The Eke: Day 5

If you don’t do the things you say you’re going to do, there is no reasonable, logical, feasible way for you to end up the places you say you’re going to be.

I need to get a new mattress, because sleeping as I do, laying here as I do causes such a violent and terrible response, one that I am surely experiencing in my teeth as well, that I really lose functionality.  This is my day to get stuff done and I can’t fathom doing anything but laying there just on the softer edge of agony, waiting for something to physically kick me out of bed.  Reading about the state of the world is no great help, you just want to pull up more and more covers to quash all the noise of that.

So somehow, we’ve peeled ourselves out of bed, the bed/iron maiden, long after we ought to have emerged.  We’ve logged the mini-breakfast, but need to pour some water. A small thing, but I can feel myself shying away from it today.  I just want to be still and think my way around the headache rather than taking some aspirin, drinking a cup of the clear stuff and moving.

The haircut will help.  Force me to get up and put something of a face on and be in public.

Shortly, we will need to investigate lunch.  A house lunch, not a wandering out and spending too much on things we don’t know we are eating.  See, the magical mental shifts sometimes happen deep underground.


My hair smells like the oil from the pizza.  I ate it, but I ate it ensuring it was allotted and measured and I hardly ate anything else to let me eat it.  And I enjoyed it, so I suppose that’s how this is meant to work.  Still need to get some nutrients in with this method and damn if it wasn’t chock full of the sodium.  Things I would likely never choose to be aware of it was I wasn’t tracking. It should have told me I needed to bring some water with me to the show, but no, I didn’t realize until I got there, and it was BYOB how shitty an idea that was.

The concert was nice – a Sofar show where people are expected to, and largely do, be quiet while the performers are singing.  Got a couple new artists, one in particular who I enjoyed, and I know I enjoyed it because I started crying within ten seconds of her beginning her first song.   Totally like being beaten emotionally raw while I sat under a metal stool surrounded by man-bun sporting hipsters.

I antagonized my sister with my Leftist propaganda.  We took a picture I should hate but I’m too tired to care about it being shared online.  We discussed things and vented about the respective stalled out relationships in our lives.  We didn’t decide anything.  We didn’t do anything but be and for a while that felt pretty okay.


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.

The Ostrich-Head

You say you don’t know how to do it, but you do.

You choose not to do it.

I say I don’t know where to begin.  But I do.

I choose not to begin.

But that would be fine.  That would be acceptable.  If only I wasn’t, at the exact same moment, choosing to make things much, much worse.

I am choosing a daze.  I am choosing the posture of the ostrich.  I am choosing anxiety.  I am am choosing to make myself as juvenile and irresponsible as I can without being called upon it.  I am choosing to throw out the anchor on all of my plans.  I am choosing this.  This is not happening to me.  This is not a mental illness that has invaded me.  This is not self-protection.  This is me being a jerk and exerting control over the possibility that maybe I am really stressed and unhappy in my job and maybe I don’t know how to deal with the fact that I want to move on not only from that situation but from my whole housing, being single,

I keep pushing, assuming my body will give me a fair warning.  It won’t though.

This isn’t even a size issue.  This isn’t even a me being comfortable in my own skin issue.  This is about me turning off my brain.  This is about me being a type of person I always found shameful and embarrassing: willfully ignorant, snotty, obsessive, no longer allowing the higher functions of my cerebral cortex to function.

I am coasting.  I am coasting towards sharpened pikes, a pit of snakes, a joyless state being tied to a bed, to white walls, to what might have been.  To surgery.  To things that I have a say in.  And that the path in that direction is sleek and fast and smooth like a luge run so that I am shuttled far and fast away from the kind boy speaking to me only about nerdy things on the internet.   I don’t want to have to sort that out.  I don’t want to have to try, knowing how hard I could fail or how well I could do.  I want to pretend that it will happen and it will be amazing.  I want to pretend that I have control over all outcomes by remaining precisely at the center of all things.  It’s all potential.

The future is full of endings I have to shoot in the head.   I have to stop choosing everything.

I have to stop eating this crap, craving this crap, obsessing over the right to keep eating this crap.  I have to get on the bike.  Five minutes.

