Ladyfingers, Steady On

The worst part about any endeavor is the clean-up.  I am an excellent starter, but anyone who’s known me for a considerable amount of time figures out that cleaning up is not my forte.  I am trying to pretend to be an Edwardian manor house maid and it helps, but it seems that the hours between nine and eleven p.m. are the most excruciatingly busy of my day.  I just finished exercising on le Wii, and it was a lot of arm strength exercises with the resistance band and frankly, I’m feeling quite a lot of personal resistance towards everything else in the known universe as a result.  Also had battery issues and it kind of threw me a bit off kilter.

Still need to get on the bike and burn off the last little bit of my 185 calorie goal, still need to put away my food from dinner and convince myself that I don’t actually NEED popcorn, still need to take a bath and curl my tresses, still need to finish this entry and maybe have time left to respond to my friends and some of our travel plans.  So instead of writing everything down in an effort to stall and fill up more of my word count, I might as well just get a move-on.

The metal rings on the couch cover are slapping away in the dryer.  Okay, focus.  Focus, girl!

Today was luncheon day and yet again the circumstances hamstrung my natural desire to eat like a maniac because it can’t technically count since it’s actually work and I’m just eating my lunch along with everyone else.  Even if said luncheon was made up of veggie lasagna with lots of zucchini and chicken and rice and naturally, a dessert tray as big as some of the nation’s favorite right-wing radio hosts’ colostomy bags.  I find if I use a really offensive and hideous simile, I don’t look back with such delight and fondness on today’s piece of tiramisu.  So rummy and cocoa-y and creamy and…. Ah, yes, circumstances.  We had a ton of walk-in guests to accomodate so by the time I actually got into the buffet line, your dear anthologist was stuck with more veggie lasagna and salad than anything else.  I will concede to the single slice of tiramisu in all its delicate strata of ladyfingers and mascarpone, but I can’t imagine even Gandhi would have been able to turn up his nose at it.

I forgive myself wholly and entirely because whatever misery I deserve for eating it has to be exacted with a toe tag upon it so I don’t throw the blame on some other fault I have.  As that’s unlikely to happen, I do my squats and drink my water and stay steady-on.

…someone asked me if you were a terrible person, a bad person, a fraud? More Mr. Wickham than Mr. Rochester.  For a moment, I felt flattered as though I was some authority on you and what you might have been thinking.  Then I realized that this was just common conversation, you now the lemon-bar gossip this town churns out,  that you were being talked about in a dozen little hallways where they’re all trying to understand your motivation, measure your morality, remember if there was some moment when you did something to make them secretly aware of your secret darkness.  I confess, I am doing this, too, with every news article.  I don’t feel this loin-charring passion for you anymore, perhaps the distance has had a chilling effect, though, I would love still to be the one who took your confession.

I have no thoughts on confessing myself.

There is a rumor they’ll turn your shop into a frozen yogurt store.