Blah, Blah, Blahg...

A blog on blogging.  I suppose all bloggers, at one time or another, succumb to this dangling carrot, so why not me?  After all, according to my subtitle I'm supposed to be exploring the subject of "liberty," and I do hate to be accused of impertinent subtitles.

In a recent conversation with one of my many followers (let's call her "Brunhilda" for the sake of shielding her identity, and because it's fun), Brunhilda said, "Well, I do like your [blog] layout and everything, but do you really want to divulge all that rawness?  I mean some of it is just so dark and sad and I'd hate to think someone might read that and think you didn't have it all together."  This comment, of course, caused me to read back through my posts, which then inspired the following thoughts:  1) I wouldn't exactly call anything I've written dark, per se, and only sad in that sort of healthy, self-deprecating way.  OK, so I did use the phrase "rock bottom" in one post, but that's no measure.  2) all that "rawness," as Brunhilda put it, is a little thing I like to call "life," which brings me to the crux of this issue...

Wounds:  to expose or not to expose.  When one blogs, does one worry about such things as political correctness, "touchy" subjects, and nuggets of information that may or may not cause others to be saddened, alarmed, or otherwise disturbed?  Well, the writer in me is, of course, screaming HELL no!!!  If you're going to censor yourself, why write a blog?  Isn't there enough censorship going on without bloggers censoring themselves?  Come on, people.  

But actually, the political correctness/slander angle interests me much less than Brunhilda's concern that I might be divulging a side of me that others would find too "dark" and perhaps depressing.  Again, my inner writer's voice is  here.  I mean, what if Hemingway had felt that way?; what if he'd gotten to the end of For Whom the Bell Tolls and thought, Jesus, that is some dark shit I just wrote.  That's really gonna depress the hell out of people.  Let's just make a few changes here...[crosses out some lines, writes some stuff in the margins]...there!  Now, that's better!  Robert Jordan doesn't have to actually blow up the bridge -- they can just chill in the Spanish hills, guerillas and all, and work it out through peaceful and validating conversation!  And what if Victor Hugo had decided Jean Valjean's inner struggles were just too damned depressing for people to handle -- that Les Miserables would be a better book if we just got to see Valjean in his halcyon days?  Well, it'd be a shorter book, for one thing.  And he'd probably have to change the title -- "The Miserable Ones" is no good (too dark) -- perhaps something a little lighter, like whatever's French for "The Ones Who Might've Had a Few Bumps and Bruises But in the End Made Lemonade Out of Lemons"?

I'm rambling a little, I admit, but here's my point:  blogs are for thoughts on life.  And sometimes life sucks.  The best of times, the worst of times, you know...Dickens nailed it.  If people only write about the best of times, the worst feel worse than they actually are, cause then you not only have to suffer through life's downs, but you feel like you're doing it alone.  What's more is, if you don't find a way to live through the worst of times (and writing and reading are both excellent ways to do this), you never really fully relish the best.  And sometimes you just downright miss them.

Ode to Cargos

Warning:  this post may be too distressing for weak-hearted readers.

It was a sad day today as I laid my beloved Old Navy cargo pants to rest.  Khaki in color and the softest of cottons, these pants have really gotten me through some hard times.  Five long years of ups and downs in weight, belts that have come and gone, a thousand trips through the washers and dryers of my life (including the industrial size/strength ones at the 24-hour laundromat); five years of solid, consistent support.  So you can imagine how shocked I was when two days ago, as I was riding my bike back to my house, the pants (which are actually way too big for me now) just ripped, clear down the middle of the leg.  Didn't even get caught on my bike or anything -- just died of natural causes.  Let's face it, the pants just didn't have the will to fight anymore.  And so I had to respect their wishes; I had to let them go.

Oh, how I cried!  The last time I loved a pair of pants this much was 26 years ago, when I was 7 and carried on a lasting affair with a robust pair of Wrangler jeans.  Come to think of it, what ever happened to those jeans?  Beloved-Material-Item Disney World, perhaps?  Probably hanging out with my complete collection of original metal Aladdin lunch-boxes-with-thermoses (Pink Panther, Ms. Pac Man, Star Wars, Empire Strikes Back, Return of the Jedi).  But I digress...

Farewell, Dear Cargos.  You've served me well, and you will, of course, never be replaced.

Note to Self and World

If a movie appears in the $5 bin at Walmart, there's a good reason for it.

Sometimes $5 really is too much to spend.

Walmart should rename the $5 bin as follows:  Movies for People Who Can't Stand Having Money and Time on Their Hands and/or Prefer to Pay for a Swift Kick in the Shins.

