I've felt a little left out of the work out club lately.
Three of my coworkers do yoga-2, hot yoga, together (the room is 107 degress, they say), one does a class for moms-to-be. Most of my friends hit the gym and take classes. Ellipticals, ab blasts, spinning, everyone has their something.
Or someone, if you have a trainer, or workout buddy.
I've mentioned my past re: gyms and working out (the short of it: 3 gym memberships, 1 trainer, gym classes ranging from aerobics to pole dancing over the past 10 years). I haven't been to the gym since an unfortunate incident with an urban rebounding class (suffered from a case of sweaty fat girl syndrome midway through and ran out). I suppose to stop being the token sweaty fat girl, you need to keep working out so you can be (cute) sweaty skinny girl.
So while I'm not considering joining a gym anytime soon (can't afford it) I am considering trying yoga. I'm really apprehensive, but I'm going to try it in the privacy in my own home first. I did find it a little silly holding a "yoga for beginners" box set in Barnes and Noble, but gotta start somewhere, right?
Just know that any moves I make on this is primarily superficial-im just in it to say "oh I'm off to my yoga class" as I grab my lavendar mat and cute water bottle.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Thursday, April 8, 2010
What About Your Friends?
My soror and ePal (another shameless plug, find her at http://blackgirlunlost.blogspot.com) recently posted on making friends as adults (go read it) and as always, great minds think alike. Once you get out of a self-contained environment (for many of us, college) that has social groups already created, where does one turn to "make friends?"
Actually, a short sidenote: this isn't to be read as if I'm a socially awkward loner. However, friends, especially in these hard times of bitchass, triflinass people, some can't be trusted and get cut off quick. Others aren't in it for the long haul (those "let's do lunch real soon" kinda folks, or are situational, like at work) and well, life happens: we go back to school, we move away, get married, our tastes change, etc.
I like to think I have a lot of friends, but really, I just know a lot of people. When I actually narrow it down, I find that a. I can count them on one hand, and b. that handful tends to shift every couple of years. And like myFaves, I always keep a couple of slots freed up.
To fill those slots, I've decided to open the pool once again. I'm keeping myself busy in a different way. Love my sorors, but I gotta see them less. Love my gays, but I can't always be fabulous. I've started to call myself out and actually am going to all those events I said I'd check out.
(Another sidenote: it seems I have a rep for always knowing about events. I went through my email and found enough stuff to attend at least one event a week for a good couple of months. The benefits of staying on listservs from many moons ago)
The other part of opening the pool is by referral. We'll hire our friends for jobs, recommend restaurants, movies, and potential mates to our pals-and I figure, for the most part, your friend's friends should be as awesome as they are, plus or minus a few points to make room for error. So as you hang out with your people, start checking for what they're getting into. Shaquan may not want to hit up that poetry spot next week but what if I want to? Make a mental note and do it to it. Don't go all Single White Female but like Facebook, lurk a little bit and friend somebody else's friend.
I guess the harder part is keeping the friends you make. For that, I have no advice. I don't have any "best friends," and many have come and gone. Everyone is in your life for a reason and a season. I hope some are here to stay, and I hope I'm a friend to many people for the long haul.
Actually, a short sidenote: this isn't to be read as if I'm a socially awkward loner. However, friends, especially in these hard times of bitchass, triflinass people, some can't be trusted and get cut off quick. Others aren't in it for the long haul (those "let's do lunch real soon" kinda folks, or are situational, like at work) and well, life happens: we go back to school, we move away, get married, our tastes change, etc.
I like to think I have a lot of friends, but really, I just know a lot of people. When I actually narrow it down, I find that a. I can count them on one hand, and b. that handful tends to shift every couple of years. And like myFaves, I always keep a couple of slots freed up.
To fill those slots, I've decided to open the pool once again. I'm keeping myself busy in a different way. Love my sorors, but I gotta see them less. Love my gays, but I can't always be fabulous. I've started to call myself out and actually am going to all those events I said I'd check out.
