I used to live in the nicest, most integrated neighborhood in the area. Every kind of person who could afford 50% more rent than the rest of the city lived there in old rental units that were beautifully kept up and reasonably spacious.
Everyone got along well, and there were great little restaurants with cheap but excellent lunch specials. The scenery and the people-watching were unparalleled. Everyone seemed to own a dog, and there were all kinds, even unto a number of Great Danes.
In the summer, art galleries would mount outdoor sculptures by various artists along the beach walks to surprise and delight the locals. There was Tai-Chi and yoga in the parks and green-spaces and outdoor and indoor chess almost everywhere there was a table. People flew beautiful kites along the short stretch of beach, and we were a short walk from the bustling downtown, with its theaters, cinemas, malls and and pretentious restaurants and nightclubs.
Every year there was a world-class fireworks festival in August and the streets would be jammed with tens of thousands of people from all around.
Gay men ruled that part of the land and it was good. It was pretty clean and every stranger wanted to talk. There were more independent coffee shops than parking spots, and the one local McDonald's failed, and had to shut down in disgrace and go move to a mall somewhere else, because there were none around. Smoking was forbidden indoors, and frowned upon everywhere else. Most people were reasonably fit and friendly, and it made you want to look after yourself, too. In short, it was my Heaven.
Ironically our family and acquaintances from the suburbs seemed convinced that gay men were heroin users who ate babies and would rape and kill you for your shoes, and that they were 99% of the local population. They visited rarely, nervously, and kept their teenage children close until they could flee early enough to avoid "the traffic".
Currently I live in a struggling municipality about an hour away by car, which I need to use to get to anything around here. Although there are numerous playgrounds for the local children, there is real crime; there have been three incidents serious enough to cordon off our whole block since we moved in five years ago.
There is no beach, and the train-yard bars us from walking the waterline. The trains blow their horns for hours at night. During the day no one lingers outdoors unless they have a child to mind, or a need to smoke, which they put out on the ground. No one meets anyone else's eyes, and far too many of the few dog owners don't clean up like they are supposed to. There are ethnic divides, and everyone seems as straight as an arrow, unimaginative and as dull as dirt. Nothing colorful happens here; nothing daring; nothing new; nothing provocative.
This is the cost of owning your home when you aren't demonstrably rich. I miss our last neighborhood, but I try not to think of it. It's awkward to go there and not be able to stay. To be exiled by choice. I'm reconciled to this place now, I think. I hope.
But while we lived in our last rental, in Heaven, I used to walk the streets with pleasure, just to get out under the many trees and see whatever I might see; everything in my life seemed to be going well and I was finally living where I wanted to. In my element, as it turned out. Perhaps for the last time.
There were a few odd things that happened, and some really interesting people to meet. Once I saw a 450lb woman walking the world's smallest pot-bellied pig on a leash about six years ago, shortly before we left.
She was six feet tall and wore a purple mu-mu that brushed the ground. The pig was ten inches long and about 6-8 lbs. It was dragging its belly, as they do, and wheezing audibly as it came. It had the cutest, tiniest little nose, considering its huge jowls and watery, baggy little pig-eyes. Its belly was as distended outward as a pregnant goat's; it had internal saddlebags, and a bowed back. Cute, though, for a pig.
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| Keeping the park safe from truffles. |
"Oh, I haven't seen one of those in years! How cute! That must be as miniature as they get. How old is it?"I used to be 75lbs heavier than I am. My gall-bladder gave me an unforgiving lesson that I hope to never forget about fat intake when it failed. I chose to combine that with giving up white flour and sugar and refined anything. I get a lot of fiber and some veg every day and very little meat. The weight really came off on its own within a few months when I stopped over-supplying myself. I went from an XXL to a medium-small and had to throw out every piece of clothing I owned.
"Four. She's four."
"Is she difficult to keep? I understand that they can be cat-box trained."
"Noooo, not difficult ..." Frowning slightly. Perhaps she was tired, or a bit slow.
"Is this the smallest breed? The Korean ones are about three feet long, but this is ideal for a small apartment. Did you have any trouble getting permission?"
"This ... this is my chihuahua." Uncomfortable silence.
"Oh. Well have a nice day."
I think of that woman, too, when people I know complain that they aren't responsible for their obesity; on the one hand it was good that this couple was walking, but on the other, it was brutally clear to me that nature didn't take an already distorted dog and inflate it with fat until it looked like another animal entirely, rheumy-eyed and morbid.
That woman did that to both of them. And we do it to each other, as well as ourselves. We eat what our friends and family eat so as to not divide ourselves. The first non-smokers were seen as tight-assed worriers making trouble for most people, who either smoked or didn't mind if they lived in a cloud of other people's smoke. They crusaded for the right to breathe just air, and the resentment by the status quo was loud and intemperate.
I don't think it's fanatical or divisive to do the math and be responsible for your well-being, even if it means waiting for your friends or family to come around. But it's not convivial or comfortable or easy.
I do it anyway, and end up eating alone, or off the suggested menu.
Exception-seeker. Attention-hound. Trouble-maker.
Or maybe it's not for me to judge what these relationships are worth. In my life I eat one way, and everyone I know eats another. When I eat without restraint I feel like I am being social, and when I don't, I feel rude and judgmental. It's awkward for my family and friends, even as they are trying to be kind. Some treat me like I'm diabetic or allergic or just mental.
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| I'm definitely crazy. This is sane. |
It is that they do it with friends, and they do it as an event. There is no reckoning involved -- no calorie counting. It's wacky, it's fun. It stresses-out your pancreas, but don't think about that. It's not important.
When do they give up fighting the math? Why do I care what they do?
Calories eaten - calories burned = How much of you there is.
What do you do, eat to live or live to eat?
Do you live with someone whose lifestyle is so different that it divides you?
How do you cope with different personal outlooks like this?
