Checking In On Veronica

For the longest time I had the most boring medical history—aside from all the broken brain/mental illness stuff, that is. But looking at more purely physiological stuff, I had decades of time where my doctor’s appointment and annual physicals were as boring as boring could be.

I even managed to escape a lot of the usual medical fatphobia that can emerge in this context because my blood work was always so damn healthy.

Oh, how the worm has turned! During the past year, I’ve been diagnosed with sleep apnea and (possibly) with pre-diabetes. I’m beginning to feel tendon aches in my elbows*, and, as discussed previously, I’m about to order my first set of bifocals.

And then there’s Veronica.

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Waiting for Harper

And so it begins. 

Winter has lots of possible beginnings: cultural (Monday after Thanksgiving), calendrical (December 1st), astrological (Winter Solstice), what-have-you. But in my experience as a newbie-Bostonian, I’m pretty sure that the winter storm season doesn’t begin until right about now. There have been exceptions to this, of course: a couple of our years here have had one biggish snowfall in December. But in most years, the first big snow dump seems to happen somewhere around mid-January or MLK day. And even in those years that had a single snowstorm in December, the rotating lineup of winter storms didn’t start until then.

And, right on time, Winter Storm Harper is scheduled to arrive tomorrow evening.

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While Rome Burns

Quick hit tonight: a gloomy YAWP inspired by current events.

Two nights ago, friend put up a Facebook post alerting folks to the alternative programming option of watching The Breakfast Club at 9 PM on AMC. I commented that I was already in bed with a book. Yes, the big biography I’d been posting about earlier that evening.

Then I added a hashtag: #Escapism

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Just Write

Ah me: another year almost gone to bed, another year about to commence. And with the turn of the calendar pages comes the near-eternal question: to resolve or not? Actually, it’s not much of a question for me, nowadays.

I don’t resolve.

I especially don’t jump onto the losing weight/”getting healthy thinner” bandwagon anymore. Instead, I’ve been coping with every diet ad Facebook throws at me by clicking the “report this” button and labelling the ad as “misleading or a scam.” Continue reading “Just Write”

#loveiscompany

It occurs to me that when I was writing about the show last week, I may accidentally have created a false sense of opposition between the gifts the production gave me and the insights I was exploring around fatness and self-hatred. That’s not exactly the case.

I mean, don’t get me wrong: it was hella sobering to face up to the self-hatred. (I kind of imagine some wacky Dorian-Grey-like scenario, only with me gazing into a mirror with some twisted and bestial reflection.) Nevertheless, I am also profoundly grateful for this deeper level of awareness. You can’t clear what you don’t acknowledge, and so I am grateful to Spirit for bringing me this wake-up in the guise of a theatrical part.

So, yes, count this new awareness, however uncomfortable the truth may be, to be one of the production’s gifts to me.

But there were other, more ribbon-wrapped sorts of gifts, too.

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Broken Windows

So, in the words of Morris W. O’Kelley, it is “That Time in America” again.

Freddy Gray died in Baltimore on April 19th, one week after an arrest and police transport experience that somehow left him comatose, brain swollen, with three broken vertebrae and an 80% spinal cord severance. Involved officers were suspended. The Justice Department opened an investigation.

Peaceful protests took place for several days without much media attention. Then a small percentage of the protesters turned to violence and property destruction–with, by the way, the active collusion of baseball fans and poor police planning.

And then the finger-wagging commenced. Which brings me back to O’Kelley:

This is that time in America when we stand around and ask “why would ‘they’ burn down ‘their’ community?” This is that time in America when we simultaneously act as if the precipitating event or parallel history are neither relevant nor worthy of addressing. . . . This is that time in America when once again, African-Americans are expected to play by rules not followed by others while also having the original issues ignored.

Yup. It’s that time again. Not that “that time” ever really went away in the first place.

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Back Like a Found Penny

Once again, a longer pause than intended. Any number of reasons that don’t require listing off–at least not in a “justifying my absence” kind of way. There may indeed be a few of those reasons that get unwound as threads of exploration in future days and weeks.* But only because they warrant deeper examination in my ongoing life/growth journey.

So let’s start with the elephant in the room, the primary thing that demanded a majority of my extracurricular time & attention: stage managing that production of Into the Woods.

Continue reading “Back Like a Found Penny”