My Tent on The Beach

I was sitting in my dining room yesterday, contemplating the possibilities for new paint colors.  Yes, I was sitting and staring at the wall.  But it was not without intention.  I got lost in thinking about the day that Kristine, Tim, and Mike came over to put the first color on the walls–I can remember what they were wearing, what we talked about, and the fact that Mustafa got sick and tired of the noise at about 10pm and we had to call it a night. And then I remembered thinking to myself on that painting day, “It’ll be a weird moment when you stop and think about this very moment sometime in the future.  I wonder what you’ll be thinking about?”  And I found myself in “that moment”–and realized that things are moving in very real, visceral ways.

I’ve always played that little game with myself.  It’s a more abstract way of throwing down breadcrumbs–purposely–to remember and reflect on the differences between the way I think things will happen and the way they actually unfold.  Whenever I hit a “that moment,” I’m consistently amazed (and sometimes awed) by the incredible ways things work out.  It didn’t used to be my mantra but one of my new favorite phrases to insert anywhere doubt lives is “It’ll all work out.”  It’s my game that allows me to know that’s the case.  And even more incredibly, I’m never dissatisfied with the ways in which things work out.  It turns out life is a much better storyteller than I…it always throws in a plot twist I never could have dreamed up in a million years.

What’s interesting about the way the game has changed for me over the years is “that moment” used to be determined at the start of something big: when I started grad school, I wondered what it would feel like the first time I said, “This is the start of my 6th year” (sadly, I never imagined saying things like “this is the start of my 8th year” or “I’ve been doing this almost a decade” but I’d better start getting prepared).  In my first year in Chicago, I wondered where I’d be living 5 years down the road.  (The answer turns out to be “here.”)  And when it comes to people…well, those are stories I never could have even dreamed.  It seems, almost, that Chicago has upended almost everything I expected when I first got here.  My best friends are people that, upon meeting them I thought, “I want to be their friend but I don’t know how.”  Somehow, I figured it out–we figured it out.  Others I thought I’d know forever have fallen into the “friend ‘everything’ drawer.”  You know that one, completely jam-packed drawer of not even organized chaos that you just shove random things in and think, “I’ll definitely have to organize this drawer one of these days.”  That “friend drawer” is full of partial acquaintances or those “lost” forever in that morass of “I knew you really well once.”  I wonder what that moment will be like…the one immediately after I realize I’ve mostly cleaned out that drawer?  Aw, let’s face it: that drawer and my living room will never be really free of clutter…there will always be fragments of friends hanging out in there.

And here’s the most curious part of the “that moment” game: there are whole categories of things I’ve dared myself not to even imagine.  Things I want so desperately, so completely, that the thought of not having them actually gives me pain. The thought of missing them makes me irretrievably sad.  I specifically remember a series of moments like this when it comes to singing.  I remember walking out of contemporary choir and thinking, “It’s never going to be more than this and that’s okay,” but secretly wishing in my heart it would be, but I didn’t know how.  And “that moment” is here now…and some days I wonder where that path will continue to lead…and I can’t know; I just have to not ask questions.  When I use perfect, gut-wrenching honesty, my game has proven to me that a majority of things I’ve asked for, wished for, hoped for…I’ve gotten.  And when I examine the means, I know it’s a story I never could have created myself.  Had I undertaken it my way, I never would have reached the end I wanted.

Basically, my dining room reflection allowed me to conclude that I’m a crappy writer of fiction.  But I always knew that.  More importantly, though, if I allow the better writer of fiction to work…the ends…well, they’re always a story worth waiting for.

I can’t stop eating.

“It’s crazy,” I say sitting here, having just inhaled a donut after eating a sandwich and fries for lunch.  What. the. heck.  This has been going on for two weeks and I’m starting to get concerned.

Now, before you go hurling the fat-jokes around (which is something only I do…almost no one hurls fat jokes at me anymore…which is good because I’d kick ‘em in the nuts and then twist their nose), this is a novel occasion because I’m just that hungry.

There’s no doubt, I’m an emotional eater.  This is evidenced in my “soft” exterior which, I think, clearly corresponds to my consistently high levels of stress.  I will also claim with a serious face that I have an “athletic build”…I do, because working out nets me huge American-Gladiator-like muscles.  They look cool when I’m really toned, but they’re also mammoth.  When I’m working out I go from round to square.  What I wouldn’t do to find “slim” in there somewhere.  Anyway, this tendency plus the emotional eating has always equalled “Katie shops in the plus-size section.”  (Which was completely hilarious last week when I went shopping with a friend of mine…The Lady, for those who know her…who was particularly unembarrassed by plus size shopping.  Every store she walked into she would go up to the sales person and loudly…and I mean loudly…announce “My friend needs the plus size section…No the PLUS sizes.”  It was strangely comforting that she wasn’t apologetic about it. Meanwhile, I’m like diving behind any rack I can find wheezing in her direction, “Uh, yeah, okay let’s just go…” and the salespeople were like, “Why are you shouting?”)

