Last year, I happened onto a show called Ink Master. It's on Spike, whose target audience is male. I loved it. I have no idea why - I don't have any tattoos (yet!) and I always thought I disapproved of them. They're permanent, and if you get tired of them, you can't scrub them off. If, ten years later, you no longer want your significant other's name tattooed on your arm, due to the fact that s/he is no longer your significant other, you're screwed. The tattoo that made you laugh in your twenties might just embarrass you in your forties.
However, I'm now in my sixties, and I expect my tastes aren't going to change too drastically in the next few decades. I secretly want to apply to be a canvas for the next season of Ink Master. Don't tell anybody! Some of the contestants don't want to tattoo old people because aging skin handles differently, but they've had at least one woman in her 70s on.
There are other shows about tattoos, but they all seem to be slanted towards repairing or covering up bad tattoos. Tattoo Nightmares is a show about three L.A. artists who specialize in covering up bad tattoos. Then there's Bad Ink, set in Las Vegas. These two characters (a tattoo artist and his sidekick) go around looking for bad tattoos, and they've found a lot of them (example: a large-size woman who had "EXIT ONLY" tattooed right over her ass crack). Occasionally, somebody even wants to have their bad tattoo covered up, although more people than you'd think just want to keep their tattoos because either they have appalling taste or they're used to them.
These bad-tattoo stories all seem to start the same way: "I was out with my friends and we were drinking..." That's all it takes - too much alcohol and the encouragement of a few impaired friends - to lead to waking up in the morning with a horrible tattoo. Frequently, they were under age 18, and were tattooed by somebody who didn't know what they were doing.
In one of the Bad Ink episodes, one of the guys (I think it was Ruckus, the one who isn't a tattoo artist) was trying to entice old people in a retirement community to come and get a tattoo. One woman took them up on it. She was older than I am.
There's a tattoo convention in Boston this weekend. I could go - I'm on my own for the long weekend. I could even come back with a tattoo. I looked at the page of artists, and there are a lot of gorgeous tattoos being shown. Bright colors, unique designs, different styles, from realistic to abstract, cartoon-like, or like the cover of a fantasy novel. I think I'd like something in color. But where? My ankle? My shoulder? I thought about having a tattoo that would incorporate my spider veins on my legs... I think I'd want something I could hide if I wanted to. I don't know. My kids would probably think I've gone crazy.
Friday, August 30, 2013
Monday, August 26, 2013
What Can Old Fat Ladies Do? Take 2
Last year, I was diagnosed with carpal tunnel syndrome. This was a surprise to me. I had some aching in my right arm, but nothing too severe. I made a couple of changes at work - I have a fancy mouse that operates with a handshake grip, and I repositioned my keyboard - and I think the carpal tunnel syndrome has cleared up. This is significant because, due to it, I had given up knitting. I have always loved to knit and crochet, and I'm reasonably good at it. My kids all have afghans I crocheted for them. (I have one, too.) I knitted many baby sweaters and hats over the years for my friends. More recently, I have made several pairs of mittens each Christmas for our church's Mitten Tree. Last year, I was unable to do so, which was a disappointment to me.
Meanwhile, my shoulders were giving me trouble. I had rotator cuff surgery last January on my left shoulder. My right shoulder has bone spurs that make it painful to reach up for things. I haven't been able to lift anything too heavy (another reason that we haven't put the house on the market yet - I can't move things to the storage locker without help).
In spite of these things, I decided it was time to try knitting again. While I was down at the Cape earlier this month, I bought a pattern for a cardigan for myself, some lovely blue yarn with flecks (they called it "tweed"), and I started knitting. The back is about half done, and everything's going well so far. This has lifted up my spirits tremendously, at least as far as my body's limitations go.
I've also had trouble walking. It turns out that the pain in the balls of my feet was due to something called a Morton's neuroma. Actually, two neuromas, one in each foot. There's really nothing to do about them except to wear the right shoes, ones that don't compress the toes. I now have a pair of orthopedic shoes. They're huge and clunky, and I haven't worn them anywhere yet. The orthopedic shoe guy approved my sandals, so I figured I'd wear them until the weather gets cold enough for large clunky orthopedic shoes.
Last week I decided it was time to stop malingering and to get out walking at lunchtime again. I am challenging myself to go out and walk three days a week. I've had problems with arthritis in my right hip - something I REALLY do not want to admit to, because it makes me sound so OLD. I think exercise can help (and if it can't, I don't really want to know about it!). I did the three workday lunchtimes last week, and in addition, took a Saturday walk along Lynn Shore Drive. I took a walk today, so this week is off to a good start.
