"She's Come Undone"

Just finished Wally Lamb's masterpiece "She's Come Undone" for the second time since I was fifteen or sixteen years old. It has touched me in places I've forgotten and that are pretty painful to revisit. The optimism and positivity that ends this book is more powerful to me than I remember it being. I've gotten so much more out of this than I did then, but that's not to say that it didn't deeply affect me as a teenager because it did.

Anyway, the title of the book always signified doom and gloom to me until this reading. The whole book is about all these terrible experiences that Dolores Price (the protagonist) goes though and yet the ending is so uplifting. I can relate more than I understand.

The title is misleading . . .

" 'Undone,' I write in the journal- stare at the words, turn it over. Jack Speight undid me, then I almost undid myself. But I've undone some of the bad, too, some of the damage. With help. With luck and love . . ."(page 463)

And then Mr. Pucci's last revelation:

"People waste their happiness - that's what makes me sad. Everyone's so scared to be happy." (page 456)

I find myself afraid of happiness all the time. I feel bad about enjoying myself. I feel guilty about being selfish. I feel guilty for being really happy. I sometimes create my own drama and difficulty. I'm afraid of stability. I'm learning though. I'm becoming undone.

Positivity.

Full

My boyfriend is always telling me how refreshing it is that I eat. Like it's something unique that not many women do. It makes me happy that he likes how I stuff my face around him. He thinks having an appetite is sexy. He thinks watching me eat is sexy. It's hot to him. He likes it. He thinks I'm sexy.

Who'd have ever thought the bigger girl, the chubby girl, the "fat" girl would be such a turn on?

He's always hungry and eats more than anyone I know . . .and he's skinnier than anyone I know. It's refreshing to be around him.

He's not the first guy who has thought eating was good, that I was good, that they thought I was fine the way I am . . .but he actually LIKES it.

He likes that I don't really care about my body being perfect, but at the same time, I'm healthy. I workout. I try not to eat too horribly. I care about being healthy, not about being skinny.

I tell him I'd rather be 10-20 pounds overweight, happy and showing signs of having indulged in good food and a good life than be super skinny and starved . . .

I'm full.

I'm full of a lot of different things, depending on who you ask. But, I'm full.

"You don't have to be all little and petite to be beautiful," he says. And I'm not, but I am.

I will always remember his words and tell girls (and my future daughter down the road) about what he thinks when they ask about attracting a boy. I'll tell them what it's about. About being happy in their own skin. About not living up to some ridiculous ideal of beauty that floats around like an airborne sickness.

Yes, I'm full.

24

I can't sleep. I fell asleep watching earlier "Sideways" tonight and now I can't return to sleep. It sucks.

So I have been thinking about life a lot since I turned a year older a couple of days ago. 24 feels womanly. It feels whole. Complete. Old, but nice. 23 was a GREAT age, but 24 is feeling pretty sweet, too.

I wanted to write some deep, philosophical essay right now, but I'm re-reading She's Come Undone by Wally Lamb again and it's calling me right now.

Live. Laugh. Love.

Getting older

I'm sitting here with acne cream smeared across my itchy, breakout-prone skin and thinking . . .

My mother turned 50 a few days ago and told me that she hasn't had her period since January. I couldn't find a joke in it except to say, "Aw, no more little brothers or sisters." To which she smiled and laughed. No, no more. She is getting older.

I notice the squinting lines around her eyes and the frown marks on her forehead that won 't go away. When did all of this happen? Her mortality is forcing a previously undiscovered grossly unselfish side of me to emerge. I want to be nice. I want to enjoy.

And me, I'll be 24 in a few days. Nowhere where I thought I'd be at this age and yet somehow I never thought I'd be anywhere. My body's changing, too. My hands seem more weathered. My body more like a woman . . .eagerly anticipating the motherhood that awaits somewhere in between "not for a very long time" and "being a youngish mom."

I found a gray hair, definitely not my first, but not any less alarming. I stared at the gray root that grew into black. I stared for a good minute or so at the lonely hair in my hand and realized time goes by. This hair follicule will never grow my natural black hair again.

And I've had acne since I was 14 or 15. Nearly a decade I've dealt with it. A sign of youth, but my mother still breaks out. Hormones, they say. It's strange, looking at the Mom Mirror.

When I got my first period, she was closing in on her baby-making years. She's finished her last period and I'm closing in on the baby-making years.

The timing is timeless. It happens all the time.

And twice today, women named Adrienne were mothers. Once on a soap and once in a book . . .right when I was thinking of one day becoming a mom. Weird timing.

There's no way to end this entry except to say I hope I don't get a pimple this weekend! It's going to be very high-profile one for me. I turn 24 on Sunday! :)

Sex and the City sucked.

(This is essentially what I would like to do to the producers of this movie.)

There's no easy way to put it. I feel like I've been had. The movie Sex and the City sucked. The television series didn't suck, but the movie absolutely sucked.

What happened to the real, intelligent, and genuinely FUNNY writing? What happened to the fucking storylines, for goodness sakes? This movie was just AWFUL. Like an insult to the viewers intelligence kind of awful.

Where do I even begin? Oh, I know. With Carrie and Big.

How UNCHARACTERISTIC and RIDICULOUS was it that Big started having such HUGE doubts after Miranda's comment? We did see him a little stressed prior, but how can her comment really affect him that much? This is BIG we're talking about. I liked the expansion of his internal dialogue, specifically him in the car on the way to the wedding, but it was more like too little, too late.