(Another sidenote: it seems I have a rep for always knowing about events. I went through my email and found enough stuff to attend at least one event a week for a good couple of months. The benefits of staying on listservs from many moons ago)
The other part of opening the pool is by referral. We'll hire our friends for jobs, recommend restaurants, movies, and potential mates to our pals-and I figure, for the most part, your friend's friends should be as awesome as they are, plus or minus a few points to make room for error. So as you hang out with your people, start checking for what they're getting into. Shaquan may not want to hit up that poetry spot next week but what if I want to? Make a mental note and do it to it. Don't go all Single White Female but like Facebook, lurk a little bit and friend somebody else's friend.
I guess the harder part is keeping the friends you make. For that, I have no advice. I don't have any "best friends," and many have come and gone. Everyone is in your life for a reason and a season. I hope some are here to stay, and I hope I'm a friend to many people for the long haul.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Whose child is this?
Sidenote: my first guest blogger spot! http://nucitynuview.blogspot.com/2010/03/unsolved-mystery-of-inequity.html
One of my followers (@0_omzjoy, whose blog I shamelessly will plug: http://joyfulwordsofwisdom.com) tweeted this:
"Name two black men over the age 30. With no children. Not gay and unmarried.......don't worry......I'll wait. Can't be famous ... that's good. I need men over 30 though :/ its looking like imma be a stepmom regardless"
How's that for perspective? The reality that the older I get, the more likely I am to end up with a man who already has a child. And maybe not an infant, but like grown-ass "I gotta help this ninja with his science project" child. I already have my feelings about children (the short version: they aight but if I don't have any ill be ok...I think), but now I have to consider this 2-for-1 deal in looking for love. Ruling a man out because he has a child is bigger than the child--its reflective of the choices he's made. Call me names, but I have no problems calling children "mistakes" (not to their face, of course). Of course most parents will say "oh I'd never do things over, I love my child," but #cmonson, having lil Jaden at 17 wasn't exactly on your to-do list, nor was the subsequent babyfavvadrama of family court, child support and living the rest of your young adult life muttering "that ninja aint shit."
Being a stepmom automatically puts you on the B-team. You get subbed in when the starting lineup fouls out. You get stuck raising a child by association. You didn't get a choice, and making the definitive choice to not be in that child's life makes you a grade-A hating ass bitch. The babymama could be the awesomest chick ever, and there will still be potential for drama. She and your man still have a relationship and you have no choice but to be involved. Her needs re: the child come first, always, even when it shouldn't. Remember the great words of Ricky Bobby: "if ya ain't first, ya last!"
One relationship is enough to manage; but now you have two new relationships: between you and her, and you and the kid(s). Who signed up for that shit? Not me!
I want to be with a man who is on the same page in starting a family together. I'd hope that his past doesn't involve a baby mother. I know, shit happens, and can, to anyone. But dammit I put a lot of romantic stock in an educated man, and a part of that is knowing when and where to stick it (and not). Hell, I put even more stock in myself for being smart enough to not get knocked up, because I have more than enough examples reminding me on the streets of Harlem.
There's a reason why I am 25 without child: because I don't want to raise my children at 25. Some of us rock the "25 and under with no kids" badge hard. There should be a damn awards ceremony! Why would I have to be OK with (potentially)raising a(nother wo)man's child?
Oh, right, cause I would love him.
Not. I do give young mothers (and fathers, those who are putting in reall work) their props, however everyone makes their bed. I've made mine-and it has a huge "no kids allowed" sign over it.
One of my followers (@0_omzjoy, whose blog I shamelessly will plug: http://joyfulwordsofwisdom.com) tweeted this:
"Name two black men over the age 30. With no children. Not gay and unmarried.......don't worry......I'll wait. Can't be famous ... that's good. I need men over 30 though :/ its looking like imma be a stepmom regardless"
How's that for perspective? The reality that the older I get, the more likely I am to end up with a man who already has a child. And maybe not an infant, but like grown-ass "I gotta help this ninja with his science project" child. I already have my feelings about children (the short version: they aight but if I don't have any ill be ok...I think), but now I have to consider this 2-for-1 deal in looking for love. Ruling a man out because he has a child is bigger than the child--its reflective of the choices he's made. Call me names, but I have no problems calling children "mistakes" (not to their face, of course). Of course most parents will say "oh I'd never do things over, I love my child," but #cmonson, having lil Jaden at 17 wasn't exactly on your to-do list, nor was the subsequent babyfavvadrama of family court, child support and living the rest of your young adult life muttering "that ninja aint shit."