So, it looks like I'm not yet too old and decrepit to knit or to walk. YAY!
Meanwhile, my shoulders were giving me trouble. I had rotator cuff surgery last January on my left shoulder. My right shoulder has bone spurs that make it painful to reach up for things. I haven't been able to lift anything too heavy (another reason that we haven't put the house on the market yet - I can't move things to the storage locker without help).
In spite of these things, I decided it was time to try knitting again. While I was down at the Cape earlier this month, I bought a pattern for a cardigan for myself, some lovely blue yarn with flecks (they called it "tweed"), and I started knitting. The back is about half done, and everything's going well so far. This has lifted up my spirits tremendously, at least as far as my body's limitations go.
I've also had trouble walking. It turns out that the pain in the balls of my feet was due to something called a Morton's neuroma. Actually, two neuromas, one in each foot. There's really nothing to do about them except to wear the right shoes, ones that don't compress the toes. I now have a pair of orthopedic shoes. They're huge and clunky, and I haven't worn them anywhere yet. The orthopedic shoe guy approved my sandals, so I figured I'd wear them until the weather gets cold enough for large clunky orthopedic shoes.
Last week I decided it was time to stop malingering and to get out walking at lunchtime again. I am challenging myself to go out and walk three days a week. I've had problems with arthritis in my right hip - something I REALLY do not want to admit to, because it makes me sound so OLD. I think exercise can help (and if it can't, I don't really want to know about it!). I did the three workday lunchtimes last week, and in addition, took a Saturday walk along Lynn Shore Drive. I took a walk today, so this week is off to a good start.
So, it looks like I'm not yet too old and decrepit to knit or to walk. YAY!
Friday, August 23, 2013
What Can Old Fat Ladies Do?
What can old fat ladies do? I'm hoping to explore that topic here.
As I get older, I feel more limited in what I can do. Skydiving? Probably not. Do old fat ladies with fake knees jump out of airplanes? I had a brief mourning period back when I was 38 because I had never jumped out of an airplane, and I was already too old to do it. At age 38! If I had actually wanted to try skydiving, I could have. For all I know, I still could.
Why the preoccupation with skydiving? Two reasons. First, I'm a fan of Top Chef Masters. The season premiere earlier this summer showed all but one of the chefs (even the older, fatter ones) skydiving into their first cooking challenge.They made it look easy, and even the terrified ones claimed to have loved the experience. Second, my son-in-law recently jumped out of an airplane (skydove?). He's young and athletic, and loves to try new things. My daughter didn't join him in the jump, though. I wonder if she'll regret it when she's in her sixties? More likely, she'll have done it by then.
So what can I do? The fake knee limits me in a couple of areas. I was told that I couldn't run or ski. I hadn't been doing much of either of those recently, so I figured there wouldn't be a problem.
But what about climbing Mount Everest? Could a person with a fake knee do that? Somewhere in the back of my mind, I want to be able to do it. I love reading about Everest, watching documentaries about Everest, imagining myself in this most unforgiving of environments...but realistically, I know I'll never climb it. For one thing, it takes months of acclimatization and a vast amount of money. For another thing? See "fat", above. Add "out of shape" to that.
Which brings me to something an old fat lady can do: get into shape.
Today I Googled "personal trainer arthritis" to see if I could turn up any local personal trainers who dealt with people like me. Clearly, I should have chosen different words for my search. I found exercises for people with arthritis, but realistically, I won't do it on my own. I need somebody who will inspire me and motivate me without shaming me or belittling me. I need a location near where I live -
- and that's where everything grinds to a halt.
I want to move away from the poor city where I live now. I want to move closer to Boston. I wouldn't join a gym where I live now even if such a thing existed. (There's a YMCA; not sure what else.) So I've been putting off my dreams of getting fit with a personal trainer until some indefinite date in the future, After I Move. That date doesn't seem to be getting any closer.
As I get older, I feel more limited in what I can do. Skydiving? Probably not. Do old fat ladies with fake knees jump out of airplanes? I had a brief mourning period back when I was 38 because I had never jumped out of an airplane, and I was already too old to do it. At age 38! If I had actually wanted to try skydiving, I could have. For all I know, I still could.
