From My Soap Box

Much to do About Nothing

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  • Punch Drunk

    By Fae Lox

    Bullseye! I managed to spot him a few racks of clothes away. He stood out to me like a black eye on a soft face. It didn’t matter that there were so many customers buzzing in and out of the store; he was the one who held my attention. I would try to look away, but then again, it was too late; I was locked in. Even the shoe section couldn’t distract me enough. I just kept observing him like a predator in the wild as he shopped.

    I actually like TJmaxx especially right after Tuesday’s truck refreshes the inventory. There was always a bargain, good finds, and a little in between.

    I was on my so-called lunch break. I was outside my region in a little shopping center in Angora, a suburb right outside of Philly. Unless he’d moved into the community, he was outside of his territory as well. We were on mutual ground, far away from the war zone-like neighborhood I remembered him from.

     It had been over twenty-five years since I last saw this guy. He had the distinctive face of a boxer with a slightly bent nose. Not one of those good-looking actors who play boxers, but a real boxer nonetheless.

    The old people used to say he had a mean mug. It’s one of those sayings that transcended through generations.

    Surprisingly, to his fortune, he didn’t age. With two decades behind us, I bet he’d beg to differ if you threw him a swift punch.

    He had no idea how influential he was to me. We were technically strangers. Ever so often, I used to see him around the way or near the neighborhood when I was a teen. Although I never forgot his face. I could’ve pointed him out in a lineup.

    By this point, I think he noticed me focusing on him. I didn’t care. It was all coming back to me at that point.

    I recall seeing him at the rec center one hot Summer standing with his woman and a child in a stroller. I was about fifteen at my first official job. I was a camp counselor.

    The couple caught my eye because he was getting loud. When he noticed me noticing them, it was as if he became even more dramatic. His voice rose like a child showing off his authority. I didn’t like it. It made me uncomfortable, but then again, it didn’t. I was used to a good amount of dysfunction; I just never accepted it. I was a safe distance from them, yet I could still make out the disrespect.

    His woman was a Latina with burnt almond skin and wavy, thick black, shoulder-length hair. She looked like she was cute once, but she was more of a faded beauty at that point.

    She had a set of bloodshot eyes that I’d seen on alcoholics. She stood there facing him as he degraded her, although she didn’t appear present. She looked punch-drunk. It was as if he had yelled at her one too many times, so she checked out.

     I recognized his stance as well. He was the type of guy who took pride in disrespecting his woman in public, like it was a show of affection mixed with ownership. I loathe that type of display to this day.

    I didn’t need the details of their affair. I just chalked him up to one of many woman-beaters. I was disturbed. Viewing them scared me while simultaneously inspiring me to escape that environment as soon as I get the chance. To run as quickly as possible from said type of trap.

    By the time I started dating years later, I was always one foot in and one foot out due to being fearful of alienation and abuse. It’s something about a man raising his voice. The boom in his baritone, the scattered look in their eyes, when they lose control. Something I recognized in my own father, fully equipped with a temper.  

    By the time our eyes met in the store parking lot, Mr. No Name looked perplexed. This time, I think I made him uncomfortable with my stoic piercing gaze. It wasn’t my intent; I was just stuck between my assumptions and memory.

  • Pass The Confidence Please

    By Fae Lox

    I recall visiting a friend. We were young women fresh out of high school. She lived in the penthouse of a neighborhood skyscraper with her family. Her older sister had recently moved out. Her sister was fiery. I was intimidated by her outspokenness, but I liked her nonetheless. I liked her parents, too. A professor and a nurse with plenty of knowledge to share. They were welcoming of their daughter’s friends.

    As I walked into the large apartment, I glanced over the furniture, where my eyes eventually caught two nice-sized photos pinned on the wall for everyone to see. There it was, the pride and joy of the family. It was my friend and her sister, under eight years old on pointe with rouge, bows, and tutus.

