Reset.

“Long hair minimizes the need for barbers; socks can be done without; one leather jacket solves the coat problem for years; suspenders are superfluous.” – Albert Einstein. 

I do miss writing and talking about fashion on my blog. I miss writing in my blog, generally speaking. But when I think of what it is I would want to say, very little comes to mind. I think for a long time now I have enjoyed consuming really quality blog posts, news articles, the radio, and podcasts, and of course music. There is always so much to consume all around us. And I get so excited to consume, consume, consume that I’ve become nothing more than a consumer buying everything the world is selling me. And wanting to buy in.

As I have gotten careless with myself and my life, two things have happened: 1) I have gained weight and 2) I can no longer wear what I consider my perfect wardrobe. Seriously. My tom boy and mysteriously sexy look (showing less is more) vibes don’t jam with my currently curvy figure. I long longed for a slimmer, more athletic build so I could solely wear loafers and trousers and Reverse Seam button up shirts. Which I was doing for a few years until I jumped off the fit life bandwagon. I’m a yo-yo exerciser. And at 5 feet tall, I love food too much to consume as few calories required of a 5 foot person. So exercise was my non-negotiable counterweight to … uh, yannoe, weight gain. I do this every time… I reach this particular weight which seems to be my max/natural weight eating all the things I love without exercise and then circle back and start aiming for unlimited push-ups and 5 mile jogs. It’s like my life is a living trend cycle, pendulum swing style.

So I started Insanity Max 30 today. I tell ya, that pendulum swing. There’s no “easing into it.” Go all the way, or you don’t mean it. I was tempted to blog about this on my “secret”/private fitness blog but I mean — this blog is private enough. The readership is quite low. I remember a few years ago when all the wrong people were reading my blog and then my blog life crossed over into my real life and that was just weird. And then years and years and years before then I was part of the blogosphere.

However, it’s gotten a bit hard to stay focused on fashion. It feels as though the ultra-fast rise of social media has catapulted most fashion away from the blogs and into a see it once Snapchat moment. I’m going to have to dig a little deeper to get back into street style and bloggers worth following. But I want to feel that excitement again. It is harder when you can’t fit into the fashion you like, nevermind the expense of building a new wardrobe. It’s like honey, lose the weight or become a millionaire. Insert sideways glance here.

Here’s to a reset to bring things back to the way they were/should be/ought to be.

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Death of a Strawberry

Sick of being in my head and thinkin’ about my fate and worried about my health
Wanna waste away my days with a pretty young thing and blow through all my wealth

Over- Over- Overwhelmed again
Sing out
Out
Bury it away

— Dance Gavin Dance

It’s getting to be that part of the year when I sift through files and memories and mourn for nine years ago.

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One Last Poem For Richard by Sandra Cisneros

December 24th and we’re through again.
This time for good I know because I didn’t
throw you out — and anyway we waved.
No shoes. No angry doors.
We folded clothes and went
our separate ways.
You left behind that flannel shirt
of yours I liked but remembered to take
your toothbrush. Where are you tonight?

Richard, it’s Christmas Eve again
and old ghosts come back home.
I’m sitting by the Christmas tree
wondering where did we go wrong.

Okay, we didn’t work, and all
memories to tell you the truth aren’t good.
But sometimes there were good times.
Love was good. I loved your crooked sleep
beside me and never dreamed afraid.

There should be stars for great wars
like ours. There ought to be awards
and plenty of champagne for the survivors.

After all the years of degradations,
the several holidays of failure,
there should be something
to commemorate the pain.

Someday we’ll forget that great Brazil disaster.
Till then, Richard, I wish you well.
I wish you love affairs and plenty of hot water,
and women kinder than I treated you.
I forget the reason, but I loved you once,
remember?

Maybe in this season, drunk
and sentimental, I’m willing to admit
a part of me, crazed and kamikaze,
ripe for anarchy, loves still.

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Two – One

It’s almost June. I got taken aback when I came to visit my blog; I didn’t even recognize the blue sidebar or recall when I changed it. I had to reset my password because I couldn’t recall it. Basically, it’s been a while.

Not that this is unusual, and typical rather: I’m not feeling very good these days. The stress of having to get so many things done in a finite amount of time has caused me to do poorly in almost everything.

I’m also probably in the midst of a breakup. I don’t think D and I can continue going the way we are; things have rarely worked out for us and not much has changed over the course of a year and a half regardless of the number of times both of us have said we’d make an effort. I don’t think effort can make two people compatible.

My health has also suddenly gotten worse. Age has arrived. The timing for failing health is never great, but the timing just isn’t great.

I came on here presumably to get really down and specific on everything, but I’m going to have to get to know my blog again (if I even consider writing in here again soon due to time constraints).

Btw, listening to music through headphones hurts my ears, even at a low level. Earphones are fine, but not headphones. The sound is too close to my ears. Maybe I just haven’t listened to music in a very long time either… it’s been all radio, NPR, KCRW, KPCC, podcasts. Just streamed through the speakers. Headphones feel so invasive.

I’m sifting through playlists on Spotify and all of these artists are unknown to me. I don’t recognize any of the songs or their names. I haven’t really listened to music for about two years.

Over the course of my relationship I’ve grown to hate life and people. Not necessarily as a direct cause of, just over the same period of time. Maybe related/maybe not.

I no longer “go out” and do things. My life is supremely boring. And it’s depressing. I always imagined a partner would be someone who could help me live, help me go outside, help build me up in exchange for those same things. But I’m not living. I’m miserable and stuck indoors with someone that doesn’t think we should go out and live, or someone that doesn’t want to live. I don’t know. But it’s hard to imagine that I managed to achieve the exact opposite of the thing I wanted most.

And so I think of all the things I want to do, have wanted to do, and have not done over these past few months… and how I’ll have to do them alone. But I suppose a picnic of 1 is better than no picnic at all. And I suppose going hiking alone is better than not hiking at all.

What astounds me is how my support system just disappeared the moment I got a partner. My friends continue to do things, go places, hang out. And the invitations stopped coming. Now I’m afraid to go out. By myself. Or with friends. It’s like having to rebuild yourself all over again.

After a doctor’s visit yesterday morning I decided to go to Long Beach. I miss Long Beach a lot. And rarely go. D thinks it’s “too far.” But I went. Headed to the movie theater. Just like I used to do. And it was entertaining. But as per usual, I wanted to do something with D, not alone. I called him, in a jovial mood, and asked if he would like to do something with me. I gave him options, alternatives. And the answer was a resounding, “No.” He said I expect him to say yes or do all the things I want to do… but we never do anything. I started crying after hanging up on him. I pretended to look at my phone, scrolling mindlessly, until I could get the tears to stop. Then I got in my car, drove home, and slept.

At some point yesterday, I told D it wasn’t working out. This relationship doesn’t make me feel good. He got angry (as per usual) and eventually he punched a painting on the wall he made me in 2014 (one of the few gifts he’s given me), and grabbed it from the wall and split it apart. The wood split everywhere, creating bloody splinters on his arm and hands.

It’s not the first time he’s thrown, broken, or torn something. There’s been coffee cup on the wall, pulling my clothes from the closet in which one of my most prized dresses was torn, the hole on the bedroom wall, and recently, throwing a bucket of water on me (twice) when I was too depressed to move from my cradled position on the floor.

But maybe it’s me. I have a bad habit of bringing out the worst in people.

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