Why the preoccupation with skydiving? Two reasons. First, I'm a fan of Top Chef Masters. The season premiere earlier this summer showed all but one of the chefs (even the older, fatter ones) skydiving into their first cooking challenge.They made it look easy, and even the terrified ones claimed to have loved the experience. Second, my son-in-law recently jumped out of an airplane (skydove?). He's young and athletic, and loves to try new things. My daughter didn't join him in the jump, though. I wonder if she'll regret it when she's in her sixties? More likely, she'll have done it by then.
So what can I do? The fake knee limits me in a couple of areas. I was told that I couldn't run or ski. I hadn't been doing much of either of those recently, so I figured there wouldn't be a problem.
But what about climbing Mount Everest? Could a person with a fake knee do that? Somewhere in the back of my mind, I want to be able to do it. I love reading about Everest, watching documentaries about Everest, imagining myself in this most unforgiving of environments...but realistically, I know I'll never climb it. For one thing, it takes months of acclimatization and a vast amount of money. For another thing? See "fat", above. Add "out of shape" to that.
Which brings me to something an old fat lady can do: get into shape.
Today I Googled "personal trainer arthritis" to see if I could turn up any local personal trainers who dealt with people like me. Clearly, I should have chosen different words for my search. I found exercises for people with arthritis, but realistically, I won't do it on my own. I need somebody who will inspire me and motivate me without shaming me or belittling me. I need a location near where I live -
- and that's where everything grinds to a halt.
I want to move away from the poor city where I live now. I want to move closer to Boston. I wouldn't join a gym where I live now even if such a thing existed. (There's a YMCA; not sure what else.) So I've been putting off my dreams of getting fit with a personal trainer until some indefinite date in the future, After I Move. That date doesn't seem to be getting any closer.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
2011
I am glad that 2011 is drawing to a close. The year has been filled with emotional peaks and valleys, ranging from the virtually perfect wedding of my daughter to the very sudden death of my mother, still fresh enough that I can't write those words without tears coming to my eyes. One of my children's aunts, my younger sister-in-law (does one say "ex-sister-in-law?), also died. Both these women attended my daughter's wedding, and I'm glad they were able to be there.
In 2011, I fought for and received a promotion, which moved me from the weekly to the monthly payroll. Since then I have been fighting to have enough cash to see me through a month. The last three months, especially, have been a struggle, with my cash pretty much gone after my car payment on the 19th. That's another thing that changed in 2011: In February, I unloaded my 1999 Saturn for a new Civic, which I'm leasing because the monthly payments are much lower. Having a new car has been wonderful. Having a new car payment, less so.
Once again, an entire year has passed by without me having a date or even meeting a man near my age who is single and available. This is not the way I expected my life would be. I become more withdrawn every day. I wouldn't even know how to talk to a man who might be interested in me. In fact, I find it a little harder every day to believe that there is a man out in the vast universe who might find me interesting or attractive. I'm afraid I've forgotten how to be either of those things.
The best part of 2011, after my daughter's wedding, was my week on the Cape in July-August. I'm always better at the Cape - healthier, less apt to overeat, more apt to go outside, more complete in myself. I still want to retire to the Cape. My older son and I visited the Cape the weekend after my mother died, earlier this month. We needed the outing to a place Mom loved, too. The Cape is a very different place in December, with most of the summer attractions closed. But it's still the Cape, and I think I'd be all right there even in the off season. (If anybody reads this, "the Cape" is always Cape Cod. I live closer to Cape Ann, and I realize that there are a lot of Capes all over the world. But only one is THE Cape. I've asked people from other parts of the country what they think of when they hear "the Cape", and the answer has always been Cape Cod.)
Earlier this week I made MP3s out of my Cat Stevens albums from the early 1970's. I want to quote part of a song from "Tea for the Tillerman" - "there's so much left to know and I'm on the road to find out." (The song is called "On the road to find out".) That's what I've lost in the past few years - hope for the future. Those lines remind me of what I've lost. I may be older now, but there's still a lot left to know, and it's only my own fears that are keeping me off the Road to Find Out. That's what I want for 2012 - to be back on that road.
In 2011, I fought for and received a promotion, which moved me from the weekly to the monthly payroll. Since then I have been fighting to have enough cash to see me through a month. The last three months, especially, have been a struggle, with my cash pretty much gone after my car payment on the 19th. That's another thing that changed in 2011: In February, I unloaded my 1999 Saturn for a new Civic, which I'm leasing because the monthly payments are much lower. Having a new car has been wonderful. Having a new car payment, less so.
