It was freezing this morning. -4°C (24.8°F) is not my idea of weather appropriate for the 10th of May, and for tomorrow we have been promised snow. Snow! I found this out when I checked up on the weather just before leaving the apartment to catch my bus, which left me about thirty seconds to change out of the capris and sandals I had chosen and pull on a wool shirt and full pants with boots. Spring has really been dragging its ass about fully arriving. What is all this non-committal shit that it's pulling? I am really starting to wonder if all this therapy isn't working and that maybe Spring and I just need to sever our ties and walk away from this mess that we're trying to label a "season".
I had a pretty good weekend, but it passed by much too quickly. I decided that this weekend I would treat myself, because my week at work was so damn frustrating, so I went shopping. Normally, shopping has a tendency to be a traumatizing experience, but this time I was determined to find pants I liked my ass in while keeping my head above water. I ended up doing all right for myself.
I decided that I needed a game plan in order to properly navigate the psychological minefield that is clothes shopping. After some consideration, I decided that I should start off with something that usually makes me feel really good, even a little high - shoes. When I shop for shoes, I never end up chastising myself for liking bread so much or pouring half a cake of melted margarine over my popcorn. I don't keep turning my feet this way and that in those small angled mirrors near the floor to see if holding them one way or another will lessen the effect of cellulite. I don't curse the evil of fluorescent lights on really pale skin. My feet are just my feet. I don't feel the need to hate them for their hideousness (except for those rare occasions when someone notices the hair that grows out of my toes and I wish that I would remember to take care of that). I found a really cute pair of thongy-type sandals that I can dress up or dress down depending on the outfit, and it made me feel good. I don't have to spend the whole summer kicking around in sloppy old sandals or sloppy old sneakers. This purchase signalled a very hopeful beginning to my shopping experience.
I planned to search for pants in between shoe shopping and a totally frivolous jewellery buy so that I could maybe overshadow the pain of the experience. It is amazing how well this self-deception worked. While I went from store to store trying on capris of every description and size, I kept my mind on the totally frivolous jewellery purchase to follow. I was able to keep my patience, dutifully putting on pair after pair, ignoring the size numbers on the tags, the bad panty lines (I always forget to wear non-granny underwear on pants-shopping days), and the unsightly bulges that some styles seemed to create out of nowhere. By remaining calm and nearly unaffected, I managed to breeze through stores quickly, pausing only occasionally to frown at the mirror, and so I came out of it with cute but conservative pair of black capris and modicum of self-esteem.
After reacting so well to the buying of pants, I rewarded myself with a keen ring I found in shop. It's fabulous, and I have been showing it to everyone and taking it off to marvel at its beauty ever since. I topped off the whole experience with steak on bread smothered in mushrooms with a side of french fries and gravy. So there, nasty changing rooms! (Don't talk to me about how overeating and really fatty foods doesn't jive with avoiding looking horrific in changing rooms, or that eating like that can't possibly act as a slap in the face to a situational body issue. It's my reaction, and I will deal with its internal conflicts).
On Saturday night after my wonderful bout of self-indulgence, the Fiery One, Friday, her partner P, and I had supper together, and then Friday and I decided to go for drinks, which ended up consuming the rest of the evening until everything finally closed for the night. I was going to say that we barhopped, but starting in one bar and finishing in a second doesn't really count. We managed to comport ourselves remarkably well considering how many drinks we probably consumed, and P was very good about walking over to meet up with Friday at my doorstep in order to escort her the remainder of the way home.
Next time, I think I will drink less and eat more. I do like beer, but calorie-wise, it's pretty much like eating. When I drink beer, I end up consuming only beer for the rest of the evening, but if I decide to eat instead, I can consume a variety of different delightful foods. Now that I think of it, why isn't it wildly more popular than it is to have restaurants that serve food like bar shots? A little of this and a little of that dished up throughout the evening? There are a couple of restaurants like that in this city, but now that I've thought of it, there should be dozens. We could be like the Romans and set aside rooms for vomitoriums and lie about languorously as we eat. Only in better clothing. And in mixed company. (I think that if I am going to knowingly tell an untruth about history, then I should also correct it. I know that the Romans did not have rooms set aside just for vomiting. In actuality, “a vomitorium was a passageway in an amphitheater or theater that opened into a tier of seats from below or behind.” Sorry for either briefly creating a misconception or upholding a previously established one).
Yesterday, the Sunday of my weekend, was all about the knitting. I knit and knit and knit and knit. I knit my little heart out. I knit until I got that little white blistery bit on the tip of my left thumb. I was determined to finish that poncho, but I finally gave out and admitted that it was time to go to bed. Do you know how close I was to finishing when I gave out? Three-and-a-half fucking inches. Can you believe that? I was so close, but mentally, I was so far away. Today is the day, I swear. It's like a nit picking at my skin. Every day you leave me unfinished is a little more failure for you, my dear, it says in its kindly, old-lady voice. Do you see the loose stitch over there? Take a look at this one, the one that you knit instead of purled, she coos. I know, it's only a poncho, but I seem to have put an awful lot of pressure on myself to finish this project. Tonight's the night, I swear. (Friday, I was just remembering our conversation of Saturday night, and I thought that I should let you know that I am not copying Luva when I make my normally not-talking poncho-in-the-making talk, because this things-talking-to-me bit is a device I have used for years and years (I’m extra sorry for the excessive hyphenation. It’s like a tick (oh, and I also apologize for the brackets within brackets thing, because it can be confusing))).
All afternoon, I have been thinking that I was feeling awfully slim in these jeans. They just seemed roomier, and it was feeling pretty good. That is until I realized that my fly has been down since lunch.
I can’t decide if vaginal plastic surgery for reasons unrelated to health makes me angry, creeps me out, or causes me to chuckle about human silliness.
When it comes to destroying the ozone layer, even trees are getting into the act.
Making any mention of weight, even as it regards health, is becoming a dirty topic. It’s not talking about the health dangers of childhood obesity that cause boys and girls to delve into anorexia and bulimia, and keeping mum about it isn’t going to stop the real stimuli that are setting off this growing phenomenon. We’re entering a new age of if-we-just-don’t-talk-about-it-it-will-go-away thinking.