is three or four years old) which is my most recent piece but at the same time, my most revised, altered, and least "whole" piece. It felt great to read my stuff again and to realize that I had material to work with. They liked what I read and E. said she'd like to read the whole thing. R. said it was interesting and that I need to remove most of the he said she saids, which was helpful. I told E., upon leaving, that I'm at the point where I'd like feedback on which scenes are boring and which ones she'd like to read more of, if any.

Today during breakfast, I was making a small to-do list and I put "write" on there. This is the second time I've put that on a list since being out of school. My next step, I think, will be to lay the pages out of the floor and highlight the sections that I enjoy reading and would like to keep. Then I will let go of the rest and flesh out the story with other scenes that create a sense of place, fill out the character, and intensify the tension in the plot. The process itself will probably not be so clinical, because I'll be dreaming up scenes and generating new stuff, but I feel better when I have an approach. I will probably not start that process today, because I am feeling lazy, evasive, and filled with self doubt as to whether or not anything I write will ever really work. But something in me has shifted since the "salon"--some hope and inspiration were ignited, which is what I was wishing would happen as a result of connecting with some writers again. Which brings me to my little moment of clarity.

When I went home that night, Leif was making my favorite swiss chard pizza, and I remember feeling acutely hungry. Maybe it was because I was hyped up from being vulnerable about my writing, or just from discussing writing in general, but I only ate two pieces (when I normally have four--we're talking thin crust here) and I had one of those rare moments where I saw food as food and nothing more. I figured out that on some level, eating is connected to writing for me.

Producing writing and meeting new people make me feel whole. I've been missing them. Even though I am feeling incompetent and unsure as a writer right now, I know at least that I need it in my life, and so that alone can be my motivation for starting the tinkering process again. I may also (finally) complete my old cover letter and send out my old undergrad short story to that journal like I meant to five years ago. Last week in the middle of a particularly foul mood, when I was looking through old writing for the ostensible purpose of finding something to read at the salon (and for the actual purpose of proving to myself that I don't have, and never had, any talent or follow-through), I came across the impetus for that goal--a critique from my senior workshop teacher in my journal folder on my computer with his suggestion at the end that I should send that story to a journal. I don't believe in signs, but I could sure use that as a catalyst to do myself a favor and finally send the thing. It would feel satisfying just to cast out a line.