Once again, an entire year has passed by without me having a date or even meeting a man near my age who is single and available. This is not the way I expected my life would be. I become more withdrawn every day. I wouldn't even know how to talk to a man who might be interested in me. In fact, I find it a little harder every day to believe that there is a man out in the vast universe who might find me interesting or attractive. I'm afraid I've forgotten how to be either of those things.
The best part of 2011, after my daughter's wedding, was my week on the Cape in July-August. I'm always better at the Cape - healthier, less apt to overeat, more apt to go outside, more complete in myself. I still want to retire to the Cape. My older son and I visited the Cape the weekend after my mother died, earlier this month. We needed the outing to a place Mom loved, too. The Cape is a very different place in December, with most of the summer attractions closed. But it's still the Cape, and I think I'd be all right there even in the off season. (If anybody reads this, "the Cape" is always Cape Cod. I live closer to Cape Ann, and I realize that there are a lot of Capes all over the world. But only one is THE Cape. I've asked people from other parts of the country what they think of when they hear "the Cape", and the answer has always been Cape Cod.)
Earlier this week I made MP3s out of my Cat Stevens albums from the early 1970's. I want to quote part of a song from "Tea for the Tillerman" - "there's so much left to know and I'm on the road to find out." (The song is called "On the road to find out".) That's what I've lost in the past few years - hope for the future. Those lines remind me of what I've lost. I may be older now, but there's still a lot left to know, and it's only my own fears that are keeping me off the Road to Find Out. That's what I want for 2012 - to be back on that road.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Thoughts on my Birthday
On my eighth birthday, I received a softball bat and ball. I was delighted. That evening after supper, we went outside to play on the neighbor's field (which he kept mowed for the neighborhood kids to play ball on). I remember staying outside until long after the sun set. My bedtime back then was 8:00, and I know I was still outside playing softball in the twilight then. The glow of the sky, the warmth of the air, the crack of the bat - these are some of my favorite childhood birthday memories.
I have many other happy birthday memories, but this one always reminds me of how long the days are getting by mid-May. It's still light at 8 p.m., even on the endless gray days we've been having recently.
I always thought May was the best month to be born in. The days are usually warm without being too hot. My mother's back yard was full of lilacs and other spring flowers. I was given a Mayflower viburnum bush for my birthday one year, and it was always covered with fragrant blossoms by my birthday. The yard was full of lilies of the valley and violets (both purple and white), and somebody would usually pick me a nosegay for my birthday. Down by the woods, the bluets and wild violets were in bloom. My sister and I used to make May baskets out of paper cups for our grandmother and the elderly woman who lived next door to her. We'd fill them with wildflowers and leave them on their doorknobs on May Day morning before we went to school. (It helped that our school was practically next door to those houses.)
Today, a house sits on the old ball field. It's been there for a good 30 years, probably closer to 40. My mother's house will be on the market soon. I'm allergic to lilacs, but I'm still considering planting a shoot from one of hers in my yard. Nobody has picked me a nosegay in years. Yeah, I miss them. I just threw out the forsythia that was in my little vase, and I'd love to have something new in it.
May took on a different aspect as I got older. School is winding down for the year. Most colleges have exams and graduation in May. Every committee I used to be on had its final meeting and banquet in May. Choirs I have sung in (or rung in) tend to have concerts in May. Our handbell choir gave one on May 1st. When I was in college, my birthday tended to fall during reading week, and there was almost always a party (for me and all of the other May birthdays - there are a ton of us, and most of us are on Facebook). We needed the study break. What better excuse?
Sometimes I feel as if my days are drawing to a close, that I've hit my own late May twilight. When I sat down to write this, that's the direction I thought I'd be heading. But right now, I don't really feel that way. Maybe there will be more birthdays filled with flowers (that don't make me sneeze!) and sunshine. Not this year (at least for the sunshine). But there's a flicker of hope somewhere inside of me, one that it's been harder to keep alive recently. May it continue to flicker.
I have many other happy birthday memories, but this one always reminds me of how long the days are getting by mid-May. It's still light at 8 p.m., even on the endless gray days we've been having recently.
