In a Superperson World #4- A Diary

April 15th, 2035
My Apartment, Mid-City


Dear Diary,

My dad used to say, once I start paying taxes, I'd be considered an adult. He failed to mention, after I got my first job junior year of high school, it only applied after I got married and moved next door, preferably.
But under his roof, I'd always be his baby girl.

My mom once said being an adult meant accepting all trivial things and all big things thrown at you, and managing them.
From:
bills
not running out of toilet paper
insurance
getting along with your coworkers
-to bigger things-
going to work despite heartbreak
paying rent (or your bookie) on time
avoiding a SPEZ (SuperPerson Engagement Zone)
and remembering your mothers birthday.


I lived on my own at 22. A bachelor degree of what-the-fuck-does-it-matter, crisp in my hand.  I said sayonara to my parents and the coffee shop (my first gig in high school). Hopped on a bus and went.
More than sure- I didn't think I wouldn't be fine. 
I moved from this crazy place and straight into the arms of it's sister city. A slightly different rhythm of crazy, but played with all the same instruments.

A lot of things pop up when the nest is behind you. Like all the additional costs. The stuff you didn't realize wasn't a given.
Like a trash can, or dish soap. A mattress that doesn't smell like a locker room floor drain.
There are many eternally internal debates too.
Whether packing the hangers is worth the hassle versus buying new ones. Do I reeeeaaally need a bath mat? Will my new roommate get offended if I spray the roaches in the kitchen as, every night, he turns into a large dung beetle?

All these get sorted eventually. It might take a few paychecks... A couple years even... But it gets there. As long as you can find the job to get said paychecks. Which is a whole other maze of banal crap in a new city. And the degrees we thrashed around for, amounts to, about as much as the toe-fungus mattress.
So then there's the cost of not working.

From there, rent. Bills. Groceries (sometimes I resent not being one of those osmosis people. Eating is so damned expensive.). I'd pay for this and that, on time mostly. Hold down a job until the place got slammed into/blown up/burnt down/swallowed into the earth. You know, the usual. Go out with coworkers. Friends. Do all those things my parents said made me an adult (I've started to notice they're all money related).

The freedom is great. Sometimes I'd trip and fall. My parents helped me out occasionally- as long as I promised to Skype with them.


Five year ago, I was shuffling papers around my ugly-ass beige desk. Sunset long over. There were fireworks in the distance (it was a munitions plant exploding). I was the last one in the office. Well, there was Fred the Janitor too. We chatted a bit. Watched some kids play tag around the sky-scrappers. The LED-GLO in the soles of their kicks illuminated neon trails behind them. It wasn't a bad night.

But I didn't feel like much of an adult.

I was wearing a pencil skirt and a button up blouse. Reasonably heightened heels. Eggplant purple hair tamed into a bun.
I looked professional.
I looked like an adult.
It all fit better now- compared to when I burrowed into my moms closet and played dress up.

But I still felt like that kid, hoping to play the part.
I wonder if other grown-ups are the same.

So five years ago, I took all the money I saved. Shipped my shit back home. Quit the office. Hopped on a bus and went.
Then I hopped on a plane.
Then off a plane.
There was also a train... Somewhere in there.
And before I could catch up, I was in Europe. Greece, to be precise.

There was Ouzo. Lamb roasted in drum barrels, buried in the sand of newly formed beaches. A cute fisherman named Paulo who could speak to starfish (apparently they didn't have a lot to say). And a whole group of minstrel-like locals, who played like Metallica was going out of style. Not in this century.

Once a month, I'd ring my parents, to let them know I was safe, well-fed and not doing anything they wouldn't do. I crossed my fingers for that part.


A few months later, I met a crew of crazy mutant kids, just graduated from University. They were fun.
Traveled with them to Spain. We ran from mechanical bulls through the crowded, cheering and drunk streets of Pamplona. One of them, girl named Jezzi, turned a bull's horns into baloney right before it gored her. Instead, she was only head butted with a lunch meat. Michael jumped onto the back of one, in the middle of the mob. We didn't see Michael again until Paris.

