Thursday, April 16, 2015

Self-Promotion

You need to come to my yoga class. And you need to make it work so that you keep coming. And you need to send that email. You need to take out the recycling. You need to drive in your mini-van past the corner where the homeless guy asks for money. You need to decide whether to look at him or look away. Maybe just hand him money? Do you even have cash? You rifle through the contents of your bag. The deodorant you keep on hand in case of emergencies falls out of your ridiculously small Timbuk2 purse. You never have to smell, but this man is ripe with need. Out falls the green-fake-snakeskin-wallet almost impossible to clamp shut due to the plethora of pennies that are too insulting to put in the tip jar at Dunn Bros. Pennies. You could give this man the pennies. Then bouncing on your thighs is the nylon fabric bag conveniently bundled to the size of an egg, lying in wait for the next coop run. Too bad you hadn't already been or you could hand the man a head of organic broccoli. Or would he prefer the local, but not quite organic, whole milk? Desperate for the light to change, your eyes meet. You smile and will him to forgive your indecisive waspyness. Yet his eyes dart from yours and you are not sure who is willing (or unwilling) to see whom. You see selling-out as a pattern of self-hatred that began long before this moment.

The Bangles' disappointing Walk Like an Egyptian album.
Nicolas Cage after Valley Girl.
Violent Femmes after their eponymous album even though you totally appreciated the darkness of Hallowed Ground?
And the other things you might resemble:
Fargo. Which part? Both the good Francis McDormand character and the weak why-did-he-have-to-go-and-do-that William H. Macy. Everyday.
Granola? Yes. Punk Princess gone to the darkside.
Portlandia? We did eat Herman after all.
Helicopter parenting? Um, do you know how long you breastfed them?
On and on.
The things that you resist you also become.

You press the gas too hard, flinching again as you think of the waste and the exhaust and the poor man you are leaving in your dust without even giving him a handful of pennies or deodorant. You want so much to feel better. You are working so hard to love yourself. Ugh. Did I just say that?

I am good enough. I am smart enough. And gosh darn, people like me.

You will too. Come to my class.