SparkPeople.  Water.  Scale.  Carrots.  Leftovers.  Walking.  Sleeping.  30 days.  Anger released.  I have some vacation days.  I have to stop this mania.  I have to give it up.  Give it away.

I have to be more in smaller ways.  I have to not eat salty pizzas, whole pizzas, and act like oh, well, that’s mostly normal.

I just don’t want to face the void that all this crap is filling up.  I’m not so brave.  I just know I have to try.

Thanks, Rowsdower, for the reminder.


Killer of Sorts: Day 21

I am beginning early to cobble together some forward energy and not let everything be dissipated on yet another Sunday in bed and gazing at the wonders of the internet.


Hope I can convince my sister to work on my dress.  Move bed.  Screen.  Exercise.  Water.  Um, maybe get dressed.  Write.  Finish Weight.

Task one:  Not yet completed.  Sort of makes me think I should practice sewing – make a little apron or teach myself more about it, but I don’t think I have a very deep desire to do it.  It’s just a passing thing, and I have so many passing things, I try not to give in when I can.

Task two: Bed is moved, managed to knock over a cup of water on what must have been a dried ink spot and now I’m Billy Mays’ing the fuck out of it. This is not a great position for the bed, but it makes a change and I’m going with it.

Other tasks?  Totally put by the wayside while we voyaged collectively to Boulder for no specific reason other than to go to Boulder.   I don’t have anything against Boulder, even being a CSU alumna.  Didn’t care about it while I was going there and I can’t claim to care now.  I think it’s a pretty town and I love the Shakespeare Festival despite being rained on so hard I thought I was going to die of hypothermia last time but it definitely, hard as it must work to do otherwise, has a sort of aura.  If you think you belong there, you probably feel it draw you in.  If you think you don’t, then, well, they won’t miss you.  Lots of restaurants.  Lots of organic looking restaurants.  Lots of options, really.  And where do we end up for my lunch (and way overdue, first substantive meal of the day)?   Chipotle.  Kind of an argh moment, but I got exactly what I wanted without it being fucked up and rice snuck in or something and I’m glad I did because I needed food in the worst way.

I still do, really, but I am being incredibly lame and not getting up and cooking it.  Lightheadedness and doofy disconnectedness with your body is kind of how you start to think that dieting is crazy.  When really, what is crazy, is not giving yourself nutrients because you are expecting diet magic to happen.  You’re hoping you can just wait it out.

You can’t wait out your hunger.  You really can’t.  You can pace it.  You can curb it.  You can slow down and neuter it.   But you can’t turn it off.  And you don’t want to.  Your hunger and your sense of satiety are some of your most crucial biological functions.  Same with sunburn.  It is your body’s way of telling you to pay some damn attention, please.  Moping about having to exist is not cute.  It’s unfair, but it’s the same unfairness that everyone has to deal with so buck up, settle down, and eat some goddamned 9pm eggs.

Wow, got a little grouchy there.  I’m not.  I just need to eat.  Check the people in your life?  Are they bitching at you?  Cook for them and endear yourselves to one another.

Today: 158.2
Yesterday: 160.6 – there is no sense in these things, but I’m simply reporting to keep myself aware
Goal: 155 by June 16

Haute Couture: Day 8

Eat food.  Not optional.   Bad things always happen when you do not eat.

I had a good day, but truly, my earnestness for this to work within the parameters I’ve set worked against me today.  Yesterday I didn’t eat much but for dinner and it was fine because I didn’t have anything pressing or taxing to engage with (well, I had my writing but as far as I got with it, I probably could have used a little more brain), but today was different.  Today was work and I tried to just sort of work past the hunger on the upgrading email program which took up perhaps more time than it should have.  And it worked fabulously.  More and more my hunger lessens and I don’t notice any sharp pangs hours after I should have.   I made myself get lunch because the co-workers were getting lunch but then I hardly ate it and instead focused on work.

I think I did this despite knowing better because the scale took a little upward bump yesterday and I wanted to fix it.  I know the engine of the body doesn’t work like that.  It needs food to burn fat.   I need energy to think and act and work and do.  Not eating is, quantifiably, and essentially, dumb.  But, perhaps, I needed to drive home and have to pull over twice to realize that this is a process.  This requires commitment, but it also, and most importantly, requires patience.

