Theater of the Absurd

In tough economic times, I try to find entertainment for as little amount of money as possible. Allow me to expound.  

Because I have been in the construction industry my entire adult life, I’ve been able to enjoy previous year’s highs (affording tickets to Broadway shows) to current year lows (listening to married couple argue in the parking lot). I've also been able to afford a gym membership. I've now combine the two and found theatre in the workout place! The gym is often ripe with (sometimes unintentional) entertainment and perhaps you too can use this in lieu of actual theatre. Its free, you have a great seat and you’re already there.

For example this morning I was pleasantly surprised to see a one-woman, one-act play with an Academy Award-winning performance; a breathtaking portrayal that would leave Meryl Streep weeping.  This employee’s passion in her gripping monologue convinced her audience (and by that I mean boss) that last night’s dust storm had given her a sore throat and she could not possibly carry on. Though I will say from my front row seat I know she’d forgotten a few lines of dialogue. I’m sure it happens to even the best and I’m not aware others in the audience would guess she’d forgotten the lines ‘I spend my time planning a wedding, a birthday party, a bachelorette party and a bridal shower for close friends and running a side business from my desk. My day job is getting in the way and I’m only a part-time employee so something has to give’. The audience felt this woman’s Sophie’s Choice moment and I for one was simply amazed she was able to remain in character all the way to her car.

Later in the morning, I was able to take in musical theatre. Wonderful! I’m a fan of My Fair Lady; I can sing along with Victor/Victoria and get nearly giddy while watching Singin’ in the Rain. Happily, a fellow on the treadmill next to me likes to break into song on a regular basis and I am able to catch his performance because of my proximity to him. Its always gospel and it always reminds me of what the religious right’s soundtrack must be. Someday I’m going to shout, ‘once more for the cheap seats in the back!’.

See the opportunities for live entertainment that cost nothing but the cost of gas to get to the gym? Amazing! You were going there anyway! By just going to workout I was able to see an interpretive dance played out right at the juice bar last month as an gym rat quite literally wrapped herself around a vending machine guy. Apparently he was unaware of mandatory audience participation with this particular performer. He was both stunned and deeply concerned to see me in the audience. The poor man can rest easy though. That performer meant no harm with her Twyla-esque performance and frequently pushes the boundaries of artistic expression with each and every performance, a side-effect of her recreational drug use.

Live theatre is about taking the audience on a journey and part of that can involve special effects. I can boast that my gym has a master of special effects who relies heavily on smoke and mirrors because without them her performance would be greatly lacking and the director (also called a personal trainer) would finally be aware of the lack of substance. However this person continues to perform the same two pieces she wrote: I Should Be in Charge and Someone Drop a House on Me. I briefly thought she was launching a revival of When Winged Monkeys Attack but it never got off the ground. Though in fairness, last year this person produced a surprising holiday production of Assault on Who-Ville, attempting to recast herself as Cindy Lou Who.  It was panned by critics and gym members alike.

One final piece of entertainment to look for at the gym: the magic show. I’d heard rumors of a magician in our building, appearing and disappearing from the facility with such frequency that would shame David Copperfield. But even I, a seasoned theater attendee was speechless when I stumbled on this performer’s Houdini secret: change gym clothes back into work clothes outside the gym in the bushes in front of window so no one knows she ever left the building over 3 hours ago.  Ta-dahhh!!

Today’s daily lie I’m telling myself: reading, listening to music or watching TV while working out will make the time go faster.

What About Me?

I used to go to dinner every weekend. Late night movies when the mood struck. Dancing until clubs closed. Brunch on Sundays. Pool parties, barbecues, concerts, entire days devoted to football viewing. A lively gathering with various friends on a regular basis was how I spent many an evening. Then my boyfriend and I broke up.

The first several hours after the break up were brutal. Crying, well, sobbing really, I went to bed that first night knowing I’d been right to end things but was very sad that something I felt was so enduring really wasn’t. That was a painful revelation. The next few days I spent unpacking (we’d just returned from a cruise when I ended things in his driveway) and getting rid of items that had reminded me of him. Once the closet was cleaned out, the lingerie discarded and every other item I’d attached meaning to were gone, I got down to the business of informing friends. I cried through each and every phone call. I’m surprised they could even understand what I was saying, what with the sniffling and cracking voice. But they being my friends, let me carry on, assuring me I‘d made the right decision and gave the proper platitudes: you’re too good for him, you can do so much better, you’ll find The One, everything happens for a reason. These were well-intended words of encouragement I welcomed graciously. I went to bed again that night crying but the pep talks helped.