I always thought May was the best month to be born in. The days are usually warm without being too hot. My mother's back yard was full of lilacs and other spring flowers. I was given a Mayflower viburnum bush for my birthday one year, and it was always covered with fragrant blossoms by my birthday. The yard was full of lilies of the valley and violets (both purple and white), and somebody would usually pick me a nosegay for my birthday. Down by the woods, the bluets and wild violets were in bloom. My sister and I used to make May baskets out of paper cups for our grandmother and the elderly woman who lived next door to her. We'd fill them with wildflowers and leave them on their doorknobs on May Day morning before we went to school. (It helped that our school was practically next door to those houses.)
Today, a house sits on the old ball field. It's been there for a good 30 years, probably closer to 40. My mother's house will be on the market soon. I'm allergic to lilacs, but I'm still considering planting a shoot from one of hers in my yard. Nobody has picked me a nosegay in years. Yeah, I miss them. I just threw out the forsythia that was in my little vase, and I'd love to have something new in it.
May took on a different aspect as I got older. School is winding down for the year. Most colleges have exams and graduation in May. Every committee I used to be on had its final meeting and banquet in May. Choirs I have sung in (or rung in) tend to have concerts in May. Our handbell choir gave one on May 1st. When I was in college, my birthday tended to fall during reading week, and there was almost always a party (for me and all of the other May birthdays - there are a ton of us, and most of us are on Facebook). We needed the study break. What better excuse?
Sometimes I feel as if my days are drawing to a close, that I've hit my own late May twilight. When I sat down to write this, that's the direction I thought I'd be heading. But right now, I don't really feel that way. Maybe there will be more birthdays filled with flowers (that don't make me sneeze!) and sunshine. Not this year (at least for the sunshine). But there's a flicker of hope somewhere inside of me, one that it's been harder to keep alive recently. May it continue to flicker.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
That rite of passage, the Prom
I did not go to my high school prom.
Last night's Glee episode, entitled "Prom Queen", has me thinking about the prom in general. If there are any Gleeks out there among my handful of readers who haven't watched the episode, please consider this a SPOILER ALERT!
Let's start with the struggle to find a date for the prom. I never dated in high school. It wasn't my choice, but there weren't any brave young men at my high school who would take the risk of being seen with a fat chick. Or at least not with me, smart, moody, sarcastic, with absolutely no sense of style. So, not surprisingly, nobody asked me to the prom. I've consoled myself with the fact that, on prom night, I was home with a fever of 101° (turned out I had rubella), so I wouldn't have been able to go even if I'd spent the money on a dress and a corsage and a ticket. But I still wish I'd had a chance to go.
One of my favorite characters on Glee this season is Lauren Zizes, played by the talented Ashley Fink. Lauren is a fat chick, and she does exactly what she wants. She's dating one of the most popular guys in the school, Puck, and they're running for Prom King and Queen. She didn't have to worry about finding a date - just finding a dress. "I've been to Ann Taylor Loft, Filene's Basement, and, like, six Forever 21s and I cannot find a dress that fits," she wailed. (She should have tried Lord & Taylor - that's where I got my mother-of-the-bride dress, which is the dress I would have worn to the prom all those years ago.) There was a great scene in a dress shop, where the girls had brought Kurt along to be their fashion adviser. Lauren came out in a horrible ruffled yellow number. "I think I look like a lemon meringue pie," she moaned. I'm not sure how they found the dress she ultimately wore, which was royal blue and looked great.
Through this scene, I was thinking about what it might have been like for me to find a dress that fit in 1968, and I'm glad I didn't have to go through that struggle. I know I would have ended up sewing one myself. That was how I survived high school; I knew how to enlarge a size 16 pattern to fit myself, so I could stitch up copies of whatever was in style. The trouble with sewing something for yourself, though, is that you can never be sure what it's going to look like on you until it's done. So I could have easily bought yards of expensive fabric and ended up looking like a poorly-upholstered sofa.
Then there's Mercedes, who is a little plump and doesn't have a boyfriend. She and Rachel asked Sam to the prom. Sam is currently broke and living with his family in a motel room, so they kept it low-budget (sure, they did...those girls found some great dresses at Goodwill, if that was true). I fall in size somewhere between Mercedes and Lauren, and I know that when I was in high school I would have been delighted to find a store that carried my size.