Being a stepmom automatically puts you on the B-team. You get subbed in when the starting lineup fouls out. You get stuck raising a child by association. You didn't get a choice, and making the definitive choice to not be in that child's life makes you a grade-A hating ass bitch. The babymama could be the awesomest chick ever, and there will still be potential for drama. She and your man still have a relationship and you have no choice but to be involved. Her needs re: the child come first, always, even when it shouldn't. Remember the great words of Ricky Bobby: "if ya ain't first, ya last!"
One relationship is enough to manage; but now you have two new relationships: between you and her, and you and the kid(s). Who signed up for that shit? Not me!
I want to be with a man who is on the same page in starting a family together. I'd hope that his past doesn't involve a baby mother. I know, shit happens, and can, to anyone. But dammit I put a lot of romantic stock in an educated man, and a part of that is knowing when and where to stick it (and not). Hell, I put even more stock in myself for being smart enough to not get knocked up, because I have more than enough examples reminding me on the streets of Harlem.
There's a reason why I am 25 without child: because I don't want to raise my children at 25. Some of us rock the "25 and under with no kids" badge hard. There should be a damn awards ceremony! Why would I have to be OK with (potentially)raising a(nother wo)man's child?
Oh, right, cause I would love him.
Not. I do give young mothers (and fathers, those who are putting in reall work) their props, however everyone makes their bed. I've made mine-and it has a huge "no kids allowed" sign over it.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
The (unsolved) Mystery of Inequity
This was nothing like I had read about
This high, I could tell, would not be sweet
But these four years would be spent surrounded in valleys
The lows of expectations, the lows of achievement
The lows of graduation rates
The only high of this school existed in its contribution via statistics
High, from all the need
To get rich or die trying
High, from all the weed
The d game, never lying
High, number of HIV infections
High, number of pregnancies
Who knew that I would give birth to possibility of a better life
I could go further than CUNY
Maybe SUNY
Or further out into the boonies
Harvard and Yale wasn't checking my fresh
I went to school but they made it clear I couldn't buy class
Where would I get it?
How would I use it?
What would it get me?
It wasn't at the dollar store.
I soon knew that higher learning would happen outside this penitentiary-in-training
(Cinder block walls
Metal detectors
Bars on the windows
Periodic sweeps and lockdowns
Dress codes
Security guards with walkie-talkies)
That in these years, I would just serve my time
Released early on the account of good behavior
Social promotion if you cause no commotion
Show no emotion
Give your work minimal devotion
Luckily, I knew the wiser (I think)
That college prep wouldn't be found here
close the achievement gap with remedial classes, 12 weeks, "pre-college,"
Really, we were cramming, 12 years, pre-knowledge
(Re)learning subjects and predicates only to find
I shouldve had shakespeare and plato deep in my mind
How do you compete in the championships
When your training barely prepped you for the qualifying round?
I still run laps to build my endurance, in hopes of bringing home the gold
To cynics who were never quite sure you were worthy
Even upon vaguely remembering your name
High school is a sore subject for me, not one I revisit with nostalgia. However, the picture I paint of my high school experience doesn't do it justice. There were highlights, in making the best of it (in retrospect, I say "highlights," when such occurences should be par for the course). I was involved with extracurricular activities, had the opportunity to take AP classes and through the perserverance of a couple of "Stand and Deliver"-esque teachers, participated in your run-of-the-mill "let's get the underserved minorities on track" college-prep courses (in which one class, we, the "honor students," learned how to do "scholarly research" on our scratched, dented, donated, refurbished, yet top-of-the-line IBM desktops. 4 desktops--one mouse ball always missing--25 students, AOL 2.5. In 2001, more than half of us didn't own computers, let alone consistent internet access.) Couple this with your over-the-top awards at graduation (think: any award including a politician's title, important deceased educator and the words "achievement," "distinguished," or "excellence") and a full scholarship to a top-ranked university, I had rightfully earned my spot in the "she gon' make it someday" club.