Anyway, what I’m not used to is the hunger.  This is functional eating that’s going on here, not emotional, and it’s just always there.  When I eat, it makes it worse. Conundrum: When I don’t eat…it’s just as bad.  AHHHH.  Of course, anyone else would find this a fantastic problem to have.  I, however, am imagining the shoe-horning that’s have to go on to get into my favorite jeans…which are, everyone together now, plus size.

I’m trying not to freak too much and just enjoy the ride.  Maybe this is justice for those three or four months last year when, because of extreme horrible stress, I just didn’t eat anything (Cruel irony there: I’m wearing the same jeans today as I did then…all of that time I could’ve been eating jelly donuts everyday).  But I’m starting to worry about things like “cholesterol” and “heart disease.”

Maybe I’ll just eat this here Toblerone and contemplate it for awhile.

Ooh, I don’t know if you’ve all been following the big buzz: Archie finally proposed after all these years…TO VERONICA.

'Bout time, Arch. Good for you.

That’s right.  This comic book icon that’s been all over every medium from gum wrappers to online comics finally committed…the cardinal American sin.  And people are up in arms about it.

For those unaware of the story, here it is.  It’s the classic American love triangle: Archie loves Betty, Betty plays hard to get, Veronica (the vixen) is always there to throw a wrench into an otherwise bland boy-loves-girl story. Awesome.

But here’s what’s so interesting to me about this public outcry over the fact that the Archie Gang (now well into middle age) has defied convention…that Archie actually asked the “hot, slutty” girl to marry him after all these years of pining hopelessly (and fruitlessly) over Betty.  Betty has been the ungettable get for too long.  And now that she’s finally gotten what her coy little self deserves (Archie moving on to someone who’s openly wanted him for, well, ever), we’re angry.  We feel sorry for Betty.  Because that’s not how the story ends.  What else could Betty have done but what she did…we asked her to play that role and we promised her that in the end, she’d be happy.  And now Veronica is wearing her ring.

Good, I say.  Betty totally screwed this one up.  Maybe I speak from a standpoint heavily informed by the fact that I’ve never had guys falling all over me (far from it, actually.  Usually I intimidate them…which I will never totally understand) but, I look at this story (and the countless number of real stories that look exactly the same) and I think Betty’s been an ass.  Archie’s tied himself in knots trying to get her attention and she’s been stringing him along (for, like, 15 years now).  How long does she possibly think he’s going to put up with that?!?  Seriously. It’s embarrassing for him and heartless for her.  But isn’t it interesting that we side with her when he asks Veronica because Betty’s done what every “good girl” should do…we expect her to be rewarded for playing the part of  “ideal girl.”  We’ve done Betty a disservice in leading her to believe that messing with Archie’s mind for so long is something that will be rewarded with his love and loyalty in the end.  Only if Archie’s a total idiot would that happen.

Now, I know…you’re reading this thinking, “Kate…seriously…it’s a comic book…who cares?”  This story is not a comic book.  I talk to many men who are Archie and have chosen their Betty and regret it.  Why?  Because if we take Betty at face value (and put out of our minds “the ideal girl” idea), she’s a manipulative bitch.  And there’s nothing to indicate she won’t continue to be that.  Meanwhile, Veronica (the hot, slutty girl as we’ve cast her) has done nothing but show Archie how she feels about him.  Archie is the real winner here.  He’s chosen the girl (now woman) who has given him every reason to believe she loves him…for real.  Good for you, Arch.  Nicely played.

Of course, this isn’t the end of this story.  Archie Comics has already said there’s 5 issues left, which means they’ll totally bow to the crush of complaints from readers wanting the Fairytale Ending.  Veronica will be left heartbroken, (“As every slut deserves,” we’ll say) and Betty will be featured on the next episode of Bridezillas and we’ll all clap Archie on the back and given him that hang-dog, “Man…what are you getting yourself into?” look of satisfaction.  Because that’s how the story should end.

It’s a sad day for the girl next door…not because she didn’t get the proposal. It’s because she’ll never learn that what’s she’s doing is anything but “cute” and “coquettish.”  It’s actually kind of gross.  And we’ve all asked her to be that.