rage! (against the machines)

Over the years I have come to realize that no matter how thin I may want to be the real reason I exercise is to control my rage.  It turns out all of those grapevines and crunches and half-assed attempts at camel pose had nothing to do with my desire to be physically healthy and everything to do with my need to be mentally healthy.

My love-hate affair with fitness began when I discovered aerobics while attending college in the early 1990’s.  From the first grapevine I was hooked.  My aerobic obsession eventually led me to the next level, step aerobics (aka aerobics on meth).  In no time I was a full-blown junkie, attending class four to five times a week, the siren-call of Blue Swede’s Hooked on a Feeling my theme song.

When I first started aerobics I was fat.  I was fat and I was angry about being fat.   That anger, coupled with a desire to finally lose my virginity, kept me coming back.  With each kick, each twist, each punch — I was visually beating the shit out of my fat.  I remember thinking:

If I keep doing this — (grapevine, left) — then maybe I won’t be so fat — (knee up, kick!) — and then — (gasping for air; step, ball, change) — maybe someone will have sex with me.

Eventually I ooga-chaka’d my way from 220 pounds to 170 pounds, at long last achieving the kind of body that I assume helped to convince someone to sleep with me.

My love affair with aerobics faded after I left college.  Our break-up sent me back to my first love food, a disastrous rebound that lasted for more than a decade until a friend suggested I try yoga. I was going through a rough patch at the time, the culmination of several years of bad choices, and the idea was yoga, with its breathing and focusing of the mind, would help to ground me.  And it did.

It’s amazing how much you can focus your mind when you really set your mind to it.

Of course while my fellow classmates were namaste-ing their way to a zen happiness I could never hope to achieve even on a good day, I was imagining elaborately-staged and fully-scripted revenge scenarios featuring a revolving cast of all the people I hated.

Yes, you could make the argument that this was a) not the intended purpose of yoga b) a perversion of all its philosophies and c) not healthy.  However, I would argue that it was better to feel my feelings rather than swallow my rage.  Ultimately I’m just not made for a 24/7 world of fluffy unicorn kitties with rainbows shooting out their asses.  And besides, it’s not like I would ever actually put these vengeful thoughts into action.  I was simply allowing them to stop by for coffee and a quick chat before I returned to the business of living in the real world.

By the time we adopted our second son my lifestyle and schedule were no longer conducive to yoga.  Unable to spare the two hours a day needed for the practice, I rebounded (again!) to the familiar and my mistresses of cake, donuts, ice cream, cereal and cookies.  It wasn’t long before the every day circus of two small children had me once again questioning my sanity as I teetered on the edge of a spectacular mental collapse.

Fortunately I discovered Zumba (aerobics for the new millennium) and spinning.  While Zumba is fun — like dancing at a wedding, but sober — spinning allowed me to work out all of my new, parent-related aggressions.  When Chris loses his glasses or Elijah insists on watching the same episode of Paw Patrol for the twentieth time, I simply head to spin class and bike my way to a different, quieter life.

Over the years parenthood has muted my rage and as a result I spend less time focusing on revenge fantasies.  Still, on those days when I feel like I just can’t make it to the top of the hill, I remember my yoga and I visualize what lies on the other side.  I imagine myself cycling down the hill at top speed to the theme of Paw Patrol taking out a sea of passive-aggressive middle-aged women and Target vest-wearing lunatics.

My old friend, rage.  She’s just the push I need.

sometimes i’m fat

I wake up in the morning, I look in the mirror.  I get out of the shower, I look in the mirror.  I stand up from my desk, I look in the mirror.  I walk to my car after work, passing hundreds of reflective windows, I look in every mirror.  Maybe this time I won’t look fat.

I have struggled with my weight since I was ten years old.  I remember back-to-school shopping and being forced to buy husky jeans.  I remember those same big boy jeans not fitting.   I remember as a teenager transitioning into the Big & Tall section, even though I was not tall.  I remember choosing between loud prints and stripes because nothing is more slimming than looking like a circus tent.  I remember over-sized blazers and vests and layering layers.  I remember believing the whole of the fashion industry existed to make me look as fat as possible.

