outline a projected attainable identity

this person i long to be is a great, great mom, always happy, 0 stress, affectionate, funny and fun. a wife who takes care of herself, does her best to look good and polished, does not nag, forgets the past and is passionate about life. a pleasure to be with. talks for hours about interesting things, reads a lot, has many friends, from different backgrounds and maintains them in a healthy way.
knows how to say no, and is respected.
knows how to keep the people who work for her motivated and willing to do their best. helps people go on their way to achieve themselves.
paints, and sells her paintings. is sure that what she does is valuable.
is organized, invites people to her house, cooks for her husband and friends.
is never tired, because she sleeps when she has to.
knows how to speak french, and a little portuguese.
has time for max, at least throwing him a ball every day.
saves money, does not spend and spend in stuff that is not needed. can discern what she really needs.
patient with her children, husband and people in general.
this person is fit, eats only food that will do good to her, and exercises every day.

I’m finally in Boston after so much angst and stress and I’ve been here for officially 3 weeks and suddenly wonder why I’m not already fabulously happy. I’m thrilled, thrilled to be in this town and I fall in love with it every day, but I’m not really who it is I want to be here and late last night, I took a look at why.

I recognize things about myself, especially now that I’m in Boston and I’m working regular hours. I see now that I need busy days, very busy days, full of life and love and by “busy,” I do not mean 11 hours of work, as I put in today.

I need people, also. People close to me, a support system, a circle of incredible people who share love and gentle mockery and indelible comfort.

I also need to be doing more with my life than working. I am not as happy as I know I can and reasonably should be, even though I’m in this unbelievable city and with a somewhat interesting job. I need more. I need a career, something longer term and with more independence…I need to go to grad school and to teach. I need to be around the literature every day. I need to listen to more music and read more and write more and laugh so, so much more. I need to listen to more NPR and think less about frustration over being asked to join
meetings only to take notes.

I refuse to become complacent, in other words. I see now how people do fall into these lives, how they become okay with waiting until they’re too old to really go for much more and how they regret whatever lack of a decision they didn’t make and I see how so, so easy it must be…it breaks you down, this routine, even if you are working for a cause you believe in. I refuse to fall to that, I really do. I have to be diligent and I need to start eating right and sleeping well and really living a full day. Every day.

Yes I am new and yes I am young and yes, I am a hardcore idealist, but I need just a little bit more for myself and my next step is going to have to be figuring out a way to get it.

I HAVE BEEN A SHADOW OF WHAT I WANT TO BE, ALL MY LIFE PROCRASTINATING, I WILL BE THIS AND THIS TOMORROW, WHEN I HAVE THE TIME. REALLY.
NOW, ANYTIME, I WILL BE 40, TIME IS RUNNIG OUT.

For some reason lately, I’ve been again entertaining images of the person I hope to be in the place I hope to roam. I keep imagining the loft that I’ve come to pine for. The top floor of an old building, maybe a rezoned church or museum. The ceilings are high and sloped and from the entrance, the left side of the loft is the canvas for a huge circular window (something like this: http://motivate.maths.org/conferences/conf120/Images/rosewindow3.gif) by which I’d sit on a mat on the floor, reading or napping in the golden afternoon sun. The floors are hardwood, a beautiful cherry or hard maple, the kitchen is open, airy, the walls are exposed brick and the lighting pendant. There’s a beautiful but subdued fireplace to the right surrounded by two loveseats and a couch in a rectangle format, a quirky coffee table to combine. The colors are rich and the details are impeccable. It’s all clean lines and warm tones. It’s a long rectangular kind of place with steps leading down instead of a door. Because the loft in my head is essentially a studio, I imagine Lauren living in an equal kind of space just below. It’s perhaps a little fantastical, but then, so am I.

In this place, I imagine myself completely happy. Independent and put-together, confident, sexy, and happy. I’d throw large posh parties and small dinner gatherings and cook fabulous meals for both. I’d bring home some work to ponder over during a weekend, but I’d choose to do this and I’d enjoy the quiet time. Yes, of course I imagine a lovely sort of boy in the picture, but well, let’s not rush, shall we?

Anyway, the point is now that I’m figuring out the point B which leaves me back at point A and wondering how to make that leap. A new consideration in the works, certainly, but I know I definitely need to read my 43T and realize that even though I feel like I’m still waiting and still on the cusp even after a year of feeling this way, that I have goals and legitimate things to attain.

Lauren and I went out tonight, a little shoe-shopping, a little coffee. A lovely night, all in all, talking about our day-to-day and our projected Boston reality and I had a really good time except that at one point, I suggested that we move to the fireplace instead of sitting at a table and at that point, my whole reflection stared back at me in full view. That body, not even close to the one I claim. Not even close. So for an hour and a half, we sat and talked and I kept looking at my reflection in the panel of the fireplace.

So we’re talking about Boston and about the things we’ll do there, the jobs we’ll take and the relationships we’ll foster and the people we’ll be and I honestly believe that all of these things are attainable but the person that I mean to be, the person I’ve been so closely interpreting, the person I’ve always felt like but never really been, she’s not fat. Simply, bluntly. She’s just not. And I am.

I’ve never been a fat “person,” I don’t ascribe to any stereotypes you may or society may or even I may attribute to being overweight, I don’t think of myself in any specific way, I’ve just always had a body far heavier than my goal weight. I’d never let body size or type interfere with what I do or who I am, but I’m done with this now. There is no positivity here, there is no reason. My ideal self isn’t fat. There’s no simpler way to say so.

