Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Finding a Present Value Is the Reverse of Finding a Future Value.

Self-love is healthy, but what happens when it turns into melodramatic sentimental attachment to oneself?

I love myself to a fault, but that doesn't mean I treat myself right. I use my present self; I am my own gold digger. I make plans without considering my need for sleep. I make myself eat what I want now, without thought to nutritional value. I please myself when I want, ignoring the pain in my wrist and the weakness in my forearm.

At this rate, my future self will be fat, broke, sleep deprived, and unable to use my right hand or arm to do anything.

I have found a solution to helping myself. I visualize myself as either my past-self or my future-self. I feel far removed from that person, so I can be a little more compassionate and considerate of his or her needs. When I think of my past self, and what that person would have wanted in the future, which is now, I feel like taking better care of myself for that earnest, eager, clueless, nerdy child who did not anticipate becoming me. I want to become somebody that innocent fuck would have wanted me to be. But then again, if my parents hadn't forced my past-self to do something other than play Pac Man and drink Kool Aid, I would not have even become what I am today.

Then I fast forward to my future, to myself as an elder if I am granted so many years. I imagine my wizened face and wish for peace, health, and comfort. I look to this figure and negotiate ways to maximize my future value while still staying rooted in my present. She tells me I don't need everything right now, whether it's experiences, food, money, or sex; I wonder if she is right. I wonder if she will be there waiting or whether she will be swept away by unforeseen disaster or by my own present recklessness.

Sunday, March 27, 2011

random fiction incorporating a staircase

I had the perfect outfit picked out for the evening. I scanned my closet and pulled out the perfect purse. As I got ready, I imagined the night unfold, I saw myself charming strangers, secretly hoping that the one person invited who wasn’t a stranger would also be there. We would see each other and make our way over to each other much too slowly after too many unnecessary conversations because we wouldn’t want to appear too eager. We would walk up the staircase in the garden and then I would fall, tearing my dress, landing bruised and humiliated at the foot of the duck pond as disturbed waterfowl ruffled their feathers and walked away.

So I had the perfect outfit picked out for the evening until my imagination got involved. That staircase in the garden did exist, and of course I would want to go for an evening stroll, especially in the company of the object of my obsession. With only twenty minutes left to get ready, I needed to come up with another outfit. The dress would not work with any other shoes, so I needed an entirely different outfit altogether. Sometimes I just hated everything in my closet. I imagined burning it all and starting over. Reinventing an entirely new wardrobe held so many possibilities that adding to an existing set of clothes simply did not offer.

Thinking about the possibilities of a new wardrobe took up five minutes, leaving me with fifteen minutes and a newfound appreciation for the concept of uniforms. I looked in the mirror and wondered why we spent so much time trying to look better when we would just turn decrepit so quickly. I decided to just risk my original outfit. If I fell off the staircase, I would have deserved it and become a symbol of gendered consumerism.