Grah: Day Fifty-Nine


I left my box of work at the office.  After all this discussion about being able to work from home, all the effort made and I’m still considering driving in early (hopefully before anyone else gets there to get this dumb box).  If this was before, I could almost sorta justify that by saying I’d get myself Starbucks or something, but, things, for the time being have changed and my goal had been to just stay in and plow through everything I could.  To just work without the huge distractions of the co-worker needing to know what our email address is.  Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.  But writing group was tonight and even though I got this jolt of inspiration beforehand, the group was almost completely new people and instead of taking a step back and laying low with my marginal submission, I had to be extra extroverted.  The group was weird, too.  I felt squicky for a couple stories and probably ended up being overly supportive of things I would, in most other contexts, find lame or disturbing.   But I don’t want my group to feel restricted at all, so if someone wants to cuss and describe the physical features of women in aggressive tones (albeit in a way that is in keeping with his story and actually made for a great reveal in the end, if you can forgive the pun.), that’s okay.  I wrapped everything up quickly and then, got my leftovers from the fridge and forgot the damned box.   Drove halfway home before I realized it and hoped if I didn’t glance in the backseat it would magically be there.  But, no.  So after this very busy, fine day, I end up feeling a bit pissy.

Underfed, too.  Tried to pull together a full and decent lunch, but I was hardly hungry at that exact moment.   But I’m happy that I’ve kept on course.  I know that the desire not to have to take the picture of my board, not to have to take that last little tiny step is a sign that I absolutely have to.  I have to pay attention and focus because when I start becoming laissez-faire, along with being frustrated and hungry, I just say what the hell and start roaming backwards.

I mean, I was happy today.  Like I went in the bathroom and looked at my made-up face and stood there and preened for a minute.  I thought this is a likeable person.  This is a person someone could see somewhere and, I don’t know, produce a feeling for.  My other issues notwithstanding, I looked positively human.  Pretty even.  I told myself I looked genuinely pretty.  I also rode the bike and felt awake and alive for a while there.   A guy maybe flirted with me.  He was, at the very least, nice to me and I didn’t judge him for that so that’s a step in the right direction, I have to think.

So I don’t want to be pissy and down.  Tomorrow’s Friday, I got Mumford playing, I gotta get myself okay and moving.



Electric Bread: Day Twenty-Three

I was reading a past post – The Mayor of Jerktown – where I talked about being proud of myself for not saying fuck it.  For, to borrow that horrible phrase made horrible by a maleficent ex-president, staying the course.  So far as I could see that course going.  Eventually, that track hit a snag and down I went again.  And I am as glad now as I was then, though today has not been entirely easy.

Photos from last night arrived on my desk first thing.  I smiled and took a couple pictures last night, I remember thinking, oh, maybe these will reflect all of this weight loss and hard work.  So I glanced sideways, half-looking and still felt the usual disappointment.  I can maybe see the slightest of differences.  My body just doesn’t…the flash…a wonky eye, the uselessness of one’s foundational garments.  For the most part, I thought that as I was crowing about my successes, my body was just rearing back for a mind-body 1-2 punch.  My hair was nice, though.

Work went speedily and I tried to get ahead where I could and send out the correspondence and ignore the obnoxious features this time of year brings out in those around me.  I ate my low-carb tortillas.  Drank some water.  Stared at the work computer screen until it was time to go to the dentist where they pronounced me not well, but better.  And in four months, I will get to pay exorbitantly for the privilege of having any qualified professional get to swing by and put their fingers in my mouth to verify that my teeth are not falling out of my head.  I have not have any pain in my gums since I was treated, but they are occasionally sensitive or puffy or the tiniest bit of blood will drip into the sink.   There, unlike with the diet, I do see a marked difference.  Which is good, because I need my mouth regardless of the fat and carb content of the food that gets put in it.  Gumming my meals is also probably not a super compelling turn-on for most men.

This, however, meant I got to go home early and given that my oral care was dealt with, this was about all I needed to be happy.  Next week is a four day week, and then it’s the four-day Thanksgiving week.  Thanksgiving is a planned deviation where I’m not going to eat on plan at all just on that one day.  Even though the next day is my little sister’s birthday, I have to forgo the cake.  Also, once I am done with Assassin’s Creed, I’m going to use some of the time I’m spending here on making sure I get some exercise in of some kind.  I can eat more if I do that (provided my appetite returns) and my metabolism will start dealing with some of this weight that is going to hang on no matter what I eat.  I want to have a picture that I don’t feel like I want to destroy.


The Tailor of Gloucester: Day Sixteen

Five deep breaths.

