Category Archives: Basic Cotton

Basic Cotton

Facade

Which version of me do people see?

I ask myself first thing in the morning, all the fluid still puffing my face. My hair an absolute catastrophe of errant waves and wisps. It seems almost disingenuous that it isn’t this one.

And when I’m in the gym, is it this one? Gyrating (some would say, uselessly?) on the elliptical. Pumping my shoulders and arms with weights and pushups. Panting through burpies. Sweat and salt, and not in the good ways.

Or while vacuuming the office, and I’m finding a dead moth folded on the floor, in a corner. Picking it up delicately by the wing, so as not to disturb it, and tossing it over the balcony as a proper burial. Maybe her?

After a shower, is it the me who is slathering myself in age defying oils and moisturizers. Spritzing on perfume. Matching my bra to my panties. Wondering if they are too worn yet, too passe. Does underwear actually go out of style?

Walking out the door, locking it behind me. Which version of me is my outfit? Straight to work me. Polished for dinner me. Playful and creative me, regardless of the destination. Do my sunglasses nail it into place? I might have to switch them out.

Coming home, me. Exhausted and showering, slipping on the least amount of clothing, melting slowly into bed. Or me, tipsy and sexy, sending you videos as I undress. Remembering what it was like to have you in my bed. In my kitchen. In my life.

Or is it this me, quietly drinking tea, looking out the window at all the cars passing by. Normal people, normal schedules. Imagining that they all have families, purpose, radios on in the background. Futures spread out grandly before them, like wide open plains or the autobahn. Any number of possibilities. All the money in the world. Passing hands, theirs for the taking. Muscles and blood and bones under skin, behind faces, powered by pure will.

That was also me.

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Basic Cotton

Bodies

I’ve been observing bodies more lately. Out of pure interest for the shapes, sizes, weight distribution.

Particularly the latter, because it is so personal, and seems to be so affected by a variety of things. Activity, and lack thereof. Resting positions. Probably even water and food. Definitely hormones and emotions (are they the same?). When they talk about wearing in public what you eat in private, these factors should be bundled in as well. What if, instead of cottage cheese thighs, it was sad girl hips? Love handles should be lonely grips?

Some bodies, alternately, are so incredibly perfect. Slender. Compact. Compartmentalized. Fluid lines tracing parts flowing into connective tissue and structural beams. If you watch them move, it is clear how everything interacts and works together. It’s hard to imagine that everyone has the exact same framework, because it’s less obvious, less elegant, under clouds of fat and sallow skin, sun spots and aging. Is there a person in there? A brain? A heart? A spine? Do they still think thoughts like I do? Or is it all a mush of early mornings, vapid afternoons, early bedtimes, and nostalgic food.

Shadows are deceiving this way. They settle into wrinkles and accent curves. All encompassing shadows can actually conceal, and trick, while their counterparts highlight and accentuate. Harsh light ushers in harsh reality. Flaws become less exception and more impression. They become what define you. Reveal you. There are few places to hide in the light.

Which is maybe why light is associated with honesty, purity, good. There are no secrets, everything is open for all to see. No one likes a hidden agenda, an unpleasant surprise. Deception is never a green flag, and no one enjoys being punked, even if it gets you on tv. The earlier you see someone’s flaws, the more easily you can accept them, and move on. And frankly forget them.

Suddenly it seems like a good thing?

The bingo wings. Glazed donut skin. Huge fake melons. Pea brains. 

Ok, maybe the last one takes a turn.

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Here, Kitty

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In January I adopted a cat. My last cat and I had a good run, right up until the moment she ran out the front door to meet up with her new cat boyfriend. I started to miss the easy company and tuna-can-licking perks, though. So down to the Humane Society I went to pick up my next shedding loaf of quirks.

She was a former street cat missing half her right ear, and she was just aloof enough. I gathered her paperwork, brought her home, and locked her in the bathroom as advised. She would spend a couple days hiding, get used to my apartment, and then would we be besties. Or so they said.

Instead, new kitty hid in the bathroom for weeks, in a tiny little corner behind my laundry basket. She was like a lazy bathroom attendant who eventually learned that, when sitting on the toilet, I was a captive audience who would pet her on demand.

I started to worry I had accidentally adopted a defective animal, and began doing things to force kitty out into the world (aka, my one bedroom apartment). Naturally, forcing it only made things worse, and her trust in me slowly began to degrade. When bribing, overfeeding, and smothering tapered off in effectiveness, I sort of resigned myself to having a creepy little toilet troll as a pet, and just decided to leave her alone for a bit.

I was reminded of this beginning today when I read Madison Taylor’s blog post, Timing Can Be Everything. In it, she talks about the dissonance between human-imposed timelines and natural ones, and our tendency to either want time to slow down or speed up. Rather, she advised, we are better served by believing that timing is always at a purposeful pace, and life is unfolding as it should.

Taylor isn’t the first to point this out. It’s in Deepak Chopra’s Seven Spiritual Laws of Success as part of The Law of Least Effort: I will not struggle against the whole universe by struggling against this moment. And Gabrielle Bernstein repeatedly states that, “obstacles are detours in the right direction,” throughout her book, The Universe Has Your Back. In other words, lots of smart, zen people believe that one of the secrets to life is to simply chill the fuck out about your five year plan.

Kitty certainly embodied this philosophy, because she finally emerged from the bathroom when she was good and ready. Not only that, but she has since blossomed from a mangy street mongrel into an adorable lap cat.

All I had to do was just let her be.

 

 

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Numero Uno

 

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I grew up with grandparents who were farmers. Like most (all) farmers, they employed undocumented Latinos/as during the summer to pick and dry fruit. I found out early that I love to earn money, so I worked there in the summer cutting fruit to dry. My mom did, too.

Consequently, my childhood was filled with various Spanglish words, and one of my favorites was “chonies.” First of all, because it meant underwear, and underwear is always funny. Second, because my mom had a way of saying it that still makes me smile. Third, because it reminds me of being young, ridiculous, and free-spirited, which is something I cling to with desperation as I find myself nearing 40.

Hence, the name of this blog, which will eventually turn into a metaphorical meat grinder of red wine, contemplation, bad decision-making, and maybe even some smart revelations. Maybe.

Dos!

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