The benefits of such membership over the years are questionable. As time goes on, college becomes a clusterfuck of self-doubt and resentment. Am I supposed to be here? I'm busting my ass and still coming up short? Why didn't I just go to community college? I couldve stayed on the block!" Conversations on world travels, authors read, and experiences had that I could offer nothing worldly, or worse, experiences that people pitied, were reminders that I missed out on something-that educational inequality reflected a lot of other inequalities. If we weren't equal when we were separate, was I (or my new peers) to believe that being together would wipe that slate clean?
It's hard to imagine a day where all children enter school prepared to succeed, as the mission of the organization I work strives to achieve. Aren't we all--teachers, educators, social workers, administrators--working towards this? What will that day look like, and what are we doing to prepare for that day? Are we equipped to maintain that equality for. generations to come? Or does it upset the natural order of other systems we've grown to accept?
This high, I could tell, would not be sweet
But these four years would be spent surrounded in valleys
The lows of expectations, the lows of achievement
The lows of graduation rates
The only high of this school existed in its contribution via statistics
High, from all the need
To get rich or die trying
High, from all the weed
The d game, never lying
High, number of HIV infections
High, number of pregnancies
Who knew that I would give birth to possibility of a better life
I could go further than CUNY
Maybe SUNY
Or further out into the boonies
Harvard and Yale wasn't checking my fresh
I went to school but they made it clear I couldn't buy class
Where would I get it?
How would I use it?
What would it get me?
It wasn't at the dollar store.
I soon knew that higher learning would happen outside this penitentiary-in-training
(Cinder block walls
Metal detectors
Bars on the windows
Periodic sweeps and lockdowns
Dress codes
Security guards with walkie-talkies)
That in these years, I would just serve my time
Released early on the account of good behavior
Social promotion if you cause no commotion
Show no emotion
Give your work minimal devotion
Luckily, I knew the wiser (I think)
That college prep wouldn't be found here
close the achievement gap with remedial classes, 12 weeks, "pre-college,"
Really, we were cramming, 12 years, pre-knowledge
(Re)learning subjects and predicates only to find
I shouldve had shakespeare and plato deep in my mind
How do you compete in the championships
When your training barely prepped you for the qualifying round?
I still run laps to build my endurance, in hopes of bringing home the gold
To cynics who were never quite sure you were worthy
Even upon vaguely remembering your name
High school is a sore subject for me, not one I revisit with nostalgia. However, the picture I paint of my high school experience doesn't do it justice. There were highlights, in making the best of it (in retrospect, I say "highlights," when such occurences should be par for the course). I was involved with extracurricular activities, had the opportunity to take AP classes and through the perserverance of a couple of "Stand and Deliver"-esque teachers, participated in your run-of-the-mill "let's get the underserved minorities on track" college-prep courses (in which one class, we, the "honor students," learned how to do "scholarly research" on our scratched, dented, donated, refurbished, yet top-of-the-line IBM desktops. 4 desktops--one mouse ball always missing--25 students, AOL 2.5. In 2001, more than half of us didn't own computers, let alone consistent internet access.) Couple this with your over-the-top awards at graduation (think: any award including a politician's title, important deceased educator and the words "achievement," "distinguished," or "excellence") and a full scholarship to a top-ranked university, I had rightfully earned my spot in the "she gon' make it someday" club.
