Well, water only gets you so far. And a weirdo lunch does not always suffice when you’re looking down the wand length at a 5 hour D&D game. So my thought is at this particular moment, we just go ahead and get something for lunch when I leave here and track it down to the screwiest last calorie. Just to get myself good and proper full and then we don’t eat post 7. Sounds doable. Maybe. I think there will be stuff floating about to eat, but I am at that stage of fog and clutching, desperate, disorganization where I can’t feel very much control. So I don’t know. I’m going to try and go to the store and find something feasible for my purposes.
I should learn a few more chords on my guitar and start a band. We’d probably be one of those terrible bands that changes their name more than they actually ever write or play music, but we’d always have really amazing band names and probably equally excellent t-shirt designs. So you should probably get ahead of the game and just start being our fans now before someone hears of us and we have to change our name and you have to resign yourself to being a damn hipster.
There’s a dying rainstorm leaving us. It came with the kind of light show you would think would portend something epic and tremendous happening in the firmament, maybe like Heaven got The Avengers on IMAX or something. But it was miraculous enough with just cannons and rocketfire and the occasional darting appearance of neon white veins across the smoked-out cloudscape.
As for other things, well, there are other things which is nice to talk about apart from the notable weather.
My weight was, as I was pretty well aware, up a tisch this morning. That’s what happens when you justify straying. So I am fully re-horsed, with bike riding, a longish walk about and low-carb eating making me feel much better physically. Funny how you give yourself the option to screw up and there is nothing about eating that feels good accept that quick flare of relief that your addiction was satisfied. It’s like, oh, fuck, I ate all that bread. Well. That’s going to mess with me, I sure am delighted I did that so randomly and impulsively. I’m sure going to remember that bread until the day I die. Except, of course, it was utterly without meaning and making my stomach knot up as well as turn the volume back up on the voices in my head that just keep saying “Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it, don’t change ever, buy Chipotle, grow into your mattress, the best thing about death is the absence of the fear of death.” You know, the awesome voices that project stagnancy is the same as security.
So, I am doing what I can to get those voices, among others, muted. I’ll see what I say in the morning. Gotta continue to think positive and do things I love – like read. Read some more of The Bean Trees and remembered why I loved it so much the first time. I think I like re-reading it now in light of having read more of Barbara Kingsolver’s non-fiction and knowing something about her circumstances and life.
This morning was really good, though, because I set my timer and got things done in 7 minute sections at a time. Cleaned out the drawer in the night table which was so overloaded with pens and batteries and random junk drawer detritus that it was getting difficult to close.
Small pleasures. Your anthologist, journalist, whatever I am, has a rather Amelie-like life, save perhaps, the end. But there is always tomorrow.
So, part of this journal is this earnest desire to deal with shit as it crops up – inasmuch as one can deal with their own personal emotional baggage in 500-ish words. So what’s happening now is that I am doing really well with the self-control aspect of this. I’m not eating much carbs at all because I’m being pretty careful about what I’m eating overall. I’m drinking more fluids, and working on more water. I’m not doing 100% genius eating – with iron will – and the First Lady’s plate (albeit lopsided for my purposes)…I didn’t eat at all at the market today just because every impulse I had seemed just not quite right. Like this amazing brick oven pizza they cook onsite and everyone was eating it and I didn’t feel crazed or anything. I didn’t feel like a junkie needing a fix. But I guess it was in that area. I guess it was vaguely like an addict trying to figure out how they can negotiate in their own heads to justify having a little bit of what they’re addicted to and I had just enough backbone to say, well, if you’re not where you want to be and you said you had these goals and you’re frustrated as hell with your non-sensical scale – let’s not. Just let’s not.
