Keep Your Secrets Secret

Oh, I just had the most wonderful dinner.  Dramatically, fantastically, tremendously wonderful.  What the doctor ordered.  I tried to draw my line at lunch with my frozen dinner.  But I’d barely eaten anything for breakfast and it just wasn’t enough to sustain me so I ended up having some of last night’s meeting’s leftover pizza.  Not a great plan, but I started throwing up the usual psychic smoke screen of thoughts about re-starting tonight/tomorrow/very soon and I can’t right now and one indulgence and needing to be cossetted in fat right now because of some serious work drama involving flouncing and stress rashes and Star Wars characters (oh, I so wish I could explain in a public forum, but I am not ready to even walk into the room where they keep Pandora’s Box of Office Gossip, much less pick the lock.)  It felt like a really good idea to accept the fact that terrible food was going to get me through this hysteria, just like always.  Like alcohol seems like a good friend who isn’t going to judge and is going  to talk over all noise, keeping you safe.

It’s hilarious, but mostly sad, the way you can do this a thousand times and see that, of course, food is not going to really shut off the screaming in your life and the emotional maelstroms you’re being keelhauled into, that it’s going to have its effect no matter what headspace you’re, but the next time, the lie presented feels so warm and comforting that you let yourself believe it despite knowing the truth.

You just want to think that instead of making yourself stronger by facing it, you can opt out of the fighting and Switzerland your calorie count.

No go, though.  So, once work was done, off I went to the grocery store to make sure that if I was going to eat, I had the option to eat right, even if I was going to be a 10-gallon jerk about it and still eat garbage.  And I thought about all my reasons to keep exercising and drinking water and trying to enhealthen myself, how making sure that blood will keep flowing to my head and toes should probably be a priority and how I didn’t want to give up the new figure and how I really didn’t have to just up and throw it all away and right now, I’m cobbling together all of that and I’m getting myself back on the road.

I got some chai which I’m looking forward to having with my sugar free pudding post-WiiFlail whilst I enjoy the calming interlude which is sure to be Downton Abbey.  I got some asparagus to steam for tomorrow with my dinner.  I got bubble bath.  Not to eat, obviously, but I can read another chapter of A Game of Thrones in the bath and let my brain percolate.

There’s sun coming for this weekend’s forecast.  I have an earnest flame, a true heart.

Oh, and the dream!  I dreamed of Lady Grantham of Downton Abbey, that she was my mother, and she sang/recited this marvelous poem that I so wish I could remember as we were wandering outside and observing these amazing, immense carvings.  The one I can think of was of a lodgepole pine minotaur.  I sighed, so happily in my dream, so earnestly, and said, aloud so indelibly that it burned into my waking mind: “Oh, how could the world survive without poetry?  Why would it even want to try?”


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