“And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.”
—T. S. Eliot, The LoveSong of J. Alfred Prufrock
Well, dear me, I am so disappointed. I had so hoped to accomplish everything and more before sundown and yet here I am still in my shorts and ponytail, unshowered and unshaved, late for dinner.
Did I say I was going to lose 20 more pounds? Heavens to Betsy! I thought I had written that I was going to gain 20 pounds. What on earth will I do with the big tin of popcorn I just bought–all kinds too cheddar, caramel, white corn–and all kinds of jolly, red-faced Santas all over it. Plus the family size bag of chex mix, cheddar and Bold flavored–my favorite. And lets not forget my signature lasagna and lemon chocolate pudding cake everybody loves and noone knows I get already made at the grocery store but no one knows where.
Alas, it has been fun eating like crap these last few weeks–or I should say, eating like I always used to eat back when my metabolism could afford it, the old binge and purge diet straight from The Guidebook to Southern Womanhood: nothing all day except caffeine, nicotine, amphetamines, and maybe if handy, a couple of Vicodin and Ativan or Klonipin. Then all night, apples, potatoe bread, pot pies, mexican food or shells and cheese, or and more of these from mini wheats or chex mix or pretzels or beer or bourbon or rum and cokes and dancing even though I can’t dance or singing even though I can’t sing and a half of this and a that plus tequila or maybe a little more of a his or a that.
Alas. This is not the right diet for a woman in her mid-forties–or, at least, to avoid the politically uncorrect generalization, I should say my metabolism is no longer able to outrun all of this junk and crap and so I’m mentally preparing myself for gym time.
I don’t like gyms though. Treadmills are sooooo boring. I can’t stand the smell of sweat and artificial lights. Even if I see the person in front of me wiping down a machine with cleaner, I still have to wipe it down again and maybe again and maybe one more time with my own germ-x and wet wipes, which interferes with my work out, so it ends up not being so good for my heart–but no excuses, I will go and get this 20 pounds off again as soon as I have properly mentally and physically prepared myself.
Ooh dear. A great gust of wind just blew through my attic loft where I write scrambling all my papers all over the floor and hopefully not out the window on the other side.
I received a nice text message from biker navy guy. I used to look after his cat when he was offshore. He wanted me to know she had passed away and how was I? My first instinct when I read his text was to think I needed a shot of something or other to text him back, which caused me to have to implement my healthy coping mechanism of sitting on the couch until it passed, which happened over the course of the sun moving from about high noon to sunset. “And that is why I sojourn here alone and paling loitering late for dinner” to paraphrase Keats.
But the urge passed as did the compulsion to even respond to him in any manner. I don’t have to respond just because he contacted me. I am an adult. I am neither a helpless child under someone one else’s control, nor am I an old cat lady passed my prime. The hairdresser said in all likelihood my hair was falling out because of a weather change like the cats. That made me feel better. He also gave me some great tips for getting rid of the dark circles under my eyes. Now he and I both look ten years younger–I’ve got the selfie to prove it. I also got mistaken for a teenager today as I greeted students for the Teen writing class filling in at my local writing center today. My husband invited me over to dinner. I was going to stress and dress to go–now I think I’d rather go collect my papers out of my neighbor’s back yard and curl up in front of my tv with my wooly mammoth Siamese and my jolly Santa popcorn tin–and what the hell, I think I’ll treat myself to a Coke too–it is after all the simple, little things in life that can bring the most happiness. Rock on!