And it’s weird. My friend was there, who I guess I only have emotional inklings towards when he’s around (classy, very class), and he was, true to form, very gregarious and kind and pleasant. And I felt like there was something of a revelation that it was okay for everyone (EVERYONE) to know that I’m not eating carbs right now. That I’m doing this for myself right now and as nice as it is to get free bread and pastries, or to run head first into a chocolate-dipped banana (ahem), it’s not forward motion. For a long time, that wouldn’t be possible. I’d downplay it and make it obvious that it was private and secret and nobody’s business. I’d make it awkward. This wasn’t overly awkward, even though I feel frustrated about having to have to do it, it just was. Like friends talk.
So with all of that as preface, I am frustrated. I know numbers are numbers and I feel tighter and better and less googly-eyed and helpless to food impulses. But the scale is wonky or I am wonky and driving me batty. I want to feel that this is progress. That this really measured and focused attention to how I eat and getting water and moving myself is not just sloshing the same 6 pounds around. I want it to work this time.
And it is working. And I am okay. And it will take time. And exercise. Hard work. And I don’t want to hear it, but that doesn’t change that those facts are true.
Today (at 6:44am, about an hour earlier than I usually weigh-in) 160.4
Yesterday: 158.6 – it’s either the scale or not enough water/salt. Again.
Goal: 155 – June 15
I am being quite good. I think. One is never entirely sure if you’re just gleefully marching along, grasshoppering your existence as summer begins to blush and ripen like a Palisade peach, if just around the corner or just off to the left is a great and grievous edge that you are about to slide the fuck into. Whistling all the way, no doubt. I think believing this ever-vigilantly is a northern trait. A Stark-like observance of the changing of the weather, of the guard, of risk and loss nipping at your heels. Or maybe just a human paranoia that once you allow yourself to give into, it is hell to give up.
I am considering the Black Widow DVD. We walked a ways today. I want to do it. I need to do it. But I am sore and creaky from yesterday. So. I will do it, if only because I understand that my goals require work and not just psychic insistence that they will work. I believe in the witchcraft of the will, but I believe it works faster and better and with fewer questionable results if you add in some bodily effort.
So, fifteen minutes from now, I will be making nice with the Widow and letting her tell me she’s going to break me down or whatever the fuck it is she says. Such a one-eighty from Denise Austin who you could probably break off chunks of and use it like sweaty carob to sweeten your cookies. She basically chirps and squeaks and hauls herself oddly around in Caribbean settings and you watch her and wonder if this is all she hoped her life would be. Jillian Michaels is awkward, too, in her own YOU KNOW ME FROM TV SO I’M GOING TO GIVE YOU MY TV HARDASS WITH GOOD INTENTIONS PERSONA FULL-BORE kind of way. Really just a different stroke from a different folk.
So this means that there can’t be further dilly-dallying and staring at banjo players in lewd and lascivious manners via the internet, and there certainly can’t be any bullshit going on about here. Straight-forward and to the point, my lads and lasses.
Today: I need to eat something other than chicken. I am just slowly becoming some sort of processed meat paste nugget. Um, no. Not really, but I did well. I didn’t do anything that upset myself or made me feel overtly fail-y. Even with all the pre-event bullshit and drama and emotional upheaval that is nearly every day at my job. While I’m drained and over it and the usual situation, I don’t feel any intense feeling of needing to sort of eat it better as it were. There’s hardly enough time to get three meals in as it is! There’s that drop-off. Could be that tomorrow’s the day we give it all up and run headlong into a tinfoiled burrito fantasia.
Have to allow for the possibility.
But I’m alright. I burn in other ways now. For other things.
Goal: 155 by June 15
Domesticity soothes the grand delusions of bravery we’ve entertained throughout the day.
I should be and am trying to embrace it. It keeps you small, it seems at time, to be attentive to a house and to the little things within it, but really it just keeps you the size you are. Human. Imperfect. With a safety circle around you that you call your domain. Even when people think you’re a thousand meters tall, this is where you fit. It’s impossible to be too far gone to appreciate a warm bed, that kind word, and some very limited power. Thank you, Ashleigh Brilliant.