Friday Night Lights

Why is it so easy to spend money?  Why is it so easy to spend money I clearly don't have?  Why am I sitting here in Barnes & Noble on a Friday night, eating Cheesecake Factory Neopolitan (or as I used to call it, Napoleon) Cheesecake and drinking a Caramel Frappucino (both bought with money I don't have)?  Why am I 33 and single, with no prospects to speak of, and getting more action from my dog than I have from anyone else in the past several months?  Why do I drive a car with power nothing and a muffler that currently resides in my back seat?  Why does my dog consistently take care of business on my bedroom floor, five seconds after coming inside?  Why do I get excited about all the Back-to-School events even though I'm not going back to school?  Why does Rice Pudding taste better than vegetables?  Why isn't Rice Pudding considered a vegetable?  Why are we starting to replace actual speech with text abbreviations? idk...

These and many other important questions plague me as I sit here among the Friday Night Crew at B & N.  To my right sits a sketchy Burlingtonite; we recognize each other.  He's often perched outside B & N, and he usually asks me for money for coffee as I pass.  One time he said, "Hey, loser, got a quarter?"  I kid you not -- those were his exact words.  I did not give him a quarter.  Anyway, he's chosen to sit inside on this fine Friday night, so currently he's at the table to my right sipping a latte very slowly.  Across the cafe is a table full of people I can only assume escaped from a local half-way house or insane asylum.  Yes, this is judging a book by its cover (hah!  I'm in a bookstore!), but in this case I'm sure it's appropriate.  They all have heavy coats and woolen hats on and, this being the summer and all, that might normally be enough.  But this is Burlington, where half the people wear winterwear all year long, so that won't do it.  Clue #2:  two of them are playing some kind of mystical game of "push the napkin," wherein they methodically push a pile of napkins around the perimeter of the rectangle table.  Exhilarating, I know.  Here's the sad thing:  I'm actually thinking, I wonder if they'd let me play.  

Here's how I know I've hit Rock Bottom.  I will supply for you a transcript of my thoughts:  damn, that asiago pretzel looks good.  Probably should've gotten that instead of the cheesecake.  It's healthier -- less sugar and all.  Maybe I'll get one now, in addition to my cheesecake.  Oh, but I spent my last dollar on the cheesecake.  Literally.  Wonder if she's going to finish hers...should I ask?  Nah, I'll just wait till she leaves, then go over there and just take what's left.  But what if she throws it away before then?  Look at her, she's just sitting there knitting, and that yummy pretzel's just out there, on the table, getting neglected...

And now you know what Rock Bottom really looks like.  No, wait -- let me add my recent realization about the reason for my being here, in this store, tonight:  it's the only place in Burlington, besides my own house, where I can go and be sure my ex won't be there.  The ex doesn't read.

Now, about that pretzel...

Weight a Minute

Recently I joined Weight Watchers...again.  I am what they call a "repeat offender."  In fact, I've joined so many times that I'm sure next time I enter a WW meeting with the intent to join again, they'll have to call in reinforcements.  The lovely teachers and assistants will be instructed to whisper covertly into their headsets, "She's here.  What should we do?"

And the authorities hiding behind the two-way glass will respond, "Just keep her talking, we're comin' in." 

Then, before I even have a chance to recite, "If you bite it, write it," men and women in white lab coats armed with scales and pedometers will overtake me and shuffle me off to some isolated, hard-core program for those who just can't seem to gain enough "Momentum."

OK, so this is a slight exaggeration.  But I have noticed that WW employees around the country seem to recognize me on sight, despite that I've moved several times.  Now, none of this is to denigrate the program itself, and here's where I'll do a little non-compensated plug.  The Weigh Watchers Way, whether it's Points or Momentum, or even old-school meat/veggie/bread rations, simply works.  If you work it.  Hmm...that sounds catchy:  "It works if you work it."  Where have I heard that before?  Ah, yes...the AA mantra.  Well, I'm not an alcoholic, but I suppose that's appropriate anyway.

So I have been fighting my body for over twenty years.  It's not my fault, I know this.  I understand what needs to happen for me to lose weight; my body just disagrees.  And, after twenty some years of looking to everything from Weight Watchers to Atkins to Oprah to books on emotional eating, self-love, and deep-seated psychological problems -- and even considering "dramatic" options like joining the military or physically cutting the pounds (note:  this option was quickly discarded when I considered the pain and mess) -- I feel like I don't really have any more answers than when I began.  Somewhere in there I briefly contemplated just loving myself the way I am, but then I got up from whatever book I was reading, took a look in the mirror, and those loving thoughts just seemed to fly right out of my head.  I was hoping as I got older, I'd get wiser -- you know, like old people always say happens -- but so far no good on that front.  I mean, granted I'm only 33, which by some estimations is still a "young'n," but looking back on twenty years of fighting the up-stomach weight battle makes me feel old.

