Fill it up, damn it.

When I wake up in the morning, I have to consciously decide that today will be backed by positive thoughts - the kind that respond to ambigous situations like a job interview with an assumption of good outcomes. This is an act of will. Because, you see, when I fall asleep at night, my mind works its ass off to return to its automatic, unconscious perspective of the world as a place where the worst is not only assumed but believed in like a religion, regardless of any evidence to the contrary. A proverbial emptying of my half-full glass. It's why I still listen to Depeche Mode's Black Celebration more frequently than a well-adjusted adult should admit.

I've recently stumbled upon another blogger, leahpeah, who though someone I probably wouldn't have a lot of patience for in "real" life, is wonderfully open and honest. She recently linked to a website, project by photographer Keith Clark, 05mm.org. He's taking pictures of people's favorite body parts. Some of the pictures include gals who are showcasing the cutting scars on their arms- a kind of "this is who I am and where I came from and I am not embarrased or ashamed of where I've come to because of it" declaration. I admire that. But, I'm drawn more to those who are proud of their "plain" ol' body parts- the ones that don't stand out in any particular way, good or bad. I like these because they are subjective, and give us a choice about how to think about them, and in turn, inspire me to remember that I have a say in how I look at everything. The project solidifies, for me anyway, just how much control we really do have in response to what life hands us.

A few weeks ago I jotted down a blog idea for my feet. I hate my feet. They are a hideous mess; each one has a bunyon the size of a small tumor. They bottoms resemble the dessert despite my nightly soak and pumice scrub fest. I was going to have Ed take pictures and display them. Part of the whole "let's focus on the worst because we know it and it's safe" philosophy that must be hardwired into my genetic code. After looking at the pictures on 05mm.org, I am reminded that perhaps I should not only think about what I like about my body, but embrace it and talk about its beauty as a fact to be proud of. So, in the spirit of near complete self-absorption, I've included a photograph of my hands. Depending on how you look at them (guess which lens I see them through), they are either nice or ugly. My palms are large, but the fingers are short and stubby, thus strangely out-of-proportion; the nails are strong, but the skin around the nails are bitten up.... wait. The nails are strong. They don't break. They hold their shape despite pretty much any surface or material they come in contact with. They are strong. Strong enough to hold a glass full of water.

On a side note, I should warn anyone from attempting to show Ed any positive perspective of USA's elimination from the World Cup. Sometimes the glass is clearly empty.