Kurt asked his boyfriend Blaine, and then dressed up in a kilt for the occasion. I hadn't heard the leak of who would be voted Prom Queen, so when it turned out to be Kurt I was duly horrified. That's the kind of cruel trick that I always worry somebody will pull on me - the fat, ugly, unpopular chick getting called out as the winner in a contest I would never even enter. Anyway, Kurt pulled it off, and even danced with Blaine after he was crowned. I don't believe this would ever be allowed to happen in a real high school; even if cruel kids wrote in a gay guy for prom queen, the principal would never allow the vote to count. In typical Glee irony, the prom king was the closeted gay guy, Karofsky, who was supposed to be paired with Santana, who discovered this season that she's a lesbian.
The music the Glee kids performed turned out to be a collection of really bad songs - was this intentional? It might have been. That YouTube sensation, "Friday", which I had managed to avoid hearing until then; "Jar of Hearts", which always sounds to me as if the young woman wrote it in a notebook during some boring class in high school - "You're going to catch a cold/from the ice inside your soul..." Really? Ewww. They ended with ABBA's "Dancing Queen", which is a classic but still, when you think about it, a pretty weak song. (Sorry, I was never an ABBA fan.)
So I'm left wondering if anybody really had a good time at the Glee prom. Finn and Jesse St. James had a fight (over Rachel!) and were evicted from the prom before the King and Queen were announced, which ruined Quinn's evening. She expected she and Finn would win. Artie could never convince Brittany to go with him; she chose to go alone. He consoled himself by spiking the punch, but Sue Sylvester caught him. (He was spiking it with lemonade.) Santana was furious because her date won Prom King and she didn't win Prom Queen. Karofsky was miserable, just because of his struggle with being gay and not ready to come out.
Chances are that even if I'd gone to my own prom, I wouldn't have had fun. But I still find myself regretting that I didn't go, and wishing that, at my advanced age, I could have another chance to deck myself out in a pretty dress and a corsage and go to a formal dance with a nice guy.
Last night's Glee episode, entitled "Prom Queen", has me thinking about the prom in general. If there are any Gleeks out there among my handful of readers who haven't watched the episode, please consider this a SPOILER ALERT!
Let's start with the struggle to find a date for the prom. I never dated in high school. It wasn't my choice, but there weren't any brave young men at my high school who would take the risk of being seen with a fat chick. Or at least not with me, smart, moody, sarcastic, with absolutely no sense of style. So, not surprisingly, nobody asked me to the prom. I've consoled myself with the fact that, on prom night, I was home with a fever of 101° (turned out I had rubella), so I wouldn't have been able to go even if I'd spent the money on a dress and a corsage and a ticket. But I still wish I'd had a chance to go.
One of my favorite characters on Glee this season is Lauren Zizes, played by the talented Ashley Fink. Lauren is a fat chick, and she does exactly what she wants. She's dating one of the most popular guys in the school, Puck, and they're running for Prom King and Queen. She didn't have to worry about finding a date - just finding a dress. "I've been to Ann Taylor Loft, Filene's Basement, and, like, six Forever 21s and I cannot find a dress that fits," she wailed. (She should have tried Lord & Taylor - that's where I got my mother-of-the-bride dress, which is the dress I would have worn to the prom all those years ago.) There was a great scene in a dress shop, where the girls had brought Kurt along to be their fashion adviser. Lauren came out in a horrible ruffled yellow number. "I think I look like a lemon meringue pie," she moaned. I'm not sure how they found the dress she ultimately wore, which was royal blue and looked great.
Through this scene, I was thinking about what it might have been like for me to find a dress that fit in 1968, and I'm glad I didn't have to go through that struggle. I know I would have ended up sewing one myself. That was how I survived high school; I knew how to enlarge a size 16 pattern to fit myself, so I could stitch up copies of whatever was in style. The trouble with sewing something for yourself, though, is that you can never be sure what it's going to look like on you until it's done. So I could have easily bought yards of expensive fabric and ended up looking like a poorly-upholstered sofa.
Then there's Mercedes, who is a little plump and doesn't have a boyfriend. She and Rachel asked Sam to the prom. Sam is currently broke and living with his family in a motel room, so they kept it low-budget (sure, they did...those girls found some great dresses at Goodwill, if that was true). I fall in size somewhere between Mercedes and Lauren, and I know that when I was in high school I would have been delighted to find a store that carried my size.