As an adult I have cycled through at least a half dozen different bodies.  I naturally have a large frame so I am never going to be “skinny”.  Of course that fact did not stop me from achieving my then-life goal of wasting away to a 32-inch waist in my early-twenties.  For good measure and balance I later ballooned to a 48-inch waist in my mid-thirties.  I have worn every shirt size, from a men’s small to a gentlemen’s XXXL.  I have the closet of a confused, deranged, possibly color-blind lunatic.

Perhaps the worst part of my ever-changing body shape is that I never sync up with the current trends.  When everyone in America was sporting baggy jeans and over-sized sweaters in the mid-1990s I was at my thinnest.  Low-rise jeans became all the rage just around the time I started buying my pants from the tent and awning section.  For a brief, glorious period about eighteen months ago my body was on point and, even though I thought and still think it looks ridiculous, I was able to indulge in the skinny jean/slim fit movement.  I shoehorned my meaty thighs and curvy ass into the skinniest lowest-rise I could find.

I am envious of every plus-sized gal I see.  Women have so many choices in terms of clothes.  They have entire stores dedicated to the fuller figure.  They have foundation garments.  They have beautiful women like Adele.  But try being a fat gay man.  Gay men have H&M with their impossibly tight t-shirts. Gay men consider crotch-hugging jeans a foundation garment.  Gay men have that guy on Modern Family.  Simply put, it ain’t easy being a chunky queer.

At this moment I am hovering somewhere in the middle, straddling a slim-cut 40-inch waist and an athletic-fit XL shirt.  Some days I feel amazing, I look in the mirror and I see that 21 year-old with the impossibly small waist.  Other days I see that fat ten year-old in the ill-fitting husky jeans.  I have been at this for 3/4 of my life.  I don’t know what the answer is…diet? exercise? body acceptance?  I’ve tried them all and they have all worked.  And failed.

Now that I have two kids the answer seems even more elusive.  I want to feel and appear healthy for my children, to set a good example.  I want to feed them foods that will make them feel and be healthy. I want them to be confident in their own skin.  I want them to understand that even if I want or need to change my appearance, I am not ashamed of who I am or how I look.  I simply want to be a better me.

I am determined not to cycle back into my fat body.  I am determined to make better choices.  I am determined to eat healthy, to go back to yoga, to accept my body — the thin, the fat, and the in-between.

9 to 5 (or, how not to have it all)

Most days I feel like I’m 1988 Melanie Griffith, a simple working girl with big hair just trying to have it all.  A gay male feminist or whatever the feminist equivalent is of a gay male feminist.  But some days I’m in a better movie and I’m Dolly Parton.  Or Jane Fonda.  Or Lily Tomlin.  Every day is the same.  I tumble outta bed and stumble to the kitchen, pour myself a cup of ambition, yawn and stretch, and try to come to life.  Oh sure I have to deal with the occasional sexist, egotistical, lying, hypocritical bigot and even that pesky Roz, but this cast of colorful supporting characters just makes the journey worth the trip.

Having it all.  What does that even mean?  A house?  A partner?  A family?  A career?  Health? Happiness?  Hobbies?  A smokin’ hot bod?  Check, check, check, check — reality check.  I have the house and the partner and the family.  But the career?  Well, not exactly, but I do have a job that I like.  I’m as healthy as someone who eats donuts and drinks beer can expect to be and because I eat donuts and drink beer I’m happy…and also have hobbies.  As for the smokin’ hot bod…well, I haven’t been to yoga in two months and the other day I had to buy new pants.

Something had to give.  I mean, I used to go to yoga 5 days a week.  I also used to not have an eight year-old son.  I used to produce and direct up to ten plays a year at my theater.  I also used to not have an eight year-old son.  Don’t misunderstand.  I’m not making excuses or, worse, blaming Chris.  I just don’t have the extra twelve hours a week right now to give to yoga or the additional four hours a night three to four days a week that the theater required.  At least not if I want to help Chris with his homework or play at the park with the dogs or have a family dinner.

I need to find a balance and, when I do, then I can get back to yoga — maybe not 5 days a week, but two days a week seems reasonable.  And while I will most certainly never again direct ten plays a year, I think I could manage to produce one or two small shows a season.

For now, I have this blog which affords me the opportunity to write (career!) and feeds my creativity (happiness!).  As for that smokin’ hot bod, well, for the past few weeks Chris and I have been doing Wii Fit together — running, aerobics, even yoga — so when I finally do get my ass back in to that hot room, I might actually fit in to my yoga shorts.