Ode to Baggage

Baggage. We all have it.

Some of us carry it in a fanny pack with a tube of lip gloss.
While others have the 12-piece Samsonite tourister collection,
filled with all your carry on needs: Self-doubt, distrust, insecurity, jealousy.

Some paid full price.
Some clipped a coupon for it.
While others won it on Wheel of Fortune,
maybe back when you got to "shop the room."
(When you could ask Pat Sajak, your shopping companion,
if this "baggage" makes my butt too big.)

Some store their Baggage on the Top Shelf.
Some stash it Under the Bed
(or in the closet with the Definitive Tom Cruise collection).

Some have wheels and can easily trudge along beside you wherever you go.
Why not? It's so easily portable!
Would you like to see my baggage?
Would you like to borrow my baggage?

Some have the brightly-colored ribbon attached to it.
You don't want to mistake your baggage for someone else's.
No, you probably have enough already.

Some have logo-emblazoned luggage,
as if to say, "I'm proud of my baggage."

Some pass it down through the family.
(I'm sure Wills have been contested.)
"I want that baggage."
"I'm not taking that baggage."

But one things is for certain,
With age comes more baggage.

FORE!

When fore! is not a shout from someone in plaid pants, waving white gloved jazz hands; nor an album by Huey Lewis featuring the memorable hit “Hip to Be Square” - when we know Huey wasn’t hip, because if he was he would have spelt it “Hip 2 B SQR.” Patrick Bateman did call it a masterpiece in American Psycho.

When fore! is a shout out to you dear jiminy reader crickets. I’m not blasting off golf clubs and I haven’t jumped the karaoke circuit designated nirvana. While we are on the subject of golf, no, I have not joined the Tiger brothel. It’s been five years and you’ve been through some of it but over the last few years not much of it.

While I like to stamp my foot and brat, "it's all about me," I finally feel like I'm even closer to that moment when I am actually the center of attention (the star of my own life) and everyone is cheering...

More to come...

Kickboxing Dream

When you are old enough to know cause and effect, you know that “You want to go to kickboxing tonight?” translates to, “You’re gonna eat lightning and crap thunder!” And because that would make a good story to tell Al Roker (he's literal and he'll believe you), you say sign me up for the shitastrophe!

In my “softer” days, I would prefer to maintain a horizontal position on the couch, my tush comfortably nestled in the cushions, head propped up by pillows, remote control resting on my belly. Exercise would be exercising my right to not watch Two and Half Men, Big Bang Theory, or Gary Unmarried or any other ABC shitcom with a laugh track (because people need to be told when to laugh, is the way ABC sees it). I exercise my right not to laugh on cue. At least when there is no reward of a treat manufactured by Haribo. (My tongue is wagging and I answer to Bruiser by the way. Some things will never change.) So this whole get up off the couch and sweat it out brain trust that I’ve been assigned is merely a salve from the depressive (i.e., lazy) funk that has permeated my every fiber of being, comfortable as that couch may be. It answers to Lov-ah.

In preparation for the workout, I drink a glass of raw egg yolks, shadowbox up Constitution, run up the steps of the Capitol, leap in the air, and shake my fist. (Secret Service mentally taking notes of this Cool Factor to add to the boss' routine. Since the Mom jean's didn't work on the baseball field.) Theme track unfortunately drowned out by a diplomatic motorcade, because when in DC…

When I arrive at said kickboxing studio I’m reminded of a set leftover from Rocky. The ring, the Snoop soundtrack, Mike Tyson. I make a mental note to save my ears. I conclude that the gym was bought on Ebay with the advertisement: Apollo Creed v. Italian Stallion. There’s a sign in the water fountain that says, “Don’t spit in the fountain.” Because frogs, snails, and puppy dog tails will do so if you don’t give them a friendly reminder that, hey, your spittle that comes from the bowels of your stomach...is kind of disgusting. Boys.

Then I hear the laugh track, Al Roker comes out from the wings in all his jollyness, and my ear starts to feel cold and clammy. Al's asking me something about bowels and thunder and he's wearing boxing shorts. And that's no TKO my friends. That's when I wake up to a thunderstorm and my dog licking my ear. Yet, AL ROKER IS STILL PRESENT.

I change the channel and nudge my tush deeper into the cushion and coo, "Oh, Lov-ah." That is, after Al Roker was long gone.

Gluttonous Maximus

"Life is a smorgasbord and most poor suckers are starving to death." — Patrick Dennis (Auntie Mame: An Irreverent Escapade)

“I guess I’m just a glutton for punishment,” she said wryly and jokingly. There was a shrug of the shoulders, a downturned corner of the mouth, and big puppy dog eyes batting Joan Crawford spider-legged eyelashes. She could have just as easily been saying, “Woe is me,” as is often the case.

So she hikes up her skirt and strolls down the information highway, Exit Online Dating (Population: Everyone) where she will be met with disappointment and heartbreak over and over and over. Nothing good EVER comes out of it, yet she has watched one too many Nora Ephron rom-coms and believes that Shopgirl will indeed some day meet her “Joe Fox” complete with a Brinkley (soon to change his name to Tom Ford) to adopt all her own.

She’ll come across “that guy” over and over. "That guy" who doesn’t follow up, "that guy" who wants one thing, "that guy" who is going to trade you in for tomorrow’s latest model, "that guy" who wants his peas, carrots, and french fries. Men and their buffets. They just can’t help themselves when their options on the menu are Everything and All You Can Eat.

On the flipside, for her, while the options are the same - everything - she is only looking for one thing: the real thing. It can't possibly be found on the buffet but the chef (i.e., God) won't let her order off the menu. Just call her Sally.

[Ed.: Our heroine is really, really hungry at this point. I've asked Sally Struthers to step in and plead her case.]

You're Leaving Fingers Crossed, Arkansas Now

“I still believe in Hope - mostly because there's no such place as Fingers Crossed, Arkansas.” – Molly Ivins

Despite my uber-pessimism in all things Love and Relationships (The glass is half full? I never got a glass!), I still harbor a modicum of Hope. It’s hidden deep, sure, like in my thighs where everything else seems to congregate (French Fry meet Hope), but I know it exists.

Last week, I went on my billionth first date. At my (Golden) age, a product of wasting 7 years with a Yukkell, letting the “good guy” get away once or twice, living in DC, and low self-esteem. (Although I might argue that the low self-esteem is a product of that guy, that guy, that guy, and all those guys.) To the world, I put on the face of pessimism and say things like, “Here we go again” (eyeroll), or “He has no where to go but up” (used car man smile), and “I’m not expecting to be swept off my feet” (Mother Theresa nod).

But deep down (from the deepest regions of my thighs) I think but never say out loud, “Might this be the one?” I dare to hope.

It might be because, prior to meeting in person, we shared good rapport with a volley of sarcastic banter complete with a McEnroe helping of “C’mon!!! Are you blind?!?!”. Oh, I did throw my tennis racket and was ready to dismiss him when the line became so blurred between the Sarcasm and the Deadpan. Did he just rename my neighborhood unfavorably? A neighborhood, I would argue, he also lives in. And so I suggested a West Side Story rumble. I kindly offered to bring the choreography.

So I agreed to meet him. You know, if I must.

In the end, I was pleasantly surprised. Not because the date ended up being fun, easy, and definitely memorable. Not because he was generous with his laughter. Not because he wore good shoes. Not because he gave great hugs, affection, and a better kiss. But because he asked me out on a second date and persisted when I had to turn him down due to a prior engagement. So he rung me again and we firmed up a second date. He's cooking and I'm baking!

I can feel the squish of Hope rubbing in my thighs now.

Avoiding the treadmill for now...