Photos

I'm so bad at timeliness. It's not a virture I embody. I definetely lack.

Well. Photo uploading-- now there's a beast that I rarely take time to tackle.

So. Here are the beginnings (because, hey, that's a start!).

http://community.webshots.com/user/loveyourdori

The Arrival of the Box

A package arrived in the mail today. Oh how glorious. The satisfying pop as you break the tape, the little breeze you make when you pull open the flaps. And there. Something. Anything. Excitement was already at it's peak, for me at least, the joy is in the opening. The expectation. Granted, it's many levels better when it's something you've been expecting, or something amazing you didn't expect! I love the anticipation. I love the moment just as the scissors hit the box, the moment of pulling up the first layer of packaging before the goodies inside. Those collective moments make me want to drink lemonade and slow down.

What does that say about me? Do I like plans more than reality? Possibilities more than actualities? Do I like to picture joy rather than experience it? Am I reading into this too much? Yes, probably, but I didn't think about this so much until just now. It's an amazing thing, writing, how it lays things before you to examine.

The box was very exciting. Even though I packed it myself, many months ago, it was more exciting than it would have been had it arrived, as scheduled, many months ago. But, in opening it, and handling the goods I felt necessary to ship myself, I also found myself questioning my mentality and revisiting the moments surrounding the packing of the box.

Sweaters, two... brown. Two brown sweaters. Is it ironic that when I opened the box I was also wearing a brown sweater? So I own three brown sweaters. Maybe I should throw a sweater party. Brown only-- rotating every hour (i'd be the only hardcore party goer I expect!). Also, a shirt that doesn't fit (ahhh hope), a shirt that didn't make the morocco cut (welcome back), a pair of pants that got much love when I was in the classrooms (why are you here?) and a black button up shirt (for my formal hike? Huh?). Baby pictures (yay!), Grandma jam (dare I say, double yay!), my external hard drive (now there's a metaphor... shipping my external memory to myself. Hah!) and a pair of socks (sweeeeet). Simple items. So much joy. Oh and tiny fake flowers for my scrapbook. ESSENTIAL. Hah!

So, should I tell myself that this is acceptable behavior? To mail myself my own items because I want to. Need? no no no, my friends, and I am very aware, it is a want for sure. For now, I accept this behavior and allow myself to indulge in what I want (not getting to crazy, keep that new laptop and camera and house in fiji at bay, christine, but you can splurge on the goat cheese). At some point, when I open a box I pack for myself and note that I packed two similar things, and am also wearing a similar article of clothing-- maybe then I will realize I need to keep myself in check.

The Ordinary Meh

Meh. That's 50% of emotion right now. A part of me is ready to leap and run and go go go onto New York, back to the woods of south western New York, the sugar maples, beech trees, wide braken ferns, dappled sunlight, loud summer thunder storms. A part of me is just feeling pretty meh. Meh..... Not meh about New York, just meh about my life. I know it's just a passing meh, but this time, I'm looking at it, and letting it fill me. I'm letting it settle in certain parts of my body. Certain, very fleshy parts, are really feeling very meh.

Never want this blog to turn into a body-bitch-blab-and-boo hoo... but I must say a few things... every now and then. Met a woman who was a size 8, then size 22, and now resides at a 14, sometimes 12, occasional (if i really try) 10. Hm. I'm a realist in some ways, others, a total dreamer. It has served me well (really, honestly) to be a realist about my body. I'll flux between a few sizes, but, for the past 5 years, I've pretty much stayed between two sizes. The rollercoaster of emotion about the whole ordeal has also calmed to a steadier, more enjoyable pace. Punctuated, of course, with thrill rides-- some boo hoo and some wooo hooo! Anyways, I did not start writing to complain, or to moan, or to have some way to e-vent about this all, but instead, to realize two very simple body thoughts.

One. This body can change, and does, and will, and many times--- won't. And I love it. Love its changes, love that it is me and that I am it and we are a very odd couple... strutting about in a meant-for-eachother opposites-attract kind of way.

Two. I'm young. I'm not 30 yet. I've got a lot of life to live... and it will all occur in one place. This body of mine.

So, the choice to treat it well really is not a choice. The choice to be nice to it (verbally, mentally and physically) should be no choice, either.

I'm at a bumpier part of the ride right now... feeling pretty meh. Realizing the meh-ness subsides every inch I take closer to treating this kid better. This 20-something's body is directly attached to the meh-ness, and even in the times she feels meh, and the times she lets it sink into her, she's still got it, and it will always be there. Like it, love it, or hate it.

Ready to run and frolic my way to New York. Not exactly, but I've got the legs that have the potential to help me with those actions.