I have a few exciting things going on. I may be contributing to a book of essays helmed by some lovely ladies from Harvard. I keep telling myself it’s not going to happen (because I am a negative person) but prospects are looking good. And an entertainment website I posted on wants to collaborate on a cross-promotion for the oft-neglected entertainment blog.
So I’d better get cracking on the movie/TV watching, and the reading. Which sounds easy but it is not. You see, my anxiety causes me to be a bit of an insomniac. Yet it does not easily lend itself to the concept of leisure time. I feel like I could be part-time job hunting, or organizing, or doing something more productive with my time. And while single-momming it I rarely have time to relax (other than the wee hours).
In other news, I painted my nails and toenails this morning. I’ve been up for two hours already. The cat keeps waking me up between midnight and 2 a.m. and sometimes I can go back to sleep, and sometimes I cannot.
This is one of those days where I cannot. I will be tired at work for sure. But luckily, I am used to this.
I keep having weird dreams. One is that I am having to handle 911 calls all day, every day in my position as a captioning agent. Last night I had a dream that though I was close friends with Melania, I was having an affair with the dreaded DT, or He Who Shall Not Be Named. Ugh. Thank G– it wasn’t a graphic dream. I don’t know where that one came from. Other than my classic tendency to be attracted to hardheaded alpha males.
In fact, I could make my own addiction recovery group: AMA, Alpha Males Anonymous. Hello, I’m Cheryl, and I’m an alphamaleaholic. I love the charming self-confidence. The striving for goals. All of that. What I could do without? The brash insensitivity. Pushing your individual goals on your unsuspecting mate. THE EGO.
I had a problem with my weight. I still have a problem with my weight. I could stand to lose about 50 lbs. I was a skinny Minnie throughout high school and college and didn’t understand that gaining weight was a consequence of eating too much and exercising too little. When I first got stretch marks, I panicked thinking they were a rash. I started eating salad and working out for an hour a day. Eventually, I even got a six-pack.
I gained a lot when I was pregnant with my Vi. My partner said virtually nothing while I was baking the bun, but when the bun came out of the oven, out came the hurtful comments. Two months after I had Vi, I commented that I liked a little extra creamer in my coffee. “That’s why your ass is fat,” my ex quipped.
“I just had a baby,” I replied. “What’s your excuse?”
When I was in the mental hospital, I had lost about 35 pounds in a few months due to the extreme levels of anxiety. Upon reuniting with my husband, who had been in Korea, I didn’t get congratulations on surviving. I got a “Holy crap, you’re as skinny as you were when I met you.”
Funny, the things we value.
After the medications made me gain weight came the statement that would ultimately change and define the nature of our marriage. “I’m not physically attracted to you anymore.”
My outward response? “You’re not exactly an Adonis yourself.”
My inner beauty? What remained of my self-worth? Utterly crushed.
Then there was the other woman. The one who “worked out for two hours a day [and didn’t] eat any real food.” She was a thing of wonderment. Someone to be admired. Not just some fat writer wannabe dreaming that her blog could one day reach the masses. Who was I in comparison to this goddess?
Cheryl effing Slavin, that’s who. The chick with a brain in her head.
I now realize that all my attempts at getting healthy were to please some man who didn’t really exist at the time–a man who somehow appreciated me.
I know a man now who seems to appreciate me, and I am stunned. He suggests ways that we can both be healthier but he certainly doesn’t value me based on my physical appearance alone. We laugh at our chub and talk tentatively about healthy goals. I almost don’t know what to do with him. He’s too sweet.
He certainly doesn’t seem the type to drop a fat-shaming bomb on me. Which is awesome, really. It makes me want to get healthy just so that I age more gracefully and hopefully enjoy his company more that way.
Next, to get back on the bike. The exercise one that my extremely lithe daughter tends to work out on more than I do. My personal gift to myself will be a real bike that I can ride around these foothills with Lithe Kid and Mythical Man in tow. Sounds like a good dream, a good goal.
Certainly better than the dream I had about DT. Because RETCH.