It was a hardcore Monday.  Balls to the wall all day, inasmuch as a woman working in an administrative capacity can go balls to the anything.  But damn, was I pressed up against it.   Everything needing my hand on it right then and there.   One event is going really well, and in an effort to drum up early ticket sales, I suggested we take credit cards by phone.  Well, nobody trusts themselves with the credit card machine, but me, apparently.  So along with my Monday work, I sold tickets all day long.  It threw everything off and everyone’s just expecting me to make it work.

This kind of pressure, when it finally deflates, can make you feel a bit lonely.  Make you wonder what it’s all for.   Why I struggle so hard with myself for the benefit of others.  There’s no easy answer to that.  And if there’s an answer, no easy remedy.

In my line of work, I, this un-photogenic creature, ends up in a lot of photos.  Right now, I’m sort of at the usual first big plateau for my weight loss journey (and, fuck, if that three word phrase doesn’t feel staid and cliche and full of unpacked connotations and anguish) and I get glimpses in mirrors or when I wear this new hat (not a fedora, mind you) of being pretty in my way.  I start thinking that maybe my body is changing and reformulating.   And I always thought that was the reason that I get to this point of effort and end up falling off the wagon or at least digging in my heels.  That I was uncomfortable with a body I found in some way, aesthetically pleasing.  That I was frightened of a life where I could be treated like a pretty girl.  Instead of, I guess, a quiet girl.  I found those, in my singular case, mutually exclusive.  For some reason.

And maybe I did.  But, I saw a photo today, and I think part of the reason is I’ll see a picture and think that I’ve done nothing.  That the change is invisible.  Internal, if it exists at all.  And what the hell does internal weight loss count for? I think I want to be shocking and I’m not.  I saw my orange sweater wrapping around me, breasts suddenly garish and outsized, my expression (I say this knowing how cruel it is) thankfully inoffensive and unobtrusive.  It makes all of this feel like I’m not marching through hell, I’m sightseeing through hell on a treadmill.  Same scenery rolling by again and again.

Not that it impacted me too much with what I ate, there wasn’t time to contemplate deposing my diet overlords for a chicken burrito bowl.  I stayed in line.

I just…I both need extra support and find myself repulsed by anyone involving themselves until I can get it right. Right-er.  I don’t want to fail, but dang, it feels like I’m trying to deny my way to Neverland.  I want someone who doesn’t want me to stop, but could like me right now, hat and glasses and ill-fitting coat, crying over Genealogy Roadshow, and formulating a post over buffalo chicken.  That person sounds like a Loch Ness Monster, but it’s nice to believe they could be real and not just a trick of the light.



With Alacrity

I can’t make a post today, apologies.

Okay, now that we’ve got that first thought out of the way, it’s time for the confessions and the rekindling of good energy and re-centering into myself, the only home I’ve got.  Confessions:  I didn’t have a healthy lunch.  I was over at my half-sister’s and I made what she ate which was very good and not healthy.  French dip sandwiches and twice baked potatoes and cream puffs.  I didn’t get seconds, but I ate some of everything and I didn’t have the vegetable tray.  So, that was bad.  I was frustrated and that’s my excuse, but I have have a good dinner planned and exercise to do and my friends to chat with and I don’t feel so steamrolled anymore.  It doesn’t either let me off the hook or make me stop wanting to lose weight.  Just got to do as I intend and move forward.

Fitness progress fact: I can pull these pants off without un-buttoning them.  Fitness progress fact number two: the brand new scale that cannot read my body fat because my feet are apparently filthy and wrong no matter how many times I wash them, but the scale reading adds 5 pounds to the top of my project.  This is frustration and I have to look it in the eye and tell you and myself that it really doesn’t matter.

So, after running around a bit and calming myself down about hanging out with my little sister after she insists that the Starbucks guys were hitting on her and when I didn’t say anything about it (to me they were just borderline over-cheerful), she makes sure I know that she’s been hit on like a million times in her life and she KNOWS when she’s being hit on.  This is her in a nutshell.  She’s just reporting facts and because you don’t engage her and and agree and laugh when she says something like that or if she tells you you’ve got food all over your mouth and you don’t immediately thank her for the service, you’re being a bitch.

I have absolutely nothing to say in this regard and it’s hard for me to be pleasant when the conversation begins with the assumption that she has worldly experience and we’re her podunk, Gilbert Grape’s mother-looking, floppy family she needs to scream into acceptability.

I really want my self-esteem to blossom and overcome this reaction.  I want to not care and just be, but I haven’t gotten there yet.   It’s just a number but it’s colored the whole day.

Tomorrow’s work.  If I can, I’m going to be with the friends, eat the very light dinner,  do the exercise, pick up for 15 minutes and get ready for tomorrow.  Brace myself well and fully and do what I can to cheer myself up.  My birthday’s next week and I am starting to have expectations.  I’m starting to think I could maybe have it the way I want and that’s not going to happen.  It’s another day.  We still have to do our work and the best way is forward, with alacrity.