Gilroy Was Here

Wow, this house smells as if the walls were scrubbed with garlic cloves.   I don’t mind that so much in theory.  I’ve often thought I’d like to go to that restaurant in Gilroy, California which I think might be called the Stinkin’ Rose or something and everything is garlic-ified.   You have to assume that everyone who works or lives in a five mile radius has to sign a release for walking around in the plumes of pungent garlic aroma 24/7.   But that’s in California, and that’s a nice idea, and I’d rather not walk out of here tomorrow morning reminding people of garlic bread.

But I imagine that the cool night air will pull some of this great miasma out to the invisible sea around us and I’ll wake up with no olfactory crisis.  I have plenty of crises of my own to put up to the plate.

Crisis, though, is a harsh word.  Like darkness.  A bit overwhelming.  And this isn’t really a crisis, though they might call it in general terms, a crisis of confidence.  I had a goofy dinner.  A bad dinner.  A not-low-carb dinner.  But I restrained myself, came home, did my exercise, took a bath, and I feel much better about it.   It started with a red carpet photo line.   Yeah.

This is the sort of gimmick that event-holders put into place to make everyone who attends their event reflect back upon it with the sheen of luxury.  That and the glassy-eyed deer-in-the-headlights looks that the camera undoubtedly captures when it throws three hundred helplessly unphotogenic people against a concrete wall and makes them grin at a stranger.  Though, perhaps, the thought of a smorgasbord of free food would make a person look positively giddy on film.

I was walking next to a volunteer/friend whose husband is slipping into both cancer and a sort of dementia that seems to leave her more and more terrified and she told me that some medical procedure they were planning on had been put off.  I didn’t know exactly what she meant, but I felt her frustration as she gripped my arm.  She said she really didn’t want to go in that line and in that empathetic instant, I didn’t want to either.  My previous ambivalence, my previous perception that maybe with this minor weight loss, it might be a decent picture of me, disappeared entirely and I guided both she and her husband through another entrance.  There, we were promptly handed a glass of champagne.  Or more rightly, she was handed one, and she handed it to me saying she couldn’t possibly drink anything.

And then, sipping that and slipping into what ended up being a lovely and luxurious space, I caught a wanton amnesia.  Well, a controlled wanton amnesia.  I had a carved roast beef sandwich on a roll.  And two hors d’oeurves made of carbs.   And I sat there, berating myself, knowing that there were low-carb options, but I just wholly ignored them.

I felt very much between two worlds.

A woman I know who everyone thinks is a little bit flaky, but that’s only because she’s intuitive and kind and has always been particularly kind with me came right up to me and said,  “There’s something going on with you…”  and she looked at me with the kind of look that I haven’t gotten in a long time.  The look of someone actually appraising me and connecting with me and seeing me and addressing me as opposed to waiting for my silence so they can tell me more about themselves.  I was falling through the looking-glass.  And I said, emphatically, with the serenity of a great and accomplished liar, that nothing was going on with me.

And she narrowed her eyes and told me I was a genius and I must know that and I shook my head, no, no, no.  Then she said I should say a prayer for her.   And I said I would but that it had nothing to do with any of her ridiculous notions about my good nature.    And she narrowed her eyes again and smiled.   And I whirled away to more and more awkward encounters.

I just feel better having said that.

I will look at the scale tomorrow and grit my teeth as losses are erased and errors and blown back in my face and I’ll go back to the step class and get back to it.