Why I Ate Cookies Yesterday (or, I am an Amateur Psychologist)

So I’m on the 3rd floor at work getting some young gun to sign a document. It’s a quick sort of pause & flee maneuver – I don’t linger, although he has a bowl of fun size Snicker bars on his credenza. I think, “Wow, the perfect use for a credenza!”

As I head back down the hallway I ponder the total lack of sexual tension in the encounter. Not saying that I wanted any – even if I weren’t about 20 years older than this guy he is not my type. For one thing, he’s probably a republican! But back in the day, regardless of whether or not either one of us was interested, there would have been at least a smidge of tension there.

Probably my weight (and the fact that I walk with a limp these days) is off putting. But I realize that I just don’t care anymore & I know that I broadcast my disinterest in tones too loud to be ignored. When I was younger and cuter (come on, don’t be all nice – you know I was cuter back then!) I practically vibrated with the desire to be noticed. And I think that I probably was noticed somewhat. I enjoyed all that byplay & double entendre & your place or mine (I just added that last part to make it interesting).

But now? Don’t even go there buster! I’m happy with my marriage. I don’t want drama. And frankly, I just can’t muster the energy to pretend to flirt. I’m pretty sure I should be sad that I don’t care about sex appeal anymore. But meh.

All these fleeting thoughts get me as far as the elevator when I have an aha! moment: This is probably why I’m overweight! Isn’t life so much simpler if people don’t really look at you? What’s sad about that little bit of insight is that I never really did have to beat people off during those supposed halcyon days. But apparently I subconsciously believe that if I get too cute I’ll be propositioned all the time.

You know it’s not just the weight – it’s the attitude – the one with the disinterested broadcast. The weight is a symptom of the attitude.

And now I’m exiting the elevator on the ground floor considering this revelation. What do I think about it? It's a lot to process.

I go into the café next door to get some cookies to help me think better. That's called irony folks.

Back in the cute & complicated days...

September 1990

Back when I was in seminary, like a lot of students, I was in therapy. I guess the collision of all that actual documented church history and theology slamming up against what we learned in church growing up created a dissonance that needed impartial guidance - or maybe more dysfunctional folks were attracted to the idea of seminary (I was in both categories, actually). So, anyway, as part of therapy I wrote a poem in March 1990 describing where I would be in six months. Since I REALLY want to write a poem, but can't quiet my mind enough to do it, I decided to share this one with you.

September 1990

I tread the

hallowed halls of

memory & emotion

with careful, elated steps.

I survey

the boundaries -

each post hole

dug with fierce victory.

Meticulously

I color my

self -

staying in the lines.

I use zinnia colors -

orange & fuchsia -

the colors of anger

and joy -

the colors of

truth.

I am beautiful.

I am real.

I am.

March 15, 1990

Me, circa 1988