Chickabiddy: Day Thirty-Three

Or is it thirty-four?  It must be thirty-four because there were thirty-one days in January. I will have to go back and edit in the correct numbers since we crossed over into February.  Anyway.  I was thinking on the ride home, the relatively calm, relatively controlled ride home that what I really wanted to talk about was titles today.  Less talk about them, actually, and more just generate a 500 word list of titles that I could foresee using for posts.  Sometimes picking out the title is my very favorite part, often, it is.  Somehow, every day, there’s something that catches in the net of my mind and is reeled in and picked out as intriguing or interesting, or fitting in some way to play off of the writing that follows.  Today’s just came to me unbidden, and I remembered Walk Two Moons, and the temporary building our classroom was set in that year and the teacher’s voice as she read that book to us.  It clung to me like a burr in a sweater.  Which is to say, forever.

I need to eat, I’m starting to be very unsure about what tomorrow will bring weather-wise and I’ll have to get gas in the morning.  Bratwurst or eggs and bacon?

…I’m sitting here and trying to explain to myself, yet again, that I am getting hyper about something that will happen whether or not I choose to get hyper about it.  It is no defense at all.  It does not keep one flake of snow from gathering on the ground.  It does increase my anxiety and fear so that it seems like the only logical solution is to avoid experiencing the petrifying possibility of losing control and dying on the road.  I keep thinking – is that what I’m afraid of happening – but that’s not even it, though it plays a role.  It’s more a fear of being in someone else’s way, of impacting someone else’ life, of not knowing the rules in every instance and in my ignorance causing an accident, or even down to just frustrating people around me.  I seem to be able to project my frustration and anxiousness out on the cars around me and then, via this ever-loving empathy, soak it right back in, double-time.  This is not new news, this is just me breathing through crazy.  Recognizing that I’ve been able to overcome this day after day, night after night, but the crop sprouts up anew.  I still feel like this is being done to hurt me.  A really ridiculous, self-centered thing to believe.

Maybe the smarter thing to say is I don’t like driving in the snow and it’s frustrating to have to do something I don’t like, but I can only do the best I can to handle my life requirements and often this means I will have to drive in and on and around snow.   And as I do it, I’ll feel better equipped.  Probably I’ll never like it.  Ever.  But life is not WonderBread, you get the hulls and the shells and you just have to use your tools to get around that.

So, yes, there’s that plus going to the psychic, all of which is doable.  It’s not like I’m not going to go.


I really am loving this evening.  The house is quiet, except for screeching animals who have been fed, but not unlike their human mistresses, just like to screech.  My sister is gone, at work or at my parents, and I don’t think I’ve had a nice night to myself like this in an age.

All day long there’s people poking at me, calls to take, papers to take care of.  It’s a rush and I always feel off my game and not quite right.  Lately, having time for routines at night and now, time to relax my damn shoulders….it’s heavenly.

I read a Billy Collins sonnet, I’ve eaten my eggs and green beens and sausage and had my pink lemonade water and now feel quite full and fine and dandy.    It’s not a scheduled workout evening, but I might go gad about and do something in a bit. The cats have even quieted down for a minute.   There’s cool air and I can remember how much I love cool air and quiet.  I feel like I’m being fed in a myriad of ways, some of which I’ve been starving in and hardly acknowledged it.  For an introverted empath, a night in where I don’t have to be umbilically connected to the hearts and souls of a city, I don’t think I can physically stop crowing about it.

I feel kind of tough and into renewing my vows about this whole thing.  I’m having fantasies about going to my farmers market and instead of sitting at the info booth, spending a couple hours just walking in town on a Saturday.  Instead of eating the massive crepe spilling over with chocolate that leaves my head spazzing and my stomach sick, I’ll have some fruit and take my water and go down the bridges and the trails and enjoy the day.  Take a notebook, write, and maybe, if by then I’ve gotten closer or achieved my goal, I might have a sandwich or something.  Who knows.  The day will be mine no matter what my weight is.  But it will be lower because I’m gunning for 130.  I will see it this year.  I won’t relent or give up or lose faith in the goal because it’s so unknown and scary.  I will change, change into a vessel for a changed mind.

I think my sister might be home.  I heard her car horn beep.  I am dismayed, but whatcha gonna do?  She lives here, too.  No flailing like a deranged fool in the living room.  I’m sure the downstairs neighbors are appreciative.

Or not…I’m so paranoid.  If I can, maybe I’ll try and not weigh myself tomorrow morning.  I’m getting good at limiting the protein bars so maybe I can manage to limit something that just makes me feel like a crazy person first thing after I wake up and I have to triage all day.  Especially when one’s red tide (MENSTRUATION for those who aren’t squeamish) is still out to sea for a few more days and I have no idea what the scale is thinking.

I don’t want to end there.  I want to end by burn, burn, burning into the wind…oooh!  Barracuda!