You can kind of see it.  You can kind of feel it.  The physical changes associated with losing weight are emerging so slowly.  But in half as long, I could put it right back to where it was.  I don’t stand and think about plans for tomorrow, just that I won’t screw up.  So tonight, before bed, I’m making my lunch and I’m also eating an egg.   Just in cases. I don’t want to do this stupidly, haphazardly, unsustainably.  I’ve never wanted that.

So, yes, we’ll eat and we’ll find joy in it.

What else can I offer you but that brief diet summation and my ironclad commitment to my goals?

She had never seen a body, a corpse.   Not even at a funeral.  Willy didn’t go to funerals, mainly, she knew because no one ever invited him, leaving his debts of honor to be paid at the Lucky on cheap beers raised towards the ceiling.  Painted robin’s egg blue with faux off-white clouds, so maybe he pretended he could squint and see God.  As drunk as he got, who knows, maybe he could.

She hadn’t expected the body to hang there like that. Hatchfield Pond was green, layered with muck and algae and the buzzing of flies, but the man slumped in its depths was blue.  Not robin’s egg, but more like the blue of soured milk.

“What happened to him? Who is he?” She finally asked Adrian who was standing stock-still on the other side of pond, not fifty feet away from her.

“Why’re you asking me?” He said, unexpectedly evasive.  Defensive.
“You brought me here.  Why aren’t we calling the police? We have to call the police.”
“I’m standing here until it out.”
“Adrian, you’re not making any sense.”
He wiped his brow, eyes not moving from the fetid body, until she couldn’t help but look, too.

Today: 161.4
Yesterday: 160.4
Goal: 155 by June 15

The Duel

Probably should start writing the post before I worry too much about the picture.

I am far too chipper for the late hour.  I’ve gotten the wanderlust again and I don’t know if it’s because we’ve had weeks now of miserable weather with only a few broken hours of weak sunlight or if it’s just become a natural part of my rhythms, but I’m planning trips for the coming year like it’s going out of style.  Minneapolis for my cousin’s wedding in June, now it looks like DragonCon in September and possibly going to New Orleans in October.  This extra week of vacation plus the icy temperature and fields and fields of blow that seem to have transformed the parking lot outside of our condo has me dreaming of airplanes and airport security lines and the wonderful process of going.   Hopefully, all the plans will come together and the money can be set aside and it won’t all be the gleeful fannish dream it feels like right now.  Someday, somehow, we’ll add up all these little half-escapes and find a door right out of all our troubles.

I’ve gone just enough today to be quite pleased with myself.  I have not yet succumbed to all cravings and excuses and little sidesteps that are settled just above my head.  All the ideas that I let destroy my diets in the past, they’re just outside my peripheral vision but I know exactly what they are, how they feel with then they swing towards me with this angelically demonic tone just syruped over everything they whisper.  They hope to get my attention and they hope to put the breaks on what is starting to become a fairly visible difference.   A physical difference that I can physically detect.  These ideas, these failed motivations, these fears all are hoping that one of these days I will trip up and fall out of my groove and my life will become predictable again.

I am becoming one of those people who could just up and do anything.   This is very scary.

Scarier yet is how this is coming about.  I find today that I like doing push-ups.  Even if they’re modified pushups from your knees.   I remember being told to do those in high school gym and no one ever properly explained how to do them and I sort of half did them just enough to get by. They felt impossible and awkward.  Now I’ve got enough strength going in my arms and I understand how my arms need to go to support the weight and it feels good to feel that I can do them.  Not a thousand.  Not single-armedly (hear that, Miss Grammar Nazi 1994, I know it’s not a word.  It is poetic license, though).  I can do a push-up or two, though.

I ate in the limits, rode on the bike with the seat so hard it’s akin to medieval torture until the calories were up, did the strength exercises and I don’t feel remotely brutalized by the effort. Not a drop mistreated.  So, terrors, fears, cravings, and whatever else is battering around inside the Pandora’s Box of my brain, you’re going to have to make me far more miserable than this to make me consider going back to what was.   This is my glove on the ground.  This is a challenge.