The benefits of such membership over the years are questionable. As time goes on, college becomes a clusterfuck of self-doubt and resentment. Am I supposed to be here? I'm busting my ass and still coming up short? Why didn't I just go to community college? I couldve stayed on the block!" Conversations on world travels, authors read, and experiences had that I could offer nothing worldly, or worse, experiences that people pitied, were reminders that I missed out on something-that educational inequality reflected a lot of other inequalities. If we weren't equal when we were separate, was I (or my new peers) to believe that being together would wipe that slate clean?
It's hard to imagine a day where all children enter school prepared to succeed, as the mission of the organization I work strives to achieve. Aren't we all--teachers, educators, social workers, administrators--working towards this? What will that day look like, and what are we doing to prepare for that day? Are we equipped to maintain that equality for. generations to come? Or does it upset the natural order of other systems we've grown to accept?
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Size matters...in the pursuit of happiness
A listserv conversation earlier this week on Gabby Sibide being proposed a yearlong supply of some diet supplement ("some damn berry juice" as a commenter called it) in exchange for her "look at how weight I lost using AwesomeProduct" endorsement. The reaction across the serve seemed to be a mix of disgust, embarassment and #cmonson and the conversation turned to "she's a great girl but she needs to lose that weight." Of all the reasons why she "should" shed the lbs (say, high blood pressure, diabetes, or even fitting a more ideal Hollywood standard, hell an everyday socially preferable standard), one struck a chord: "she'll be happier with herself. "
Is it a fair assessment to judge someone's happiness on their size? Gabby seems to have a likeable, outgoing, "I love myself" personality. Some may see the happy fattie routine as a cover-up to how she's REALLY feeling, all insecure, self-hating and dark and twisty. Is it really hard to believe that an extremely overweight person could like themselves 100% and that just be that? Even after the burn of childhood insults and retorts dies down to a manageable flame, are her scars not allowed to heal and just say "fuck it, I'm fat, deal with it!"
I suppose that "you're beautiful no matter what size" ship has sailed. Or sunken, because all the happy fatties are too busy celebrating their fat happy lives. Or, the fattie must be seething with rage and suffering with low self-esteem. Deep down she must want to be a size 4, a cute cinched waist, hips and ass that's noticeable but not obtrusive. I know flabby arms and thighs that rub together clearly render my life inoperable. Life would just be a bowl of cherries if I could just lose some damn weight and not take up more than 1 seat on the 3 train on the way to work.
The logic is flawed-just because a bigger person is unhappy with their size doesn't mean the inverse, the smaller you are, the happier you'll be, is true. I highly doubt your mode of thinking does a 180 when your weight does. Unhappiness, whether rooted in one's physical appearance or otherwise, doesn't lie in one place. its all connected and traces to some random Freudian shit from infancy.
Everyone needs to leave Gabby (and every other fattie looking like they could be on the brink of death) alone. A married man hitting on a woman at a bar doesn't need to be reminded they're married. And deep down, an alcoholic knows, even a little bit, when they've had too much to drink. She likes how she looks, and the people who need to like her look like it. If deep down she doesn't, she's got a helluva poker face, and I'm not mad at her. Either way, she can pay her bills. We need to be applauding her for following the true American dream-living in excess and capitalizing the hell outta it.
And let's stop making this about some "oh I'm just concerned about your health." Fuck outta here. The body is a resilient mothafucka: in a given life it could face a paper cut, a stubbed toe, bone fracture, paralyzation, loss of brain activity. You can take organs out, limbs off, move one piece of flesh to another, lift it, tuck it, suck it, stretch it. It deals with heartache, heartburn, heart attacks, panic attacks, hiccups, love, lust, secondhand smoke, firsthand smoke, too many nights of too many shots...
You get the idea. I'm not making excuses for my (or anyone's) fat ass. I'm just saying, maybe losing 50 lbs would make me happier. But 50 lbs ago, I'm pretty sure I was discontent. Happy mediums must be sold out because anything less than must 14+.
Is it a fair assessment to judge someone's happiness on their size? Gabby seems to have a likeable, outgoing, "I love myself" personality. Some may see the happy fattie routine as a cover-up to how she's REALLY feeling, all insecure, self-hating and dark and twisty. Is it really hard to believe that an extremely overweight person could like themselves 100% and that just be that? Even after the burn of childhood insults and retorts dies down to a manageable flame, are her scars not allowed to heal and just say "fuck it, I'm fat, deal with it!"
