Tell It Like It Is

I'm not sure if I was ever alive for this, but what happened to the days when people spoke the unadulterated truth? It seems that in these days of political correctness, it is not only unacceptable to say things like midget, retarded, or Christian, it is now incorrect to use the word, LIE or any of it's tenses. Over the past few months in watching news headlines I've heard so many synonyms for the word, lie, that I had to revel at the inventive nature of publicists and lawyers. When asked about statements made that he took steroids during his baseball career, Roger Clemons responded by saying his old trainer "misremembered:. When Hilary Clinton was called on her false claims of getting off of a plane and facing sniper fire during her tenure of as First Lady, she said she "misspoke". What the hell is misspeaking and misremembering? Are these words even in the dictionary? What ever happened to a good, plain, old-fashioned, lie? Whatever happened to turning to the dishonest perpetrator and saying, "That's a lie and you know it"? Why are we no longer able to tell people that either A) they don't know what the hell they are talking about or B) they are full of shit? I miss those days even though I believe they've been absent most of my days on this planet. Even though it isn't the most popular way of functioning, I've decided to bring back brutal honesty much the same way Justin Timberlake brought back sexy (thanks, Justin). There will be no misspeaking, misremembering, or mistaken on my watch without me confirming it to really just be a lie or a case of someone not knowing what he is talking about. I figure occasionally hollering out, "That's bullshit!" is the least I can do for my country.

Shut Your Happy Face

Sometimes I wonder if I'm really just a big old meanie. I mean, I'd like to think that I'm friendly (enough), loving to my loved ones, and willing to bask in God's glory. HOWEVER, there are few things at work I find more irritating than the guy who whistles while entering the building everyday and responds to your obligatory "how ya doin'" inquiries with an idiotic grin and a "I'm great! Everyday is a wonderful day! It only gets better as time goes by!". If I hear this guy say that one more time I'm afraid of what I might do. I hope I'm not angry and annoyed because he is happy. That can't be it. I think I'm mostly bothered by the falsity of it all. As important as positive self talk is to me, I just don't find it healthy to smile and lie to yourself and everyone else about everything being peachy when your car note is thirty days past due, your student loan money is late, and/or your son was just arrested and sent to juvenile hall. Sure, being positive and upbeat has its benefits and there is always something for which to be grateful, BUT give me a break dude! The professed perfect life he claims prevents others from feeling comfortable in expressing any problems they may be having. How can you cry on the shoulder of the guy who has never had a bad day? How can you go to that friend for help in times of crisis without being made to feel like a terrible ingrate for being upset in the first place? I don't know about anyone else, but I'm looking forward to the day when I ask him how he's doing (which, by the way, I now avoid asking most of the time) and he looks sad and tells me he's having a problem. It is then that all will be right with the world.

Where Was I?

In spite of women's lib, loving myself, not giving a damn what others think, the evil of subliminal messages in the media, and reveling in the fact that I am wonderfully made, I must admit that I am obsessed with my weight. Just like adolescent boys spend most of their days thinking about sex, I spend most of mine thinking of just how far in I can suck my stomach to appear less fat and whether or not anyone would even notice my effort. I'm constantly telling myself to sit up straight to avoid displaying all of my rolls, pull up my pants over my most prominent rolls, and to make sure my head is up straight so that all of my chins aren't showing at the same time. At the end of the day, when I let out my stomach, I'm exhausted. When I'm not obsessing about my rolls, I'm thinking about how I even got to this point. I ponder on where I was exactly when I went from having a tummy, to a stomach, to a belly, to a GUT. I think about that, and the fact that I should be ashamed of myself for being obsessed in the first place.

I know better and I've fed the rhetoric to many a friend in the past. I tell them they are beautiful. I tell them that the only kind of man who wants a bone is a dog. I even tell them that their curves are part of their appeal. I believe myself too. However, no matter how many times I give them the rigmarole, I can't seem to make myself believe the hype. I've noticed the looks I've gotten from people I knew in my much smaller days and I've noticed how many people don't initially recognize me. I've noticed how men who once looked at me as if they were kind of interested now look and shake their heads disapprovingly. I've even noticed that the "quality" of man to approach me has changed. I especially hate it when they approach me and tell me how they "like big women". That's the worst. There's nothing like having a man confirm what you already know but are hoping no one else has noticed. I do realize it's a constant battle. I know when I'm in the gym I'm supposed to be exercising for my health and well-being but in all honesty, a large part of the reason for the workout is the fact that I'm still on the market and I don't want to end up being the last picked and having to go home with some 2 foot 2 man with one strand of hair and the same number of teeth because he's the only one left who "likes big women". While I know this is incredibly short-sighted and shallow, it's how I feel most of the time nonetheless. Seriously, between all the self-conscious stomach-sucking, pant pulling up, head erect tactics and the gym, the frustration really just makes me want to have a big plate of french fries. Maybe that's the source of my new found belly...

Ultimately, I know all the right things. I have to want to lose the weight and go to the gym for the sake of good health. I have to love myself the way I am or else no one else (decent) will. I have to really believe I'm wonderfully made before a successful weight loss program can occur. All that, and, I have to put down the french fries.

The Constant Fight

Sometimes I feel like I'm constantly fighting for or about something. In the mornings before work I fight with my sheets and blankets because they don't seem to want to allow me to get out of bed. I fight with my hair because it only wants to look right half the time. I fight with my clothes because for some reason my pants don't want to grow at the same rate as my waistline. And, I fight with all the idiots who seem to be in my way on the road to work. By the time I get to work, I'm just ready to go to my corner, sit on my stool, and have my coach give me a pep talk while spraying cool water on my face and into my mouth. I'm always wondering what happened to the times when my life was much simpler. I'm pretty sure I wasn't always cussing at the car in front of me and frantically honking my horn. I wasn't asking God why he allowed stupid people to be born and I wasn't waking up in the morning trying to figure out when I could squeeze a workout into my schedule so that my disagreeable pants and I could come to a reasonable compromise. I so miss that time. Now life just seems like a consistent struggle. It's a battle between common sense and stupidity, present economic success and my much-needed education, and sometimes a tank of gas and a new pair of amazing stilettos. I feel like Sophia in The Color Purple. "All my life, I had to fight." I suppose the real test is not immersing myself in the fight but occupying my mind with the victory. Alas, easier said than done. However, until I reach that perfect state of resolve, I'll keep my gloves laced up tightly.

Black People Steal Purses

"Yesterday, an African-American student stole my wallet". This was the first sentence my classmate, who is a substitute teacher, used to describe the upsetting event of being robbed. Once that statement came out of her mouth, I found it really difficult to listen or care about the rest of her story. At first I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt and assume that at some point in the story the fact that the child was African-American would become relevant to what happened. Of course, I never heard the justification I wanted. There was a tedious process that accompanied her attempt to get her property back but regardless of what else happened, the one prevalent proint was that African-American kids steal wallets. It was bad enough that she said it, but what bothered me even more was the fact that nobody said a word.

While I understand that everyone's personal struggle with regards to race is different, there are some things that should rub us the wrong way as humans. Instead of at least one person besides me being indignant, the class including my instructor all perked up with interest and a strong desire to hear the rest of her story. I was interested. I was pissed. I later emailed my professor and addressed my concerns. She acknowledged my feelings and we had a class discussion on unconscious speech and how it can offend others. Of course, this was the one day when the offending student wasn't in class. I appreciated my professor's actions but I remain miffed that there would have been no discussion had I not brought it up. Sometimes I feel like I have to be the spokesperson for all black people when I'm in public and it's one of the most exhausting jobs I've ever had.