    Although they were stout at that age, they were absolutely adorable.  The photo was nothing but smiles and pink leotards. Imagine two baby hippos with ballerina costumes. So cute, you could’ve stuffed them and sold them at a gift shop. I mean that in the most respectful way.

    I was taken aback that their parents didn’t discourage them with a hurtful excuse about their weight or bone structure. They understood this was a positive activity that would provide them with discipline and assurance. They weren’t expected to go to Broadway. Who knew, maybe the next week they’d lose interest as fickle as children can be. They enrolled them in the classes anyway, providing the family with such bonded memories.

    I suspected that mentality is why her older sister was so fiery. She didn’t tolerate much. Regardless, the daughters were strong in their own ways.

    I wish other parents could’ve caught the memo about not being overly critical and disheartening towards your children. Some parents use the lack of money as an excuse to dismiss their little ones’ desires unless there’s a huge promise of developing a megastar. I’m sure that wasn’t on their parents’ minds at the time. They simply invested in their children’s well-being and self-assurance. Besides, it made for the cutest childhood portraits.

  • The confession of a Flying Monkey

    By Fae Lox

    Within the last decade, there’s been a huge tidal wave of traumatized people educating themselves on mental health issues, specifically narcissism. Some indulge more in-depth than others, ranging from base-level videos to technical periodicals. Regardless, all are assisting in the breakdown of something fairly complex and striking.

    Moreover, the more educated one becomes, the more equipped they will be when dealing with difficult personalities. By all means, protect yourself.

    As we take that painful dive into new information, it’s easy to vilify the culprit for an eternity with their sneaky twist-and-turn-like behavior. No one would call hanging them at the stake excessive due to the lasting trauma-induced experiences everyone survived.

    We take it all in, as we patiently wait for our turn to complain at the support group meeting, spouting jargon like narcissistic supply, gaslighting, and so forth. By the way, why aren’t there any support groups for flying monkeys?

    As we identify the bizarre personality type that leads to other complex disorders, we begin to piece together the puzzle. Let’s pause from gathering evidence against our culprit, shall we?

    Let’s consider our own compliance with some of these very naughty manners. There’s always something we could’ve done differently for the sake of honest reflection.

    That’s what makes narcissism such a hard pill to swallow. As you research the disorder, you realize so much about the said villain, while highlighting just as much insight about you. The public gets so comfortable pointing at the bad guy while ducking the mirror when they walk past the sink.

    What about when we knowingly or unknowingly play the supporting role in the sitcom? What about the time we signed up to be extras in the Wizard of Oz with the hot, colorful costumes? We seemed to enjoy playing the little people for at least a little while.

    For those who have yet to familiarize themselves with this jargon, let’s define the term ‘Flying Monkey’. Loosely, they’re described as enablers who assist a manipulative person in their schemes knowingly and sometimes unknowingly.

    Well, that sounds so malevolent. Surely, we wouldn’t help someone hurt someone else. Consider all the late-night ear lending and suggestions we provided without hearing the other person’s side. How about the full-on directions we provided when advising a person to really stick it to the mute subject?

    Consider the dust storm of verbal traffic surrounding the person of discussion, unbeknownst to them, and how that affects their interactions with others. What about how it damages outside parties’ perceptions without knowing the full story?

    Like children on the playground forming alliances with the cool while isolating the outcast. Come to think about it, adulthood seldom leaves the high school cafeteria. Not so innocent, nor are we?

    Often, it’s not intentional, but what does the cliché say? Something about the road to hell was paved with good intentions.

    Not all misunderstandings get cleared up before the commercial break. Painful experiences and mistruths can linger. While we move on, someone has been boxed in by lies, their reputation sieged, possibly leading to arrested development without a proper trial.

    Nonetheless, we have to realize when someone is asking for advice or baiting us into a box of prejudice. Perhaps, we’re asked to take a harmless peek at a social media page or look into a name here or there. When do we consider it group stalking? There go those cute little monkeys again.

    Lastly, when we repeat such one-sided chatter to others, do we see it as accurate or an assumption? Although we all hate being the center of private discussions, especially if it’s not true.

