Well, anyway, the squats worked out my thighs and upper glutes but what needs working out is my lower glutes, the part that hangs out of the bathing suit. I'm not sure that exercise covers it. It's just that I'm sick of using that butt-machine where you kick back the weights in the doggy-style position. I wear these big, baggy shorts to the gym and I'm afraid that the legs hang wide open and then everyone can see my skivvies. My granny-panties. Otherwise I'm not too self-conscious at the gym. Whether other people look at me or not, I don't give a shit.
Yeah, I buy men's shorts for working out. [Oops, I have to start some laundry. --I'm back.] Women's shorts strike me as too short. I also never wear, for working out or street wear, tight, small tops as are the fashion now. Eduard used to tell me that I had some really nice curves and that I should show them off, but instead I obscure my figure with clothes that hang like a tent. It's like I don't *want* anyone to look at me. That must be from when I was growing up, where I felt such shame for my developing body because my dad was always leering at it and trying to grab me. He made me feel like I was just a collection of body parts. Then when I left home, I was always uncomfortable with guys looking at my body; it evoked the same sense of shame. So over the years I developed a "fashion sense," if you can call it that, to protect myself. Lately, even though I'm still a jeans-and-t-shirt kinda gal, I've delved into buying tops made especially for women, that don't obscure my shape. But I find I don't wear them that much. What a heavy burden shame is.
We have an assignment in watercolor that I'm not digging at all: it's called "memorabilia." We're to paint a collage with overlapping images to investigate the transparency of the medium, which is cool by me. But the subjects are to be collections of memorabilia from our lives. Awright, I don't mind my life lately and I feel that it will continue to get better, but in the past my life has mostly sucked. An overbearing, hysterical mother, a pedophilic dad, moving to fundamentalist BFE where I never fit in, my best friend of three years dumping me for a more popular crowd, which hurt me profoundly, then joining the marines where I lived an extension of what my dad taught me, that I was put on this earth just to service men. Years of debilitating depression, working in dead-end, demeaning jobs, and moving from place to place in an attempt to find something better, only to learn that my depression had followed me. Then being married, which I liked a lot, only to have my husband dump me for someone who fucked him in the ass and blew him on a frequent basis. I mean, ya know? Hate to sound so maudlin, but I don't have a collection of "memorabilia." I've got dolls galore, which don't really mean much to me at the end of the day. My life has been very lonely and I don't like to talk about it, especially publicly.
Let me mention that I did learn something important from my marriage: you have to be with someone you love to fuck or it's not going to work out. I mean, the desire will not improve with time if there's no chemistry, it'll only get worse. That's my experience anyway. I totally underestimated the importance of sex. With Eduard was the first time I enjoyed it; too bad he's a drunk.
It hit me recently that the only times Eduard and I truly communicated verbally were twice: the night he first came over to my place, and over the phone during our "break." Those were the only times I felt connected to him, the only times we discussed anything deep or significant. I think he looked to me to crack jokes, make him laugh and forget about his troubles.
One thing that pains me about giving up the cats is, I can't bear the thought of having no physical contact with another living being. You know?
4:15 p.m.
There's a person from my graduating class in high school who has since become a successful actor on a popular t.v. show. It's funny to see his face on the covers of publications in the supermarket, but of course I don't know him now, and I didn't know him well back then. What's funny, though, is that he was the first high school classmate I'd "seen" since graduation (I've since met up with my friend Cheryl). When I was in high school, I lived for the day I could get the hell out of there; it was miserable. When that day came, I slammed the door shut on my high school experiences and never looked back. But then when I saw that familiar face on the boob tube, the memories came flooding back and ever since I've had those frequent dreams about my classmates, I guess because nothing was really resolved or whatever. It's just been weird, that's all. This guy was a jock and hung with the popular crowd. A lot of those jocks were loutish pigs, but, and I don't just say this because he's an actor now, he was more of a gentleman. Not that he went out of his way to be nice to me or anything; any association with me would have been social suicide.
I was working at a fast food joint after school, Come-Fuck-Me Fried Chicken, and one afternoon all the jocks and their girlfriends came in and ate a meal in the restaurant. When they left, not only did they not clean up their plates, they had deliberately made an astonishing mess. They stayed in their cars in the parking lot so they could see my reaction when I had to clean it up. Must have fetched a hearty yuk. But I vaguely remember the actor guy picking up his tray and heading to the trash receptacle when one of the piggier jocks goes, "C'mon! Leave it there!" so he did. At least he tried.
posted by Newpeep, N.D. (neurotic depressive) @ 1:30 PM
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