PINCHING MY INCH

I am a relatively healthy person. I gym at least twice a week and am quite energetic most of the time. But my self-sabotaging aspect (we all have one I believe) has a rather sweet tooth and an inflated notion of what is a healthy portion of food to consume in one sitting. In other words, I am a piggy. This has resulted in me manifesting and maintaining a rather persistent inch of fat around my waist. I don’t like it one bit yet I know that my actions have brought it into being. I also happen to believe that everything happens for a reason and so everything must then exist for a reason (Including my unwanted fat.) One less samoosa here and a few less slices of pizza there and I would probably be in Washboard city. But no, my subconscious would rather catch the bus to Tubby Town. The weird thing is that I am naturally tall and slim and my arms and legs are long and thin, so I am now beginning to feel like four strips of bamboo shoved into a week-end tog bag. Okay I’m exaggerating, I’m not exactly built like Santa Clause and I am confident enough with my body to have appeared nude three times on stage but we are all entitled to a little body dysmorphia (Any tips on how to spell that?) This kind of self-criticism is not good for the self image and so I think its time for some analysis.
Even the word “fat”, has become provocative. I feel my shoulders flinch slightly, every time I hear the word, and I don’t really try to stop myself because, I know it’s good for burning calories. I can’t even walk past a copy of Men’s Health without feeling an odd combination of attraction and nauseating guilt.

What is fat any way? According to the limited high school biology I remember it’s a protective layer that provides a reserve in times of famine and acts as a shock absorber around the internal organs to prevent our guts suffering from whiplash every time we hit a night club. So the original purpose of fat is to be a useful back up and an ingenious layer that protects us from wear and tear. So, if we have more than the prescribed amount of fat due to us, then maybe it must be because we are hyper sensitive and are creating a more substantial barrier to protect us from the harsh outside world. Hmmm…The world is getting fatter to try and cope with a harsher quality of life? (It brings a whole new meaning to the term, “sealed for your protection.”) But, is life really tougher now? I think those guys in the biblical times really had it much worse, what with leprosy, floods and plagues in comparison to our little global warming issues? Plus, they didn’t even have microwaves Woolworths and ATM’s. I think we have it made, in comparison.

Come to think of it I make good use of my belly fat. I use it as a scapegoat for many of my shortcomings. I allow myself to believe that it is because I don’t have a six pack that I have not yet become a famous actor and part-time model. The rest of my features have nothing to do with it. It is for this same reason that I am still single and Patrick Dempsey has not yet realized how perfect we are for each other. I think I might even be blaming my excess adipose for my financial lack as well. I mean otherwise in difficult times I would just be able to lift my shirt and random people would just start flinging money at me. (To be fair models are actually paid more in commercials than actors so this is not so far removed from reality.) When broke I could always be an underwear model but, not with my current padding.
So, my fat is forming a layer (figuratively and literally) that then protects me from the pain of facing my failures. This is all a wonderful theory, but, maybe what I should really do is just eat less sugar, do more cardio and spend less time drinking cappuccinos as I analyze my stomach sitting at a computer. ;-)

Media Slut.

I am a media slut. That is because I have been interviewed by journalists no less than three times over the last two weeks for the show I am currently working on called “Let’s Mixit.” I love being interviewed because it forces me to think about my life in a sensational and entertaining way so as to provide the journalist with stuff that will make stimulating reading. Luckily my life has been quite strange so far so I haven’t had to fabricate anything just yet. I don’t know many other people who make a living performing as other genders, races and now, religions. (I am currently playing a middle-aged Muslim woman.) Being interviewed makes me feel less ordinary and cellophane-like. It is my ambition to eventually be so famous, and have had so many interviews, that I eventually find them tedious. Not a very original ambition I guess. Not as original as the man in Seapoint who has spent his life, trying to look exactly like, Rod Stewart. He must enjoy the attention he gets when people mistake him for the vintage rock star as he walks on the promenade. He is an original by making himself into a replica and I admire his dedication and attention to detail. I mean, he could have chosen Brad Pitt or even Warren Beatty but chose Rod instead.
I like the idea of thousands of copies of my name and face being printed out and distributed world-wide. I imagine the ink from the picture of my face smudging the hands of hundreds of strange people that I will probably never meet. Maybe my face will become a fish and chips parcel or a contributing aspect to a ten-year-olds’ paper mache’ bowl. Sweet!
Maybe someone will see my picture and read about me and fall madly in love and know that I am the person they are to spend the rest of their life with. Hopefully this person will be gorgeous, wealthy and not mentally unstable. I would hate to have to get a restraining order as I doubt how effective they are in South Africa. (I imagine the police are so busy fighting the hectic crime that they wouldn’t find the time to help me keep a freak at bay.)
Maybe this is the start of my spectacular career and all these interviews will act as a catalyst to catapult my reputation onwards and upwards. Then I will finally pay off all my debt and eventually start getting in the property market and buying fabulous fashionable and faddish things.
Then some time after ten years from now I will drive past the promenade and see a complete stranger and say to my chauffeur: “Strange, that man looks just like me.”

Mixed-up Matchings.