By day four post-breakup various girlfriends called to see how I was doing. They each filled me in on their lives but it was on my way to work with my carpool buddy/best friend Jennifer that it dawned on me I didn’t have anything to talk about! Once the big news had been delivered and anecdotes from the cruise were told I had nothing to say. Complaining of HIM, dissecting every word or underlying meaning (both real and imagined) had usually filled my end of conversations. Of course none of my friends were mountain climbing, bull riding, extreme adventure enthusiasts but I had nothing to add to the conversations. I’d become one of those women I detest, a woman who’d built her world around a man. Damn.

That night I went home and tried to think of my life pre-HIM. Crickets. I was pathetic. In ten years on/off with him I’d done nothing but do and be for him. Oh don’t get me wrong, he never once asked me not to do something, nor did he discourage me in any way. But I’d allowed myself to let his interests and hobbies take up my day-planner and thought space. Now I had more time than I knew what to do with and felt slightly lost. I cried again that night, not for the loss of HIM, for the loss of ME. What did I want? I had no answers but I did have a nice double ply tissue with aloe to blow my nose.

The obvious thing to do post breakup is to keep your mind occupied so you don’t sit and stew. But there’s only so much cleaning, shopping and chatting with friends that can be done. I used to love to write, I reminded myself. So I sat down and began typing furiously. I wrote so much that professional writers would be envious of my productivity, I haughtily told myself. My masterpiece was nothing more than venom towards HIM and read like an invitation to a pity party hosted by me. I doubted there would be any RSVPs to my rant. Besides, there’s only room on my soapbox for me and my cross.

Many women change their hair when looking for a change after a breakup and I was no different. I didn’t cut mine since it was already very Halle Berry length, so I grew mine out a bit, played with the color. My stylist had painted in streaks of platinum and I was loving it. I’d run my fingers through it, sans acrylic nails; I’d stopped wearing the long talons he’d so admired and gave my natural ones a try. That was both easier on the checkbook and more my style anyway. I was wearing the edgier clothes I preferred, the contemporary jewelry he hated.

I took up exercising just to get out of house. Fresh air and a change of scenery, even if it was only in my neighborhood, it wasn’t the couch where I’d been camped out for so long. I’m not built for jogging so a brisk walk every night became my ritual. Whenever I encountered a possible new activity at least my thighs wouldn’t be rubbing together. In the meantime I was sweating like I’d just completed an intimate activity with the word ‘job’ in it.

  

This newly minted ‘its all about me’ went on for over a month when one night I was surfing online and found an ad for a local party promoter, advertising upcoming events around the city. The ad asked if I wanted to be added to their mailing list. I filled out my info and waited to see what happened. About ten minutes later I got a message for a party at a club in an area of the city that prided itself on being very “L.A.”. Not really my cup of cappuccino I skipped it. The last thing a chubby girl wants to do is be surrounded by thin women who always get flirted with first. I didn’t feel like having high school flashbacks.

The next messages were more promising: local bands, an art gallery opening and a party at an NBA game. I went to all of them. The fear of seeing him was slowly leaving my mind as I was reacquainting me with myself.

I can’t say every outing was spectacular but something was changing. I stopped checking my cell to see if he’d called. I stopped looking in my email to see if he’d sent some mea culpa. I stopped caring if I saw him out and about. And that’s when I found a note on my car from him, saying he missed me. I burst into tears right there.

Should I contact him? That’s what he wanted and it was my habit to do as he wanted. But I was determined not to fall back into that long ago established pattern. I went home and burned the letter in an ashtray, getting angrier as the small flames did the deed. HE missed me but I had been missing myself.

It didn’t take an email to peoplesearch.com to find me but as I lit a cigarette from the flames that had been his note I enumerated in my head what I’d accomplished: I was getting compliments on my weight loss, my long hours at work were rewarded with an unexpected and greatly appreciated raise, I’d gone to some interesting events, met some entertaining people, even gone on a few dates, I was attempting to write a book. So what about me? Me is still doing fine.