In the last decade or so, I've noticed increasing focus on "America's Obesity Problem."  Evidently the "problem" of people being fat, which I'm pretty sure has existed for quite some time, has gotten worse.  I have several thoughts on this subject, as do plenty of other people (these don't all come strictly from my head, but it's hard to know which ones are which):  1) maybe the problem is with our idea of beauty or appealing body image, not with the number of plump fellow citizens we have.  2) if it's the health angle that you're coming from, how 'bout a little shout-out to America's Illegal Drug Problem, or America's Nicotine Problem, or America's Standard-80-Hour-Work-Week Problem, or America's Lack-of-Belief-in-Siestas Problem?  3) I wonder if America's Obesity Problem is a complex issue with many causes and effects?  Hmm...now there's something to think about.

As one of these aforementioned "problem" citizens, I tend to be a little skeptical when I see these articles condemning the stick-frame-challenged.  How many of those article authors are thin?  How many of them have ever had a department store sales lady "gently guide" them with her eyes to the Plus Size department?  How many of them have had to pretend not to notice the looks of horror on friends' or strangers' faces as they're about to sit on a plastic lawn chair?  How many have caught themselves feeling "worthy" of the McDonald's drive-in worker's disapproving look as she hands them their burger and shake?  

And those are just some of the more obvious public censures we Problem Citizens have to endure.  Let the world know we're on a diet, or changing our lifestyle through something like Weight Watchers, and suddenly we have a whole new set of "well-meaning" comments to field:  "Ooh...are you sure you can have that?" "Is that on your program?" "How many points do you have left for the day?"  "Oh, I bet that would be worth, like, your whole week's worth of points!" "It's just a little bite, what could that hurt?" "If you could just exercise your will power a little, you wouldn't have to pay for these expensive programs!" "Just don't eat as much.  It's that simple."  These little jabs are almost worse because these people supposedly have good intentions.  But since when did it become appropriate to appoint yourself Official Monitor of another person's body?

When you find out your best friend has lung cancer, you wouldn't say, "Well, yeah, I knew this was coming -- I mean, I told you to stop smoking a long time ago."  And you also wouldn't say, "Hey, have you tried that chemotherapy stuff?  I hear it's really effective if you just do what they tell you to do."  And I'm guessing you wouldn't confront a paraplegic who's resting in his wheelchair after a couple hours of physical therapy and say, "God, if you could just exercise a little willpower, you'd be able to walk!"  Yes, I believe these comments would be what we call "politically incorrect."

Weight problems are no less serious than lung cancer or other physical impairments.  People who are overweight are struggling with something, be it medical, psychological, or just gastronomical.  We are desperately fighting a battle, whether you can see the bloodshed and scars or not.  Think about that the next time you decide to "inspire" someone with your "well-meaning" comments or glances.

Welcome to My World

For those of you who are reading this blog hoping to 1) find out what John Maynard Keynes (of the original Keynesian Model) has been up to from the grave, or what his followers have been up to; 2) discover new insights into economics that will change your world and your pocketbook, or the pocketbook of the world; or 3) notify me that I have spelled "Keynesian" wrong in the title of my blog...let me save you some time.

I am NOT an economics expert -- far from it, I'm afraid.  And this blog will have absolutely, unequivocally, NOTHING to do with economics -- unless you count the occasional bemoaning of my own empty wallet or the fact that I have lots of demand and no supply.  I'm just a regular, average human being who understands very little about the way money works but instead has spent her life knee-deep in the Humanities, particularly literature, art, and philosophy, and understands considerably more about the way people work, and I figured this was a good chance to share some of my observations.  I also happen to have a very unfortunate (or fortunate, depends on how you look at it) name (Keynsian, which is spelled correclty) that comes from a mother who, unfortunately, was taking an economics class when she was pregnant with me.  As the story goes, she wasn't paying much attention to the class until the teacher mentioned John Maynard Keynes and his brilliant Keynesian model, and apparently she thought that was the most beautiful name she'd ever heard.  So there you have it.  Thank god she wasn't taking chemistry -- I could've been "Isotope" -- or European History ("Visigoth").  But that would just be silly.