I suppose that "you're beautiful no matter what size" ship has sailed. Or sunken, because all the happy fatties are too busy celebrating their fat happy lives. Or, the fattie must be seething with rage and suffering with low self-esteem. Deep down she must want to be a size 4, a cute cinched waist, hips and ass that's noticeable but not obtrusive. I know flabby arms and thighs that rub together clearly render my life inoperable. Life would just be a bowl of cherries if I could just lose some damn weight and not take up more than 1 seat on the 3 train on the way to work.
The logic is flawed-just because a bigger person is unhappy with their size doesn't mean the inverse, the smaller you are, the happier you'll be, is true. I highly doubt your mode of thinking does a 180 when your weight does. Unhappiness, whether rooted in one's physical appearance or otherwise, doesn't lie in one place. its all connected and traces to some random Freudian shit from infancy.
Everyone needs to leave Gabby (and every other fattie looking like they could be on the brink of death) alone. A married man hitting on a woman at a bar doesn't need to be reminded they're married. And deep down, an alcoholic knows, even a little bit, when they've had too much to drink. She likes how she looks, and the people who need to like her look like it. If deep down she doesn't, she's got a helluva poker face, and I'm not mad at her. Either way, she can pay her bills. We need to be applauding her for following the true American dream-living in excess and capitalizing the hell outta it.
And let's stop making this about some "oh I'm just concerned about your health." Fuck outta here. The body is a resilient mothafucka: in a given life it could face a paper cut, a stubbed toe, bone fracture, paralyzation, loss of brain activity. You can take organs out, limbs off, move one piece of flesh to another, lift it, tuck it, suck it, stretch it. It deals with heartache, heartburn, heart attacks, panic attacks, hiccups, love, lust, secondhand smoke, firsthand smoke, too many nights of too many shots...
You get the idea. I'm not making excuses for my (or anyone's) fat ass. I'm just saying, maybe losing 50 lbs would make me happier. But 50 lbs ago, I'm pretty sure I was discontent. Happy mediums must be sold out because anything less than must 14+.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
When I can't sleep, I write.
I lay here still, still enough to feel my heartbeat,
Tick, tick, boom
A surge
Blood, adrenaline, anticipation
Racing against
thinking of
Imagining
Dreaming
Running parallel to another beat, yours
Steady, constant, even, hard
Bass paired with the hum of february's breeze
Which hangs slightly confused in harlem's night
I fill journals and piece puzzles together
Lyrics of lust prepared to be learned like lines
As I shake when you spear
I study soliloquies to sum up
What we're doing here
butterflies in my stomach that come up
They flutter in fear
In the moments of apprehension you hold my hands
As I ad lib the words to your song you sing along
As you MC this show I take in what you know
Bring in your noise, bring me your fuck
Your one of a kind guitar, fingered and plucked
Converting my vibrations into your electricity
I feel all of your rhythm and none of it is blue
I'm not about to fall in love with hip hop
But I only want to learn about music from you
Tick, tick, boom
A surge
Blood, adrenaline, anticipation
Racing against
thinking of
Imagining
Dreaming
Running parallel to another beat, yours
Steady, constant, even, hard
Bass paired with the hum of february's breeze
Which hangs slightly confused in harlem's night
I fill journals and piece puzzles together
Lyrics of lust prepared to be learned like lines
As I shake when you spear
I study soliloquies to sum up
What we're doing here
butterflies in my stomach that come up
They flutter in fear
In the moments of apprehension you hold my hands
As I ad lib the words to your song you sing along
As you MC this show I take in what you know
Bring in your noise, bring me your fuck
Your one of a kind guitar, fingered and plucked
Converting my vibrations into your electricity
I feel all of your rhythm and none of it is blue
I'm not about to fall in love with hip hop
But I only want to learn about music from you
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)