Today’s lie I tell myself: I will be so busy enjoying myself that I’ll never want another relationship.

Foodie vs. Fattie

Let me share with you something that I struggle with. Its not booze, smoking (already kicked those habits), its being a foodie. I have subscriptions to Bon Appetite and Martha Stewart Living magazines. Food Network and Cooking Channel are like porn to me. A great recipe will have me proselytizing like a preacher on a street corner.

Sitting there wondering what my problem is? I’m sitting here wondering the same. But my feet are propped up while I’m typing this. I’m not relaxing, I just have such horrible circulation that my legs will swell to three times their size and I’ll be in pain if I don’t remain propped up most of the day. What brings this on? Salt. Just take a moment to ponder that. It’s a basic item that’s in everything we put in our mouths. It was used to cure meats before refrigeration; it adds another level of flavor to dishes. Its what many women crave once a month (myself included). But my body doesn’t seem to metabolize it very well.

I can’t have salt substitute because I’m on blood pressure medication. I’ve never been one to add salt to my food, I don’t add it to recipes, preferring to instead leave it on the table for others to use. But when you’re a foodie, having to steer clear of salt can be terribly difficult. Cheese is a big item in many dishes. I can’t have it without puffing up like a Thanksgiving Parade float.

Today’s lie: this battle between healthy and junk food won’t remain a battle of epic proportions.

Horror Movie Matrimony

Large scale weddings have been rhapsodized about for eons but for me they have little appeal. I’m not against matrimony, romance or the idea of soul mates, yet I feel love seems to get lost amid the panoply of overpriced flower arrangements and yards of Duchesse satin. Having been asked to stand in my share of weddings I’ve watched simple ceremonies take on a Hollywood-like vibe, complete with cameramen. With each ridiculously posed photo I feel less like a friend sharing a special day and more like a prop in a summer blockbuster. After arguing with a bride over what shoes I would wear to stand in a winter wedding (flip flops in December) I noted key players in weddings are eerily similar to those in another time honored institution: horror movies. I envision my role in both situations to be the chunky smart-ass sidekick/voice of reason, limping through a series of carefully choreographed events.

Most movies of the genre follow a formula: grizzly murder, inept law enforcement, slow moving psycho with a penchant for violence and a mating scene concluding with the “money shot”; building to the moment when the remaining character (typically a nearly nude female) barely gets out alive, the monster defeated until the sequel. The bridal formula is only slightly different: grizzly best man, inept groom, slow moving grandparents with a penchant for sitting, psycho disguised as bride, and couples hoping to conclude said event with the “money shot”; building to the moment when the remaining bridesmaid (typically single) barely gets out alive, another bridezilla defeated until the next wedding.

For many women a wedding is their last chance to fulfill unresolved girlhood fantasies under the guise of making the day special. For the movie bad guy it’s the chance to recreate childhood trauma under the guise of quieting voices within. A bride selects her wedding party, the monster targets his prey. The bride assures her girls she wants them comfortable and sends them to a dressing room. In both situations those involved are lured into a false sense of security, replete with bad lighting, no chance of escape and a sense of inevitable doom. The bride lets you to try on dresses you like, the monster lets you to choose your style of execution. Both have the same result: your opinion doesn’t matter because the decision has already been made, this is merely an empty gesture meant to assuage fear. Getting the nerve to tell the bride you hate your dress is equal to seeing who’s tough enough to go into the deserted mansion where the local crazies reside; there’s a lot of stalling and negotiating with the other victims/attendants.

You go.

No you.

Scared?

No I just think its stupid.

You’re scared!

Oh yeah? I don’t see you going!

I’ll go if you go.

Whether facing down a monster or bride (sometimes both inhabit the same body) there’s no strength in numbers, its every woman for herself. One neighbor had a bride choose such a horrible dress that I was convinced an angry mob with pitchforks would run said neighbor out of town! Having seen pictures from the event I understood why no one chased her in a good way. Dandelion colored satin? Picture a very round Belle from Beauty & the Beast.

