Forgive-Me-Not

i’m so angry. i’m so mean. i expect total leeway for all shortcomings and failures, but i give none. i expect everyone to fit my tight definitions of what i desire in people, and i have such a hard time accepting–and enjoying–people for their individual selves. i expect the show always on while i’m always still adjusting my costume.

this is an easy out, but Facebook does this to me a lot. i see people’s stream of conscious, and their grammar might be bad or their topic may be obscure, and i’m frustrated: “why aren’t you the you i want you to be?!?”

and to myself. i get so mad at me. why did i make that choice? why am i afraid of the post office? why do i hate going outside?

right now i’m stuck on this tattoo. my artist called me once, it’s been a few years, and she said money’s tight. i’ll tattoo you as long as you can sit for a certain amount of money. and man was it a bargain. here’s the catch: i didn’t get the tattoo i really wanted. i sold my arm for someone else’s rent money.

why the hell did i do that? there are so many ways each and every one of us are prostitutes to something, but i actually sold skin. i am permanently marked for a big fucking mistake.

i’m trying forgiveness today. i’ve changed the name of the flower. it was supposed to be a gardenia in honor of my grandmother and my husband for sentimental reasons. i’ve come to realize it looks more like a camellia. flipping through a flower book trying to see if there was something i wanted to paint, i saw a magic answer. it said that camellias mean “you’re adorable.”

forgive me, Chrissy; i’m adorable.

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Borrow It Forward

you’ve no doubt heard of “pay it forward”? i love it, i practice it whenever, even silly things like holding the door open and smiling for a stranger.

but imagine the energy it takes a person with chronic illness to do something like that over and over during a day. ok, so i stood an extra time holding the door, there’s a little energy outta my bucket. stayed on the phone longer than necessary to hear someone’s problems, little more zap outta my zing. convincing my spastic service dog to SIT GODAMMIT over and over when people would like to pet her, that is A LOT of energy ladled out of my bucket of self.

you get it, i like to pay it forward, even if it means that little things exhaust me and i come home sacked, drained of just everything. i used to turn movies on and pretend to watch them–i don’t even bother anymore.

now, let’s see this: if there’s something i want to do for me today, i “borrow it forward” by taking tomorrow’s energy. does that make any sense? it’s like getting a cash advance on what your body creates overnight. so in the back of your head you realize you’re getting screwed because then you won’t have that cash/energy later, but you have that cash/energy today. borrowing it forward.

last night was a good example. a close friend had an art opening in her young gallery, Rock Art Studio. i like to go out and support her, enjoy the artwork, and actually socialize with other human beings. however, to enjoy last night’s show, i had to borrow from today.

i’m nodding off as i write, and just then i flat-out fell asleep til Facespace beeped me.

i borrowed it all out today. miserable. nodded off there. typing with only one eye open. where’s my reading glasses.

you get the point. borrowing it forward costs tomorrow the joy it brings today. i don’t really regret it, but it sure sucks like hell.

Tiara Trouble

as a Society Gal on the Go, i’ve lived always to the social extremes—most popular, pariah, belle, irritance, to the now ever glamorous ‘It Girl’ amongst the denizens of my couch.

as a kindergartner, i recall with perfectly that i was the most sought after by both boys and girls because i was totally balls to the wall in everything i did. whether it was making hotdog factories from blocks with the boys or playing dress-up with the girls, i squeezed everything there was to be squozen.

but the same friends started turning on me as we got a little older and i wasn’t balls to the wall Liz Claiborne. the fastest girl still wasn’t as fast as the fastest boy, and the fastest girl, def was not french braid material.

my teeter-totter troubles just tripped into motion a woeful tale of most my life in pecking-order’s dumps. i mean, the only thing i had going for me was that i wasn’t Nicky. dear Nicky’s of the world, i’m sorry, really sorry. but the Christine’s thank you! god at least i don’t *think* i was a Nicky, was i? omg my life is so over if i were secretly a Nicky. or worse, THE Nicky! i’m having heart palpitations! in the not swooning way!

i found my stride in college amongst intellectual peers and partiers, the two areas of my life where i outstripped most co-eds. the catch was i didn’t know this was my bright and shiny moment, i thought i’d finally arrived at me, Me, ME!

i started grad school, and it was totally like eighth grade Poodle Skirt Day, and i was the only one not in a poodle skirt. i did learn who Judith Butler was though. and i did learn it was possible to be smarter than a professor. i also learned that just like Poodle Skirt Day, the coolest kid still has to approve you for you to be “in.”

what i never learned was “who gives a shit?” i could blame social imprinting for teaching me that popularity is everything, but shouldn’t a decently intelligent person outgrow that at some point? i’ve always wanted to win Most Popular Girl tiara, but that’s once piece of plastic i’ll never earn. and that’s it, ultimately, it’s plastic. it’s a rigid, cheap toy easily broken.

popularity is as restrictive as a tiara: try to adapt it, and the pressure cracks.