On Thursday, I read at a poetry reading organized by David D. Horowitz of Rose Alley Press. It was a nice, laid-back evening with some terrific poets. I took a risk and read a new, unvetted piece that would probably best be called a short story. As always happens before these things, I got a sudden attack of the scrubblies. What are the scrubblies, you ask? The scrubblies are my low self-esteem demons. They’re hairy little things, about the size of gerbils, and they have jagged brown teeth and wild gray eyes and they swarm around me in packs growling things like, “You’re stupid and your work is stupid and you shouldn’t read it because it’s stupid.” Or, “You’re not really a writer.” Or, “This is crap. Hahahhahha! Everything you write is dumb.” The scrubblies are a nuisance. They almost won this time, but Mr. Typist convinced me I should go ahead with reading it. Fortunately, it seemed to be well-received, and I’m glad I took the chance. Since the novel is almost complete, I’m going to be freed up to start writing poetry again, and I’ve resolved to get out to more open mics to test-drive new work. I’ve come to the conclusion that being a near-recluse, while comfortable, probably isn’t serving me well in the long run.
My weight’s crept up a bit, most likely from noshing with abandon on Mr. Typist’s homemade tapenade, (worth it!) so I decided to go back to swimming a few times a week…which so far so has only been one day a week because I don’t have the will to care that much anymore. I was going to a water aerobics class for a while, but I quit because they played way too much Beatles music and it depressed me. I can tell I’ve lost some muscle strength from the times when I was swimming three or four times a week. I’d like that muscle strength back, but without having to do any real work or go out of my way in any manner. I'll keep you posted on how that works out.
My left knee has been killing me lately, due in part to cheap shoes with no arch support. So I finally sucked it up this weekend and took a long-dreaded trip to the mall to buy decent shoes, and to replace a pair of brown slacks that have gone shiny and pilly in the seat. Naively, I didn’t realize that brown pants are now a highly exotic item on par with albino peacocks or ruby-encrusted oil infusers. Full-length pants of any color were nowhere to be found, while bloody Capri pants, those sartorial monstrosities, colonized every rack. I guess buyers have decided that it’s Spring, so no one could possibly need real clothes. In the one store I found that did carry a few pairs of full-length pants, the clerk shrugged and said, “Oh, we don’t have any pants in brown. We get tons of people asking for them, but we don’t carry them.” No, of course not. I mean, why would you stock an item that your customers actually want? That would be madness. I swear, one of these days I’m going to get desperate enough to learn how to sew.