    So, contemplate your role as an unbiased bystander, a so-called friend, the observant yet silent owl, or an accomplice. Remember, similar to recess sports, eventually it will be your turn.

  • The Dark Sayings of the Elderberry Bush

    By

    Fae Lox

    Over time, I’ve noticed ordinary people are inclined to say ironic things for the sake of dramatic effect or cheap humor among an anticipating audience.

    Yet, our words have power. Oftentimes such profound connotations. So, we shouldn’t use them so loosely without considering their darker meanings even in jest.

    For instance, as a youngster, I recall patriarchal figures teasingly say to their perceived disobedient children, in the presence of other adults of course. “I brought you into this world, I’ll take you out!” Depending on the orator, I often couldn’t tell who meant it or not. Looking back, I still can’t.

    Nonetheless, it frightened me as a child to see adults let loose such deep laughter about something that wasn’t funny at all. It’s a strange art to combine humor with death.

    Words have a strange way of returning to your door step. Some may say it’s just a saying. Well, not for me. Let me explain why.

    My grandmother was a young woman with a ballerina figure under five feet. Unfortunately, she married a hefty musician with a football player build. Who thumped up her small frame regularly, even in front of her eight children.

    Sadly, that went on for ages. This continued well after those small children came of age.

    One day the boxing ring was thundering inside the home as usual. Poor Sadie was enduring the misery that landed her at one point in a mental institution.

    Yet this day, the eldest son, now armed with the courage of a young man came to his battered mother’s aid.

    It was said, that when the father saw his son approach, he ordered him to stand down with that old phrase. He said he would take him out of this world if he came up the steps.

    Sadie’s husband stood with his gun cocked and ready to fire as he fixated on his son’s posture. While my uncle with rage fueled by decades of abuse lunged to his death in the blink of an eye.

    What a cruel day it was for my grandmother.

    So yes, these saying are nothing to play with even for the sake of entertainment.

    Rest in Peace Uncle Harmon and Grandma Sadie.

  • A Playful Word from the Wise to the Fat

    A Playful Word from the Wise to the Fat

    By

    Fae Lox

    What seems to be a heavy topic right now? Pun intended, is weight loss. Granted, when hasn’t it been a leading topic? 

    As of late, it’s all about intermediate fasting, weight loss shots, counting carbohydrates, and circuit training, from Pilates to neglected gym memberships to the fear of diabetes and heart attacks; it’s simply overwhelming.

    Along your journey, no matter what you’re doing to change, your results may be underwhelming.

    Possibly, you’re not seeing that big drop you expected when you started, like the infomercial people wearing oversized jeans pulling at their waists.

    Let’s not forget that friend of a friend who apparently dropped a whole person’s worth of weight in five days and lives the best life now.

    By the way, I’ve never actually met this person; I only heard about this mythical creature.

    For some of us, it comes a little slower. Don’t be discouraged. It’s easy not to cherish our little wins, like our one or two pounds down, like we should.

    If I only had one or two dollars in my bank account, I wouldn’t be beaming with pride either.

    Moreover, when thinking of pounds, you can’t focus on the scale number; you must visualize the loss number.

    Say I lost 1 pound. Have you seen a box of butter with four sticks? That’s a pound. Think of a canned good like pork and beans. That’s a tad less than a pound.

     Now throw that at someone’s head in aisle seven and see how much damage you’ll do.

    Likewise, a pint of milk is about a pound. You see, you didn’t lose a dollar bill. You lost a whole can of chili.

    Let’s not argue over dry and wet measures for my cooks. My point remains. Don’t hear the number; picture it. Then, you can appreciate your success, no matter how big or small.

    Some of us who reach greater feats develop impostor syndrome. We discredit how much smaller we’ve gotten due to perception.

    I have a 13-pound bag of cat food that gives me a run for my money every time I pick it up. Picture that enormous bag of kitty litter in my closet.

    Yep. That’s how much of you that is no longer there. So, stay encouraged and keep up the good work.