Kurt asked his boyfriend Blaine, and then dressed up in a kilt for the occasion. I hadn't heard the leak of who would be voted Prom Queen, so when it turned out to be Kurt I was duly horrified. That's the kind of cruel trick that I always worry somebody will pull on me - the fat, ugly, unpopular chick getting called out as the winner in a contest I would never even enter. Anyway, Kurt pulled it off, and even danced with Blaine after he was crowned. I don't believe this would ever be allowed to happen in a real high school; even if cruel kids wrote in a gay guy for prom queen, the principal would never allow the vote to count. In typical Glee irony, the prom king was the closeted gay guy, Karofsky, who was supposed to be paired with Santana, who discovered this season that she's a lesbian.
The music the Glee kids performed turned out to be a collection of really bad songs - was this intentional? It might have been. That YouTube sensation, "Friday", which I had managed to avoid hearing until then; "Jar of Hearts", which always sounds to me as if the young woman wrote it in a notebook during some boring class in high school - "You're going to catch a cold/from the ice inside your soul..." Really? Ewww. They ended with ABBA's "Dancing Queen", which is a classic but still, when you think about it, a pretty weak song. (Sorry, I was never an ABBA fan.)
So I'm left wondering if anybody really had a good time at the Glee prom. Finn and Jesse St. James had a fight (over Rachel!) and were evicted from the prom before the King and Queen were announced, which ruined Quinn's evening. She expected she and Finn would win. Artie could never convince Brittany to go with him; she chose to go alone. He consoled himself by spiking the punch, but Sue Sylvester caught him. (He was spiking it with lemonade.) Santana was furious because her date won Prom King and she didn't win Prom Queen. Karofsky was miserable, just because of his struggle with being gay and not ready to come out.
Chances are that even if I'd gone to my own prom, I wouldn't have had fun. But I still find myself regretting that I didn't go, and wishing that, at my advanced age, I could have another chance to deck myself out in a pretty dress and a corsage and go to a formal dance with a nice guy.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Screaming for help in my dreams
This morning I woke up at 8 a.m. from one of those heavy dreams, not quite a nightmare, and it was hard to shake it off. I was just as exhausted as if I hadn't slept at all. The dream's somber atmosphere still clung to me as I got out of bed, and I found it a strain to relate to the real world. I considered skipping church, but it was Palm Sunday and I have always loved the beginning of Holy Week.
In the dream I had just spent what felt like a week (but was probably just a few minutes) screaming for help, crying, begging somebody to listen to me. The theme was repeated in several different settings, over and over. In all of them, I was deeply depressed and desperately in need of somebody to lend me a hand.
It started at what seemed to be a retreat. I was at a college campus somewhere in the mountains. People of all ages were there, taking courses and discussing them with each other. But for some reason, nobody would listen to me. I went up to a group of people I thought were friends, and tried to join in the conversation. When I tried to say how I felt, though, they didn't want to hear it. I felt invisible, as I sometimes feel in real life.
So I sat down in the grass by the junction of a couple of paths, and I cried. People passed by, but nobody stopped. One even went so far as to ask me why I was crying, but she didn't stick around long enough for me to answer. I kept on crying, feeling more alone than ever, hoping somebody would stop and talk to me, but nobody ever did.
Then the dream shifted. For some reason, my sister had built a huge new house for our mother right next door to the house we grew up in. (There isn't room, but this was a dream, after all, and the landscape is expandable in dreams.) This house was so big it had a college dormitory in one end and a museum in the other. I kept trying to find the bedroom that was supposed to be mine. I wanted to collect a shawl I thought I'd left there, so I could wrap it around myself and maybe feel a little more secure. There were elevators all over this house, and they led to all sorts of strange locations. I remember there was a room where Mom's chocolate was kept. (My mom is a chocoholic.) And I kept trying to find somebody to listen to me. It was clear my mom wasn't going to; she didn't want me to be sad, so she ignored me when I was. (In the dream, not in real life.) I found a therapist or minister or somebody who should have wanted to listen to me, but she didn't have time for me. And I never did find my bedroom.
For some reason my sister had bought Mom a little flying car, like in the Jetsons. I thought we were riding over to wherever we were going in a helicopter, but it was actually a little golden car and Mom was driving. My mom gave up driving maybe a year ago, and it was significant to me in the dream that she could manage to drive this car.
And then I woke up. I still hadn't found anybody to talk to, and the weight of this need hung over me. It was difficult to shake it off. I found myself contemplating this dream during the sermon at church this morning (sorry, Lisa! but hey, Tim was making a paper airplane out of the program, and I think a couple of other choir members might have been dozing...). I decided to try to write about the experience in my blog to see if I could untangle what it really meant.