The thing about this moment in my life, the thing about this Next Big Step is that this is the first time in my life where everything comes together and I make my own decisions and become as much myself as I’ve ever been. If I succeed, I succeed and if I fail, I fail and regardless of what happens, I will be as pure a version of myself as I possibly can be. I ache to be that version of myself.

So I’ve got quite the task ahead of me, but this can no longer be a side project. This can’t be something that happens if it happens. This has to happen and it has to happen right now. I won’t lose all of the weight I want to for likely two years hence, but I will start tonight. I can’t look like this anymore, it’s just not an aspect of the person I really am.

An identity is more than a body and I won’t ever understand my identity in terms only of my physical appearance, but the physical expression of my emotional/mental/spiritual self is important to me and this, this absolutely goes on the list.

I so often stumble toward glimpses of myself that offer such a split-second insight into hope and confidence and vibrance that I can’t help but be monumentally impatient to be her. This seems impossibly backward, however, when I say it outloud.

See, there are natural parts of myself, true aspects of my identity that can only be expressed within the freedom of certain circumstances, circumstances which shall be naturally created in Boston. So until then, it should be enough to dream of the girl, the me who wakes up refreshed, who spends sunny afternoons on park benches, who takes casual walks through museums, who cooks reckless meals that turn out brilliantly, who writes while she watches TV, who listens to French language tapes on the T, who lives every single minute of her 18-hour day, who dresses with effortless class and elegance, who reads Proust on the stoop of her too-expensive brownstone, who has a great professional relationship with her editor, who loves what she does, whose mind is clear, whose conscience is clean, whose nails are polished, whose friends are close, whose family is in touch, whose days are full, and whose life is brilliant.

Soon, so soon now.

Lauren and I, restless and bored as ever, tend to bounce emails back and forth over the course of a full day. Yesterday, we were talking as usual when she suddenly brainstormed upon the idea of becoming a film critic—not in the pedestrian sense of analyzing acting and plot, but in a legitimate film criticism sort of analytical sense. She basically wants to do with film what I want to do with literature.

I keep having nagging fears about becoming merely a beat reviewer when what I really want to do is be a respected critic, though subtracting the pretentious academic nonsense and adding a whimsical sarcasm to the experience. I sometimes forget that this is open to me, though when I truly imagine what I want, this is a part of it lately.

And so a new attainable image:

Walking with Lauren down to a favored coffeeshop, ordering something either dark and bitter or icy and sweet, depending on our moods. Spending a Saturday across from each other; typing away furiously on our laptops; writing short, quippy, fun, engaging, legitimate articles about literature/film, but to couch it all in a way so as to get away with calling them reviews; looking up at each other at around 6pm, then spending the evening at the harbor, watching a movie as played upon the side of a building. If we happen to have dates with us, you know, so be it.

Just saying.

She cooks often and well.

She calls at least one of her nuclear family members at least twice a week.

Her nails and toenails are always polished, never chipped.

She never forgets birthdays, always sends a card. On time.

She has exquisite personal taste, but prefers to go without rather than buy something she doesn’t love. She’s happy to wait for quality. In all things.

She makes a brilliant cup of coffee.

She’s warm and cuddly, but stubborn and pensive. She’s helpful and accommodating, but assertive and emphatic.

She keeps two books at once—a novel and either poetry or nonfiction, but doesn’t lose great literature to a sea of access.

She keeps in close contact with old friends and faraway friends and with simple notes and thoughtful messages.

She makes time.

She snacks smartly.

She spends tons of time with Lauren, laughing unabashedly, discussing deeply.

She writes regularly—for work, for herself, for fun.

She attends a church she loves.

She lives fully, significantly, consciously every single day.

Note: This presupposes living with Lauren and allowing for a romantic relationship. It doesn’t presuppose marriage or children yet. We’re going to say this is a pre-30 outline, eh?

Early Morning: She’s up between 6:30-7:00am every weekday morning when she takes a long walk/run, has a decent breakfast (coffee-free) over the morning’s crossword, brews coffee, takes a shower, gets ready for work, and then heads out fully awake, equipped with a full travel mug and portable NPR.

Late Night: She means to sleep by midnight, but is rarely in bed before 1am. Before bed, she’s busily relaxing, say reading, preparing for the next day, copying recipes off of the Food Network, looking into this weekend’s travel plans. Once or twice a week, she’s out late with a y’know, lovely long-term sort of guy. When she’s home, lights are on, she’s listening to music, energy’s up, but just before bed, she allows herself at least 20 minutes of low lighting and quiet literature, maybe Keats or Shelley or letters or a diary. She’ll drift off to prayers and daydreams and sleep soundly until the next 7am.

Subject to change at my general whim, but outlines are suggestions, so I’m fine. :)

This must seem intensely immature, but what I mean to do is to cultivate the sort of persona I mean to be at say 35, outlining different parts of my life, my body, my mind, my career, my bank account, my relationships, my habits, my general way of going about a day, myself that I mean to mold into their corresponding parts and then essentially, to formulate plans by which I may achieve these goals.

I want to be so much better in so many ways and without a legitimate picture of what “better” is, I’ll have a hard time making inroads on this sort of goal.

So game on, boyfriend. Let’s go.