I got a lot done today as the boss was out, though I had to confront a lot of vaguely confrontational people which is already far too much confrontation for me. Too much drama. Everyone needed to be cossetted and cooed over and I sort of gloried in my being the demi-boss. I knew the answers, I was completely Short Skirt, Long Jacket for a good stretch there. Then, we started getting the artist calls from the rejected artists wigging out because they didn’t get in and as an empath, that is the complete opposite of fun. Binary opposition of fun. You can hear the flail in their voice even as they sarcastically try and rip on the people that do get in – so often they are included in this lauded group, but just this year they don’t and suddenly the quality of the show is entirely in question. They want to just verbally wiggle their way into the show and they want me to pull a rabbit out of my hat just for them. Only, thing is? There’s no rabbits. I have had the constraints defined for me and I am just the messenger. And they get that, too. I’m just the girl at the end of the line trying to be gentle, but not understanding their position, their need. The place that they’re at with their work and their money and their lives. They just want to not risk not fighting for themselves, and I respect that. Wow, do I respect that. I end up just rambling and trying to promise them something if only just that I did hear them and I am sorry they weren’t accepted this year. I ended up rambling a lot. I’m never ready for the onslaught of these rejected egos coming at me. There’s other specifics that I don’t want to get into, but it left me pretty drained and ready, despite the enormous meal I had last night and the grotesque way I described it, for a giant pizza party.
I tell you so as to not burst with it. Instead of pizza, I am home, settled, with things getting washed, MST3K on the netflix with a PBJ sandwich, some soup and maybe some popcorn.
No craziness for me, please.
Here is today’s foothold of truth. Keep busy. The days will run by and you may have your regrets and your little troubles, but keep busy and you’ll keep yourself above board. And that’s a safe place to be until you get a grip on your bigger dreams and better name and your wisdom starts to turn a soft yellow in front of your eyes.
There was a cashier at Office Max. He had a giant belt buckle. A belt buckle bigger than God. And when you go up to the desk with your USB drive that you aren’t even sure you need to buy, but doesn’t everyone need a spare flashdrive for general flashing purposes and it takes all your willpower not to gaze at that belt buckle, so silvery-steely and cast in the shape in the shape of a giant lion head with an impressively coiffed and vicious mane blowing in the hypothetical wind. Such a belt buckle must mean something, you think, if not psychological, then it must imply some geekish interests, some simpatico of understanding that you both must have. And you are utterly aware of the shirt and the push-up bra and the precarious state of your apparel and you smile and ignore any implications in the situation and take your USB drive and your receipt and some finagling with the card reader and go, leaving the young man with the massive belt buckle to whatever devices such a man would employ.
My love life, ladies and gentlemen.
What am I thinking about tonight as the sands slip through the hourglass and the countdown begins before I attempt the bed and dreamlife of a much better person, one who makes glib light of belt buckles and can rest soundly on a bed of nails is this. I am profoundly graceless, I am messy and self-involved and terrible. These are personality flaws I cannot disavow because they are embroidered in the fabric of my body, little colored flosses of defect that flourish and border my white linen. But I am not incommodious. I am not ungenerous. I do not fail to try hard to make things pleasant and to cut away the frayed, stained bits. This is not so obvious, perhaps, not 100% of the time, but I hope and I pray that tomorrow, my grand idea of ease and delight for this process will go as it should. I have worked my fingers to the bone and I think some of my aches and pains can be owed up to this devil-may-care attention to the project and I want, more than anything, for the images to load and the jurors to review them and for the day to quickly and well.
Once tomorrow is over, somehow, we can lower the dial and get back to summer, frenetic and ridiculous, but not belonging to me. Summer is a whole universe of change and motion and progress and plans and I can be a cog in them. Not a fancy pants director of anything.
Mainly, I don’t want anyone to yell and I don’t want to be late.