In 2022, the mutant spider(s) responsible for Spiderman and his silk (see what I did there?)and escaped the laboratory... again. This time, making it all the way to the docks and up a lee-way line. They sailed across the Atlantic. Eventually disembarking in the port of Marseille-Fos, France.
No one's sure exactly what happened next but... well, let's just say, they got big. Like, size of a car, big. I'll save the history lesson for another time, but the long and short is they took over the Eiffel Tower... and somehow the dome of Saint Peters Basilica in Roma.

They've calmed down quite a bit since then. The french airlift cattle near a woven funnel "entrance" once a month. In exchange, they don't eat the citizenry.
Everyone wins.

So, of course, it's become a tourist attraction. And a popular dungeon crawl, for those adrenaline junkies. Not recommended. Or legal. 

It was here we ended up-
Wearing specialized head lamps in the middle of the night; a tour guide holding a boomstick like a magic wand. We crouched through eerily white, gauzier tunnels, covered in cooking spray so we wouldn't stick to anything. Phones on silent, flash turned off.
Every hush of wind.
Every swaying strand.
Every skitter.
Every echo of tapping.
We were paranoid beyond our wits. Our imaginations proving far more monstrous.

It was mostly safe. A week after feeding, the spiders hibernate into a food coma.
Still. What a rush!
Exiting through the sewers, giggling like school children. The tour ended at a pub, with a pitcher for all. We cheered to our guides health.

An automated voice message had flashed up on my phone during the crawl. I shut it off. Probably a computer asking me to vote for that floating bald guy again.
My phone disappeared at the bar.
For about a month.
I let it go. All the pictures were saved in the cloud. I'd download them when I got back.
We kept traveling. All the way up, to yodeling with sheep farmers at the tip of Scotland.
Then, through the workings of a karma, my phone found me. With the message waiting to be heard.


My parents should have added, 'Get to the shelter quickly, as to avoid the tip of the Space Needle, flung, far from across town.' to the list of adultification. I'd have appreciated it.


My key still opened the door.
Everything looked the same, but fake.
The scuffs on the wall from Mr. Johnson's bike tires. The frosting stains on the floor from when mom dropped dads birthday cake. The coffee, feet and oil stains of everyday life. Even the smells, made the hallways familiar.
A recognition of time passed. Silly little memories created. The proof of a home.
Gone.

A condolence wreathe of lilies decayed, liquified and matted onto the counter. A note from PepsiCo stuck out awkwardly from the feted floral foam.
There were frames on the walls, but no pictures. A couch, but no cushions. Toilet paper, but no trash can. The bedrooms looked ready for a photo shoot, except for a fine layer of settled dust. 

And that was that.
I bought hangers and a bathroom rug.
Got a job as a barista at the coffee shop again.
On a walk, met the owner of Bunsen and Beaker. We talked about Paris. And from there... you know the rest.


Funny... I never wondered if I was an adult again...


Cheers for a tomorrow,

Penny

Contemplations of a Fat Girl: The Mantra Ode de Blubber

    Welcome back to another bout of bountiful contemplation and anecdotal insight from your favorite (or at least congenially amusing) Fat Girl and Bar Stool Shrink (as proclaimed by some very drunk guy a few months back)! Since my last scribblings, I haven't been sure where to go from where I left off. I wanted to explain some fears, but the spectrum is so broad that I don't quite know where to start without straying off the topic and ranting on for a few hours before trying to tie it all in with one last, paragraphically Puckish sentence. So we begin with the mantra every fat person knows.

    Let's start with something personal, shall we? Last week, I drew a rune from a set I've had since right before high school. (This part is important, despite how some people may think it's silly and others may judge me harshly. However, even though I don't prescribe to any religion, my grams, a devote Lutheran, draws runes too; she always has and says it's an important part of out Nordic heritage. So neener-neener. I feel validated.) The rune I drew said, basically, that I'd finally hit my stride in life, that I was accomplishing my