Apparently, every pot has its own lid. That’s according to an old Afrikaans adage I grew up hearing: “Elke pot het sy deksel.” I wonder sometimes if that makes me the pot or the lid. Logistically I suppose one could explore the whole “who’s the top” and then alternatively “who’s the bottom” thing , the lid being the one on top who seals the deal and the pot being the receptive bottom who actually does most of the cooking. I guess that means that if you’re versatile you’d be self-contained being both the bottom and the top (bet you guys like that idea!)
Taking the analogy further then, as I often do, does that mean if you find yourself to be this lone lid cruising for a pot, then you can’t really get cooking until you find a pot that fits?
You can’t really cook in a lid. But, you can in a pot (although it will take longer without the lid.) I am finding many similarities here. In fact the lid doesn’t really have much purpose without the pot, which I find quite sad, for some reason. I imagine this lonely pot-less lid trying to lead another life as a defective and somewhat lethal frisbee . We all know the danger of trying to be something that you’re not. What is the lid supposed to do if it no longer has its pot or never found one that it could fit to begin with!
What if all the pots Mr. Lid has come across so far have been too big and in the cooking process has found himself plunging to the bubbling bottom of the pot unable to seal it and complete the cooking process and come out feeling scalded and useless. I’m not even going to go into the implications of the pot being too small. Notice how I don’t say that it is the lid that is too small or too big. It’s all the pots’ fault. Personification can be fun.
So if I were to see myself as this lone lid who has been attempting to pair with suitable pots is there a cut off point that should be considered in terms of how many pots are approached? I mean, how many pots should one consider “fitting” before you find yourself being labelled a “loose” lid?
Now I know why people use the term, “going potty.”

Superficial.

In my head and on my own I often critticise people that I deem to be superficial and shallow. But I have begun to realise that I am just as bad as anyone I could ever point a finger at. I claim to be "looking for Love" a "deep meaningful relationship" and all these other proclimations that I have made in the past. But truth be told I think that what I have really been looking for is a male model with a compatible personality. I don't even look at anyone I don't find physically attractive. I know that a its also my subconsious looking for a person that looks good because this indicates that they take care of themselves and are capable of loving themselves and so then perhaps then me too. But I can't claim a genetic predisposition cos God only knows how I would procreate with a suitable man short of adoption. But I REALLY REALLY want to be with someone HOT! Is that bad? I mean I'm sure there are amazing personalities trapped inside many people that I find unattractive but does that make it my job to look through the physical facade of "hildaness" and discover the gem inside?

In every other aspect of society, when one is shopping for a product noone judges you for being influenced by its aesthetic properties but for some reason when it comes to Love and relationships, many seem to expect others (me) to overlook the heavily padded or pimply packaging. I pray to the Faeries that they can help me find someone who is the best of both worlds. Someone who will allow me to live happily on the border of Love and Lust. Otherwise I will be forced to drown face down in the shallow end of my loneliness. Or perhaps learn to Love myself so much that I will no longer find the need for a significant other. Or perhaps the search will drive me mad causing my personality to splinter and give me muliple personality disorder. This may not be as bad as it seems because perhaps two of my personalities will be hot and compatible and then I will have some sort of satisfaction. And people say homosexuality is narcissistic! I think I am taking too much Gingko Biloba in the mornings.

A New Day a New Dawn.

Just as forecast yesterday, I feel fabulous! Maybe its was just the natural ebb and flow of my lunar emotions having their way with me (I'm Cancerian). But today all seems right with the world again and not only can I breathe but I'm inpired! I'm working on a show called Let's Mixit and I am playing a middle-aged Muslim woman (Yes another drag queen but atleast fully clothed) and I am thoroughly enjoying the experience! I am learning Arabic and wonderful ways to banish the Devil and praise God. I think my Anglican and Dutch reformed ancestors may not be thrilled that I am currently so embroiled in the world of Islam but it always feels so effective to say a prayer in a language you don't really speak. Like speaking magic almost. It's not that I am considering converting by any means, I will always remain spiritually promiscuous and have yet to find a single religion that I can settle in and make a life with. (Beginning to sound a lot like my Love life!) Other than that I am temporarily living with my co-actor Gary Naidoo in his gorgeous home right on this picturesque estuary called Zeekoevlei. One would hardly believe it was so close to the infamous ganglands of Grassy Park! I exaggerate, Grassy Park doesn't feel nearly as dodge as certain parts of Johannesburg just off Beyers Naude'! In any case I am once again living in someone elses home adjusting to and adapting to their way of life. This can be unsettling at times but I also love being given all these oppurtunities to see how other people live. Gary and his Dad have a great relationship and they have done so much to make me feel at home that I even told Gary I felt like I was staying at a Sun International resort. But I still miss my little flat on top of the garage in amongst the trees in Northcliff. After all, whats yours is yours and I miss having a space thats mine. I will really appreciate it again once I get back there in June. I am loving this experience back in Cape Town though. It still amazes me how beautiful it is here and I have lived here for over ten years already. I suppose the Gypsey lifestyle is going to be my way of life for some time still to come. I just sometimes wish I could schlep my own caravan from place to place.

As Within So Without.

They say that happiness comes from within. But what if the opposite is also true. There are times when everything seems to be running smoothly, you are surrounded by those you love, your bank balance is in the plus and all seems well. But still you feel a dull ache inside. A phantom loss or imaginary tragedy that you cannot even place. In my case I woke up with it this morning. My life is great! Peppered with Love and miracles and wonderment but somehow if I have to describe how I feel in my chest I would use the word sore.

Maybe I am being completely self-indulgent. Perhaps I should ignore this random sensation until it goes away. Or perhaps I should go for therapy or some kind of mental cleansing process and learn that this is a childhood trauma that is only now making itself known after years of lying dormant. Sylvia Browne (famous psychic) and Shirley Maclaine (you really should know her) would probably suggest it has something to do with a former life. All I know is that I feel an ouch and I can't figure out what's causing it. I'll probably wake up tommorrow feeling bright and breezy and today will seem like a bad memory but until then its still today. It's also quite a mediocre pain in the sense that it isn't driving me to want to do anything drastic or stupid like cut myself or jump off Table mountain. But its plaguing me all the same. Perhaps venting it on here will give it the attention it needs and then it will dissapear back into the oblivion from which it came. Unfounded sadness and unmotivated meloncholy. I suppose we share something, my condition and I, we both seem to lack a sense of purpose.