A phenomenon has taken place. Without one snow flake having fluttered outside my window, winter fluff has been spotted inside my home. This signpost of winter was found, rather unexpectedly, while hoisting on my favorite jeans, prior to a night on the town. I realize and appreciate that this marshmallow-like fluff that now encircles my waist, was brought about to help insulate and protect me from the cold temps of winter. But winter hasn’t arrived yet, and normally, I’m quite capable of creating and accumulating this insulation all on my own.
So, as I headed out to the dance club the other night, I did so feeling like a puffer fish: bloated and rotund. The feeling of which, did nothing for my self esteem. There is nothing more discouraging than the feeling of one’s waistline erupting from their jeans, like a muffin cascading beyond the brim of a baking tin.
It’s my own fault. I’ve used the Brazilian Butt Workout DVD only a handful of times. I've pretty much given up on my afternoon jog, and I’m fretting much less than I use to. Fretting, although devastating to my heart health, was wonderful at reducing my overall caloric intake. No, instead of trying to save a sinking business, rifling through piles of paperwork, or preparing for a divorce trial, I’m now often found in the evening, casually grazing on cheese and almonds while watching Antiques Roadshow, or reruns of Frasier. Both of which are done with a dictionary placed nearby. When an unfamiliar word is thrown out, I pause the show, and thumb through my dictionary. And, I enjoy this calm, seemingly boring activity.
Is it true? I've become a square. Well, maybe not a square, exactly - more like a rhomboid; a square that leans a bit to the left.
For many reasons, one being my slightly exaggerated view of my own body, I wasn’t one of the many free spirits that danced wildly across the dance floor the other night. Instead, I sat off to the side, as I usually do, watching. I’ve always enjoyed watching the different ways in which people dance. Some dance as if they’d been professionally trained, others as if performing soft porn. The one couple that prompted more than a few eyebrows to lift did so, without a care in the world. I didn’t know whether to silently scrutinize them, or silently envy them.
Needless to say, I didn’t mind not dancing. Perhaps that’s because I don’t dance well. And I no longer drink to the point of not caring. While dancing, I have an overall awareness of how odd the whole exercise is: the gyrating, stomping, wiggling, and hopping. Some people scoot, others merely stand in place and shift their feet outward to the beat. I enjoy watching those that bounce, as if on a pogo stick. Some give the appearance of engaging in a sacred ceremony while dancing: stern and serious. I was startled and surprised when one fellow launched into a David Lee Roth toe touching, spread legged jump. Regardless of how peculiar his floor-clearing stunt appeared, I respected his efforts just the same.
Never in a million years would I attempt such a jump: in private or otherwise. It seems I'm not as free spirited as I use to be, instead I'm a pre-insulated, middle aged, single mom who is trying to launch her writing career, while keeping her kids happy, healthy and whole. And lastly, I’ve now realized, I’m also a rhomboid. All of which may sound like a dreadful mess, but, I like me I've become – warts and all. It’s a saying. I don’t actually have any warts. Remarkable as it may seem however, I did have a wart on my left thumb for most of my marriage. Once I started writing, and thusly, asked for a divorce, the wart disappeared. Crazy, but true.
Unlike most, stress has never driven me to eat. Never once have I had the urge to nervously nibble. Instead, I eat when happy and when cold. Although the stress is still relatively high in my life, overall, I’m happy. Those things that bring me joy outweigh those things that bring me stress. This is good. I refuse to let go of the happiness, which means, the munching instigator that must go – is the cold. Because, at this rate, it won’t be too many more winters before I resemble the Michelin man.
Sane
No comments:
Post a Comment