And maybe Carrie WANTED that big wedding? I know she was being "swayed" by her friends about a big wedding . . .and was she "losing" herself? Do we ever know what really happened?

As I'm writing this, I realize the reason why I don't feel so complete and good after seeing it? Where's the nice little bow that ties all the stories together? Where is her article? What is going on? "Finding love . . ." but I thought she was writing a book on what to do with love once you've already found it? I am so confused!

Anyway, so moving on. CHARLOTTE AND HARRY. So boring. So nothing. So dumb. So minor. So uninteresting. So fucking random.

STEVE AND MIRANDA. Oh, my. WHY DO WE NEVER KNOW EXACTLY WHAT HAPPENED IN THEIR RELATIONSHIP? Okay, Miranda is stressed out, short on time, blahblahblah. It's such bullshit. I'd like to see more of what happened between them than a brief dinner scene at the beginning of the movie. What a sloppy storyline.

SAMANTHA AND SMITH. Okay, a tad bit more believable and true to SATC. Probably the most realistic storyline. OH. What about Samantha crying when Carrie tried on the Vivienne Westwood gown? HAHAHAHA. So fake and out of character.

All in all, I think the movie was thrown together hastily and sloppily. Very poor writing. Kinda shitty acting. So disappointing that I had to write about it.

Now I'm off to bed and waking up early to make a 50th birthday breakfast for my Mom tomorrow morning!

Joy and happiness

When other people find comfort and happiness in my writing, or even a "hmmmmm" as a result of something I've said, it makes me feel good. Joy. Contentment.

I have finally been PAID for my writing and I feel joy. Contentment. Happiness.

I've seen my name "in print" online, but never on a page I can hold in my hand, but not printed by me. Published in the old fashioned way, if you will. I want that.

So I know which road(s) I must follow. Easier said than done. But I've done this much so far, the rest should be easy.

"GIRL, YOU NEED TO CHILL THE FUCK OUT!"

So I am like a bundle of nervous energy right now. I have no clue why. It's pretty ridiculous. I am worried about being a good person, worried about time and just about EVERYTHING. I don't know what's going on.

Why do I care so much about everyone's opinion of me? Why is being a "good person" so important to me?

-I'm thinking should I sacrifice the plans I already have in order to work at the Club because they need people? One girl I work with said it's "obnoxious" not to work it. Well, this is a busy weekend for me, so technically I can't. What do I do?

-Yesterday at the gym, one of the instructors was looking at my arms jiggle during some punches I was doing. I SWEAR SHE DOES BECAUSE SHE MADE A COMMENT ABOUT GETTING TIGHTER ARMS BEFORE! It pisses me off. But I caught myself looking at someone else's unfortunate body mishap later in the day and I think they noticed and now I feel SO ROTTEN about it. Ugh. :(

-So this woman I work with is the talk of everyone. They are all saying shit about her not doing her job well and blahblahblah. It pissed me off until I witnessed firsthand how she did things differently. The smart thing to do would have been to keep my mouth shut, but I made an offhand comment to one of my other co-workers about how the lady didn't seem to even CARE that she did little things differently, and now she's telling our manager. WHAT THE FUCK?! So now I'm a tattletale. I don't even know why I said anything . . .I wish it could be some altrustic "for-the-greater-good" shit, but I think it's personal because I'm new and still doing things wrong, so I wanted to feel better about everything or something. And to tell you the truth, I despise gossipy-behind-the-back talk and guess what? I'm sooooooo guilty of it. I do it ALL the time. I'm just, like, so disgusted with my OWN actions.

I know, it's pretty stupid that I'm being so self-conscious. I just don't know what the hell my problem is lately. I need to CALM THE FUCK DOWN! I need YOGA and quiet meditation or else I might lose my head.

Another scar . . .

The other morning lying in bed with The Boyfriend, I was telling the story of the scars I have, mainly physical (but we all know they're psychological as well), as he listened. He likes my body. I've heard it before, but there's so much wrong with it. Here's a list for all to read:

- I have stretch marks on my upper inner thighs, ass, hips, breasts and upper arms.
- I have cellulite on my legs and ass. Total cottage cheese.
- I have scars around my belly button from allergic reactions to nickle in belt buckles that I wear. (My skin is EXTREMELY sensitive.)
- I have many acne scars on my face.
- I have bike accident scars on the right side of my face.
- I have a scar from stitches on my left eyebrow.
- I have calluses on my toes and the insides of my hands. (Strange, I know. The Boyfriend affectionately referred to them as "Workers Hands" and it made me really self-conscious.)
- I have fat legs.
- I have dry skin.

I could go on and on. I need to love my body thoroughly before I can accept the love of it by another. It's something I've been working on for so long and I think I'm there and then . . .

this. It's stupid I know. As wonderful the compliments I've received about my body are, I still can't help but be reminded of all the mean things that people have said to me, including and perhaps especially ex-lovers. Sometimes I wish I could just escape it somehow.

The vulnerability I suffer from my body is nothing compared to the other vulnerabilities I have made myself vulnerable to with this new other human being I'm becoming vulnerable to and it's scary as hell.

Sometimes I feel so damaged and raw that I wonder if I'm just setting myself up for disappointment and a new scar . . .just as the other ones have began to heal.