goals and evolving myself nicely (again, paraphrasing). However, I shouldn't start anything new and throw myself at it, because it wouldn't go over like I wanted it too. Well, I've hit my stride at my current workplace, my friends here on the island are freaking solid as the lava that keeps cutting us as waves send us through the washer, I'm going to the gym regularly and seeing small little changes here and there that are enough to make me ecstatic, my hair's even longer! Even with a back injury and cold, it's still been a rocking several months. Then, all of a sudden, there's this cool guy I meet (What? You expected him to be boring? Psh.)! I end up hanging around him a bit. We talk. He walks me home because his place is in the same line. I think, hmm, things are going well, but as the saying so popular in Korean dramas goes, 'I got too greedy.' Suddenly, (I think a friend mentioned something to him), he becomes evasive-ish. Like back in middle school, where that cool kid, you know the one, hears through the grapevine you have the hots for him and for the rest of the year, gives you that awkward sort-of half smile in the hallways and walks past you with expediency. Now, here's the tie-in, even if it's nothing to do with how I look; I could have stuff in my teeth or maybe just a terrible personality, possibly it's just the fates saying, 'Hey, don't freaking ignore us! Rude.' or he's simply not thinking one way or another about me, has nothing even to do with me- all this is beside the point, because my first thought is, and always has been, "It's because I'm fat.".

    There it is! The single, most suffocating, demoralizing and number one reason why fat people find it hard(not impossible) to change. Four, mostly monosyllabic, slightly contracted, words that limit everything we do. In them hides all our fears about ourselves, anxieties for our bodies and judgements on how other people perceive us. It's also our number one excuse.
"It's because I'm fat that I can't start running."
"...That those guys at Best Buy never help me, even when I'm clearly looking dazed and confused."
"...That the hot guy/girl doesn't notice me, but will talk to my hot friends."
"...That I won't get that promotion."
"...That I don't have the courage to talk to that person."
"...That I'm afraid to go to the gym, because everyone will judge me."
"...That I can't wear pretty clothes, I'll look ridiculous, like that Hippo from Fantasia."
"...That we won't be anything more than 'just friends'."
"...That I can't join in, because everyone will see I can't keep up. Or I'll let everyone down."

    The list is pretty infinite and the emphasis varies from person to person; and it's silly to assume that any individual doesn't have those exact same fears for different reasons, whether it's physical, a lack of skills or fear that your personality's lacking; we all have these. Thus, you may think there is no validity here, that it's all a bunch of excuses and whining, but when it's the same saying for everyone who falls into the fat, fluffy and 'Daaamn!' category, it's worth taking note of. Someone, more inspirational than myself, could say, "Just turn the it around! Say, instead, "..."" See, I've got nothing. Truthfully, in the end, one-liners don't work when dealing with a cacophony of others' blithe commentaries and your own viscous voice of self-doubt and loathing(and that's not even me being dramatic). This is because there's a certain level of truth to it. From conscious to subconscious, much of it's a learned behavior, backed up by societal interpretations of the body image. Let's explore one, shall we? With more bulletin points! I know how you've missed them.

Today we'll look at how fat people are effected by the voices and people around them. And there are voices, oh so many voices...

• Parents- That's right, whether you were fat since you were younger, to even older ages, unintentionally or not, any snide, bitchy, flippant or otherwise, comment from a parental unit can start the turning of the brain to the dark side, if it wasn't there already. Even parents who aren't highly affectionate and practically speak in tongues can do irreparable harm to their child's psyche even when they're used it. For instance, "He would have liked you if you if you weren't fat." That's kind of an obvious and scarring one. Or, "He'll need a large size... you know... because he's big..." Obvious statement, but still hurtful. "If you just lost a few pounds, that dress/shirt/pants/skirt/socks/bandana/bathing suit/leg warmers might have looked good on you" Very possible, but why can't something be found that will look good now? Ooh! And a classic, "*pokes at belly fat* Is that a beer baby?" I heard a friends mom say that once, he blushed and tried to 'shoo' her away. They're our parents after all, even if we don't want to admit it, their words can seep into our skins like a chill in the mountains and without proper contemplation, one may never realize how a single comment affected us so directly. 