All bridesmaids (especially overweight ones) have a tendency to cringe when the dresses are initially shown, there are sounds of shock and disbelief. Cut to horror movie scene when a victim’s demise is witnessed by friends who know they’re next; there are sounds of shock and disbelief. Neither situation is pretty but all involved resign themselves to their fate.

I understand the draw of a wedding, there’s excitement, romance and cake all in one! Yet I cover my eyes until I see the dress, waiting for the worst to be over. I equally understand the draw of a horror movie, there’s chills, suspense and popcorn all in one! I cover my eyes until I see the end credits, waiting for the worst to be over. Several of my girlfriends capriciously chose attendant dresses that made even the mannequin look fat, (what chance did I have?) disregarding the pleas of this chunky sidekick. Like the horror movie hero who announces in a cavalier tone they alone will fight the monster, disregarding the pleas of friends.

Much like the main figure in a slasher movie, I too am weary; not of senseless violence but of senseless enhancement of my worst features. I once had to wear such an unfortunate choice of dress that even the sales girl at the bridal salon felt bad for me! But unlike the movie character who can hide when necessary, I endured my nightmare in full view of the public.

In the end brides and horror movie baddies all want the same thing: THEIR way, supporting players be damned, regardless of the prey backing into a corner whimpering, “please don’t do this. Can’t we talk about this?” And while a quick spritz of holy water may stop a baddie, it only spurs the bride further into ritualistic practices already in motion. Like talking about the bachelorette party. But I’ll save that for the sequel.  

Today's lie to myself: brides will stop making the entire event about them exclusively. 

With all new technology, there’s always some sort of repercussions that no one sees coming until they’re here. Twitter and Facebook keep people in touch but we’ve all heard stories or experienced the humiliation of mom seeing those recently posted pictures of her pride and joy drunk at a bachelorette party. Or calling in sick to work but a coworker sees comments about the great day spent at Disney Land. I’m not one to play hooky from work and I’m not a drinker so neither of those apply to me but I did experience a flurry of worry when I accepted a friend request an ex from two decades ago. OMG what  r u thnkng. R u nsane?  Wow he looks like crap were the messages I received. It took a few posts and some phone calls (yes I use the phone to talk not just text) to assure genuinely concerned friends that I wasn’t taking a trip to the dark side. I wasn’t taking him back (shudder) and I was long past the bitterness of the breakup but what amazed me is that in only a matter of minutes, I had hastily posted messages from MI, telling me I was making a huge mistake. I hadn’t thought much of accepting his friend request yet others felt the need to weigh in. This made me wonder if by having public outlets grant so much access to one another, are there any secrets left? And once those secrets/thoughts/news has been posted, is it considered acceptable to post judgments on said posts?

When I was a teenager back in the 90s it was a badge of honor to know the favorite foods of all NKOTB, convinced you were privy to something not many others knew. Now there are apps for streaming media to keep all God’s children up to date on Chris Brown’s latest insult to women, Britney’s half-hearted attempt to perform and don’t even get me started on speculation on countless potentially closeted celebrities. Go on nearly any website and more often than not there’s a comment section. I’m not pointing fingers, I do the same on The Frisky. I comment so much that I even proudly have a few followers of my witty musings (thanks!).

Journalists, bloggers, etc., count on feedback. Politicians need it for grandstanding purposes. Those professions expect it. When you put your ideas into cyberspace, are you expected to take the flak because you ‘put it out there’?  Is there a difference between posting your anger on the latest women’s health bill that failed to pass and posting that your BFF is stupid for quitting grad school to be a single mom?

A study entitled Too Much of a Good Thing? The Relationship Between Number of Friends and Interpersonal Impressions on Facebook published by the Journal of Computer-Mediated Communication focused on the profile pictures used among their test subjects and found something they hadn’t expected: judgments are common regardless of the relationship and the commenters were more concerned with how they were being perceived, not what their friend originally posted. 

In an article for the Chicago Tribune, Lee Rainie, director of Pew Research Center's Internet and American Life Project and an expert on social media was quoted “Unfortunately, no one really agrees on what the protocol should be”.

The argument can be made for user-control but there doesn’t seem to be much control these days, witness reality TV. In the end I un-friended my ex. Not because of caving to pressure from friends, but because he’s the same idiot he always was.

Today's lie to myself: men act more mature as they age.