The Evening

So.  Yeah.  I will need to report about tomorrow  (report is a weirdly loaded word as if this were some kind of pass/fail exam) tomorrow.  I don’t have the plan clear yet…

Well, maybe.  I have a place and a time.  And a paranoia seeping in two diverging rivulets.  Fear that it won’t happen at all since I can’t tell remotely what the subtext is here since we’re suddenly off-script and fear that oh, shit, this is happening, like, tomorrow and I suddenly realized I don’t know how to use my arms and legs.  I knock over mannequins on a regular basis.

It is exhausting.  It is work worrying about this.

It was ever so much easier with you because you were not a moving target and it never mattered what I wanted because what I wanted was the slowest moving molasses flood to kill me.  I wanted to be sucked under, inch by sugared inch.  I wanted to be utterly aware and yet taken wholly by surprise.  I was getting that even as you set my head on fire and you (no, not really) broke my heart (I broke it for myself, if in your name).  You and I could tango with our own private miseries and make eyes across the ballroom.  None would be the wiser, certainly neither of us.  And I could build Everests out of mole hills.  I could write paeans to the unsaid between us, aubades, elegies.  I could fixate on the great feast of maybe you laid out and feel quite loved somehow.  As much love as such circumstances could distill.  And you, you could take my banter and my pregnant pauses and my long, slow deliberations and feel like the feudal lord you were.  Until the serfs and the king banded together to hoist ye on your own petard.  And it is until this very moment that I realize that I should be grateful that you didn’t look to me for solace, for succor, for solutions.  Because it is until this very moment that I so wanted to give you all three…as best as I could, stuck to the floor as the molasses waves came across my shoreline.  Now, I see that, impossible as it may seem, I am feeling kindly toward another soul who may or may not deserve it and may or may not reciprocate it and I could only be in a very dark place if I’d done something rash and tried to save you from yourself.  Or insinuate myself in your disaster.

I am so grateful to you, Mr. Rochester, for getting the fuck away from me.  Because I would never have been fast enough to escape the molasses flood.

I feel insecure right now.  I’m rarely in this spot, as you all know.  I feel like it’s all a house of cards.  I feel like I don’t have any idea where I am right now.  No script, no map, no plot.  Just a goal to be of service in some way.

I’ll let you know, I guess.

Hasty Cakes

So, I kind of think I’m gearing up for a good start to 2013.

How do I know this? I did a load of laundry tonight and I put it all away.
I have a new business purse.  Tote bag.  It’s not a briefcase.  It is, however, more professional than my Mumford and Sons bag that I don’t want to hold by the cloth handles for fear they’ll rip.

I didn’t die today.  I should have, at multiple junctures, but I didn’t.  I was, instead, treated much more kindly than I deserve both by friends, co-workers, and strangers.  I attempted to be kind in return, though I don’t know if I’ve quite covered it.  I am still, you know, panicky and stressed, and it may well grow back up exponentially, but the sick little mass that seems to grow (metaphorically, hyperbolically) every single day, seems to be back to a manageable size at the moment.

I am drinking water right now.  There was Atkins talk (unspecific and I agreed to nothing because I need, nay, demand this to be on my terms) and my mother is making me omelets-cupcakes for breakfasts.    I had some impulse to get on the bike which was cut-off at the knees by doing the laundry.

I also ordered with the etsy gift card my sister got me some printable planning stuff I’m going to put together tomorrow once I can print it and which I’ll share with her since…who knows, maybe it’ll be helpful for us both.  It has all sorts of different areas to track and it cost about as much as my planner did last year so we’ll see if I can bring it to work or maybe just keep it at home and make better use of my time.  Since so often I get home at 5:30 and turn around like I’m doing right now and observe the clock and it’s 11:16pm and I wonder how I can ever be expected to do anything.  Well, a lot of that time was falling to a create channel haze of cooking show delirium.   Seriously, I was watching America’s Test Kitchen bloopers last night.  And listening to their podcast and I want to cook the chicken cordon bleu recipe they were making tonight.  It makes me feel sort of grounded and domestic and proto-wifely.  A feeling which will pass, but what the hell.

I have some clothes picked out for tomorrow.  I’ve got a gift card to pay for my lunch at the coffee shop so I can save a little money there.   I will, in future, be doing my level best to save a little bit to help with these expenses.  I know my sister’s doing absolutely all she can with handling her two differently obnoxious jobs, but I hope that somehow she can find something that pays a little better and doesn’t involve so much rigamarole. Hell, I hope that for myself.

I feel rather determined.   Sometimes it’s awesome to know that you have things to do and you get to do them.

 

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.