Trying to Decide...

...if I should worm my way back into the blog spotlight or not. Back in my heyday, people I'd never met used to approach me in bars because they knew my face from my blog. I was quoted, I was chastised, I was linked, I was adored. Whether the adulation was sincere or not, I was always flattered. But I haven't been to a blogger happy hour since November and the vacillation of the scene is such that, at this point, a scant few would even know who I was. Four months off is career suicide in the blog world.

My intentions vary now from my original dessert-nicknamed goals. And I wonder if I have the courage or desire to withstand the public scrutiny I so welcomed with my last endeavour. I welcome commentary, but at what expense? I temporarily exited the blog world to avoid the inevitable vitriol of personal dramatics; my words are always laced with the pure kindness of my soul and I wanted nothing to do with spiteful battle. This is simply an after-hours extracurricular, not my life (of which I'm only willing to reveal innocuous, pedestrian tidbits) Thus, my hesitation to announce my return with floodlights.

I am here again, sans alias, writing to placate the explosive needs of my imprisoned, creative demon. And the question remains, what kind of visibility do I truly desire and how much would I be willing to sacrifice to achieve it?

Bertha

Despite the few extra curves I’ve carried around with me since early adulthood, I’ve never felt burdened by my weight. I’ve never been controlled, nor limited, by the three digits on the scale that vary by a pound or two depending on the time of month.

Which is why, instead of feeling disgust or objection at the sight of a 400-pound woman gimping out of Fuddrucker’s the other evening, I experienced heartache. Each cane-assisted footstep was painfully effortful because her jello-loaf calves were the size of a toddler. There was no evidence of ankles. If curled into a fetal position, I could have fit my entire body into the cavern of her belly. The folds of skin under her chin pulled her face into a permanent frown (or perhaps that was the result of the additional weight of people’s ridicule). Each breath was an ordeal. I couldn’t imagine what sort of damage would occur to a spirit to be caged in such an enormous, downtrodden physical space; unable to take a natural stride at will.

The extra five pounds of ‘relationship complacency’ that has deposited around my hipbones does not restrict my ability to run half marathons, ascend a flight of stairs two-at-a-time, lift heavy furniture, or even walk to my car from the entrance of a restaurant. It was the pitiable woman I observed struggling to function at the most basic of levels who served to remind me what the burden of obesity can do to one’s soul.

May I never let those five pounds turn into fifty. I just signed up for the Chicago half-marathon.

I Am Not Bridezilla

No more than a year ago you may have spotted me in the middle of (or on the stage above) any local scene-ster dance floor, sharing many a Grey Goose and tonic with the shirt of my hunky male dance partner of the moment. I lived in the nightlife, faithfully, for the better part of my 20s, stretching my body to the legal limits of indulgence. You may have even been blessed to have met my counterpart; that wear-a-wig-for-no-reason, shot-pounding, bar-dancing, boisterous tornado of a socialite whose mastery of flirtation has saturated male egos across the globe.

I can’t imagine that anyone who played with me in my moonstruck glory would have pegged me to be the settled, stay-at-home mom type. But I met my match in a gifted man who could both keep up with me and calm me; follow me on every one of my whimsical paths and revel in my glow. There was not a doubt in my mind from the moment he first grasped my hand and smiled at me that I would love this man until I die.

And so, here I am, just a few short months away from proclaiming my vows of unconditional surrender in front of an intimate audience of family and close friends. The planning has been as effortless as the engagement. Despite the numerous hours of detailed research performed so generously by my mother, the decisions have all been simple and unanimous. At the end of the day, it’s not about the complexity of the invitation, the flare of the décor on the head table, the number of roses in my bouquet or the VW in the label of the dress. Our wedding is simply meant to be a celebration that happiness, the way Hollywood tells it, really does exist. Anyone who frets about the thread-count of the reception table napkins should really reexamine her reasons for saying 'I Do.'

Diner Food

It was a good buddy who forewarned me never to voyage past the central landmark. Never go east of Comfort St. It’s run-down; saturated with the dregs of the impoverished; dangerous and tattered. “I wouldn’t go there, it isn’t safe.” I heeded his advice until this evening when, after an excruciating day, I found myself famished enough to throw caution out the roof of my convertible.

I suppose then that my shock was understandable as every driver used his signal and waved a ‘thank you’ as he passed; every tired blue collar worker walking the mile-plus journey home at dusk, sans automobile, carried a smile on his face; every patron in front of me at the local diner stuffed an unnecessary dollar in the tip jar at the take-out counter. This may not be Park Avenue, but the inhabitants welcomed me in their streets with such reassuring integrity that my conscience couldn’t help but pang from the guilt of having fallen victim to the rumours of second-hand judgment with obvious naiveté.

Poor does not equate to criminal. Shame on me for not doing my homework before avoiding a venue so enriched with joviality...and divine roast chicken.

A Friend Reminded Me

Can a woman proclaim to have an amigo she has never met? A warm, moustached man with a likely southern drawl who sends her Christmas DVDs every year despite her absence?

I went for a long run Sunday afternoon to clear my mind. I have been heavily burdened in the last few months by the weight of my inability to say 'no.' I work too hard. I determined a 5 month engagement was a reasonable amount of time to plan a cross-coastal wedding. I travel virtually every weekend to see friends and family dispersed across the Americas, leaving scarcely enough time to nurture the friendships in my own backyard. I rest my weary head on my pillow each evening waiting for the fast-forwarding of my life to wane.

The path I chose that particular afternoon took me through a Spanish neighbourhood of such amicable proportions that the gregariousness made me whimper with regret. Extended families lingered peacefully on every stoop, basking in the calm of the perfect sunshine. The children smiled coyly and the women waved their jovial 'holas' as I skittered past. That was what a Sunday evening should be; an icy lemonade at dusk in the company of mi familia. Somehow I have lost sight of that in the whirlwind of filler that is my current state of being.

I wondered then if I shouldn't consider writing again. Whether talented or not, it's the hobby I adore more than any other. And it was a masked amigo, one who has supported my creativity since the dawn, who coincidentally reminded me it was time for my return... So yes, though I have not [yet] shaken his hand in person, I will call this gentleman my friend simply because I am grateful for his support.