• Siblings- Oh siblings... Depending on your relationship, the age gap and in which way the 'gap' scale slides (no pun intended), if you have/had a tumultuous relationship with siblings closer to your actual age, on average, you've heard your share of jokes about whatever characteristic you have that isn't flawless; and in a sibling rivalry, there is no such thing as flawless... lest they make fun of you for that. And should their friends band together to tease you- as any good friend would, to take down the evil sibling- then affect is that much greater. On the half, those comments easily bounce off our thickened hides, after all, we're bickering at each other getting our share of shot in too. To the other half... Let's just say I know a very pretty and in-shape lass who truly believed she was fat every time her brother would say so. He was kind of a jerk. After all, like our parents, we see them everyday, and the constant nagging can wear you down like the gazelle being chased by a lion, toying with you until they finally grab you by the jugular and topple you too the ground.
• Friends- Unless they are the no B.S. type and tell you everything straight out, we're don't  believe you when you say we 'look fine' in whatever it is we're asking you about. Whether it's because you're too close to be subjective, not paying attention or just lying through your teeth, the mirror already told us all our flaws that we've spent countless hours obsessing over and if you can't point even one of them out with your awesome Jedi Mind Tricks (which you'll need because a good portion of perceived flaws are nothing out of the ordinary to someone else.), then were going to assume we look worse than we ever actually did.
  This may be geared more towards women...
• Any Guy/Girl- Who gave 'the look' (there's a lot of 'the look's, but there's normally a degree of arrogance mixed with a pinch of disdain), or said something slightly snide/distant about... well... anything frankly- it is taken in and despite many peoples best efforts, internalized as material to build a case as to why you're too fat to talk to the hotties or anyone else for that matter, whether it's at a bar, club, or waiting in line at the neighborhood Safeway. Strangers can utterly shatter the shreds of self confidence a person has been pretending to have. Is it a good thing to care that much? Hell no. But unless they've found solid ground, emotionally, to stand on and stare out at the world unfailingly at, these strangers, whose names they'll never know, will get in and secure all one's insecurities with that single look.   
• Department Store Sales People and Everyone Else- During the production of 'Shallow Hal', Gwyneth Paltrow wore a 25lb fat suit that added nearly 300 extra visible pounds of fake flesh. As she walked through the lobby of the very swanky hotel she was staying in, fully clothed and make-up'ed for the movie, she told reporters later how startling it was to see how people acted around her in her obese state. No one made eye contact and in stores, sales people treated her like Julia Roberts in the beginning of 'Pretty Woman', not wanting to help her and being all-around not what she'd ever experienced before. She is Gwyneth. Freaking. Size 2. Paltrow after all. And was awesome in 'The Producers'. Just saying.
  No matter how you spin it, up until about five years ago, department stores only had a single corner of muumuu'esque looking frocks for plus sized women and men had to go to the Big & Tall stores. Although I don't know how the guys service was, most of the sales people avoided helping you in the women's departments. 

    This is me, keeping it short today. There's a point we all reach, or will(hopefully) where the words of others, although still noticed, begin affecting us less and less and more powerful thoughts override the negativity, such as, 'I won't always be like this.' It's a long-ass road to get to this point. Some people can't do it without the support of family, friends, loved ones or even a group of individuals just like them. Others, even with support, won't reach this point until they've muddled through the swampy waters and had their, 'Oh!' moment and slowly leverage through with their own determinations. Whether it comes from a doctor saying, "Look, in ten years, I'll be golfing in Hawaii. Do you know where you'll be if you keep this shit up? Well, you might have your ashes spread in Hawaii, but unless you believe in a religion, that's going to be about as far as you're going." or realizing you won't be able to play with your kids with the shape your in now- the 'Oh!' moment is imperative. As for me, after getting past numerous fears I can tell you all about later, my 'Oh!' moment was this: "Hey. For a chick who really loves zombies and has a dozen contingency plans for a zombie apocalypse, I won't be able to actually run away, in order to survive. I'll probably be one of those people who's eaten right off the bat, not even turn into a zombie, just end up a smear of blood and a broken ulna on the sidewalk... Well that sucks... I should probably fix that." No joke. That was my motivation. A look at my survival instincts, and lack there of. Also, I want to learn Parkour. I won't be in the right condition to learn it for probably another year or so, but if I don't start now, it'll be even longer... right? Right.


Next time we'll cover fears, especially fears about working out. And I'll try not to write it while falling asleep at 3am, like I did most of this one. Promise! 

Until then! 'Gentles, do not reprehend. If you pardon, we will mend.' Thanks for reading! Now go give a stranger a smile! If nothing else, it'll be amusing for you!

Sincerely,
Dust in the Wind