When I left church I could still feel the grim atmosphere of the dream clinging to me, and I was afraid that I'd have a difficult afternoon today. But I stopped at Trader Joe's and bought a few things we needed, and after I got home I took the cats out in the yard and raked up a couple more bags of leaves. (By then I was out of bags.) By now I feel all right. The sun is out and a few daffodils are in bloom in my yard.
So what was going on with that dream? I think I'm worried about my mother. My sister did move Mom into a large home where she has her own apartment - an assisted-living facility - but while Mom has a wheelchair, she doesn't have a flying car. The symbolism of Mom driving a golden car into the sky doesn't escape me, though. I just hope she doesn't drive off too soon.
And I frequently struggle with feeling unheard and feeling invisible. It's easy for me to see, when I'm awake, that sitting by the side of the road and crying, waiting for somebody to come and help me, isn't the way to solve my problems. Writing this blog entry, which will link to Facebook, is a way to help me feel a little more connected, whether anybody really responds or not.
In the dream I had just spent what felt like a week (but was probably just a few minutes) screaming for help, crying, begging somebody to listen to me. The theme was repeated in several different settings, over and over. In all of them, I was deeply depressed and desperately in need of somebody to lend me a hand.
It started at what seemed to be a retreat. I was at a college campus somewhere in the mountains. People of all ages were there, taking courses and discussing them with each other. But for some reason, nobody would listen to me. I went up to a group of people I thought were friends, and tried to join in the conversation. When I tried to say how I felt, though, they didn't want to hear it. I felt invisible, as I sometimes feel in real life.
So I sat down in the grass by the junction of a couple of paths, and I cried. People passed by, but nobody stopped. One even went so far as to ask me why I was crying, but she didn't stick around long enough for me to answer. I kept on crying, feeling more alone than ever, hoping somebody would stop and talk to me, but nobody ever did.
Then the dream shifted. For some reason, my sister had built a huge new house for our mother right next door to the house we grew up in. (There isn't room, but this was a dream, after all, and the landscape is expandable in dreams.) This house was so big it had a college dormitory in one end and a museum in the other. I kept trying to find the bedroom that was supposed to be mine. I wanted to collect a shawl I thought I'd left there, so I could wrap it around myself and maybe feel a little more secure. There were elevators all over this house, and they led to all sorts of strange locations. I remember there was a room where Mom's chocolate was kept. (My mom is a chocoholic.) And I kept trying to find somebody to listen to me. It was clear my mom wasn't going to; she didn't want me to be sad, so she ignored me when I was. (In the dream, not in real life.) I found a therapist or minister or somebody who should have wanted to listen to me, but she didn't have time for me. And I never did find my bedroom.
For some reason my sister had bought Mom a little flying car, like in the Jetsons. I thought we were riding over to wherever we were going in a helicopter, but it was actually a little golden car and Mom was driving. My mom gave up driving maybe a year ago, and it was significant to me in the dream that she could manage to drive this car.
And then I woke up. I still hadn't found anybody to talk to, and the weight of this need hung over me. It was difficult to shake it off. I found myself contemplating this dream during the sermon at church this morning (sorry, Lisa! but hey, Tim was making a paper airplane out of the program, and I think a couple of other choir members might have been dozing...). I decided to try to write about the experience in my blog to see if I could untangle what it really meant.
When I left church I could still feel the grim atmosphere of the dream clinging to me, and I was afraid that I'd have a difficult afternoon today. But I stopped at Trader Joe's and bought a few things we needed, and after I got home I took the cats out in the yard and raked up a couple more bags of leaves. (By then I was out of bags.) By now I feel all right. The sun is out and a few daffodils are in bloom in my yard.
So what was going on with that dream? I think I'm worried about my mother. My sister did move Mom into a large home where she has her own apartment - an assisted-living facility - but while Mom has a wheelchair, she doesn't have a flying car. The symbolism of Mom driving a golden car into the sky doesn't escape me, though. I just hope she doesn't drive off too soon.
And I frequently struggle with feeling unheard and feeling invisible. It's easy for me to see, when I'm awake, that sitting by the side of the road and crying, waiting for somebody to come and help me, isn't the way to solve my problems. Writing this blog entry, which will link to Facebook, is a way to help me feel a little more connected, whether anybody really responds or not.
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