Tomorrow? I am going to North Carolina.
Which is so fabulous I can't even tell you. (Just because I didn't want to live there doesn't mean that VISITING isn't excellent.)
Unfortunately, I will have to get up at about 3:15 AM to get to the airport and get my flight. (But then: warm weather! Quality time with the fam! Yay!) I'm sure I will have some amusing travel stories, because ... well, I have a tendency to attract some of the, er, more lively types on planes and public transportation.
I WILL be blogging during my vacation; however, it could possibly be at odd hours. So I'd like to point out that if you subscribe to my blog, you would never have to worry about the strange times at which I post! (If you don't subscribe to it, you should sign on as a follower ... I'm just saying ... it's nice for me to know who's reading over here!).
It's time for a vacation, y'all!
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Tales from an Accident Prone Life, Episode I: Don't Step on a Tack
I have always been an accident magnet. I fell down the basement stairs at my childhood home so many times that for a while, I was banned from going down there. (In fact, to this day, if my father sees me on stairs, he bellows out "RAILING!" so as to remind me that the bannister is there for a purpose, and that purpose is SAFETY.)
My accident-prone-ness is a running joke in my family; at one point, my ex-husband told my father that he wanted to teach me to ski.
My dad looked at him steadily and finally said, "You know that she struggles with WALKING, right?"
It's true. If there is a bump on the ground to trip over, I will find it. If there is a single splinter on an entire deck, my hand will run over it. If there is ONE deranged driver on the road, I will make a beeline for him. I'm continually covered with bruises that I can't assign to a specific incident -- but that's primarily because there are so many incidents of crashing into things that, well, how would I choose just one?
However.
Even given my spectacular history of accidents and gracelessness, there are a few that really stand out.
Episode One: The Thumbtack Incident
Shilo and I met when we were in preschool and instantly discovered that we had several things in common. We both were very fond of the colour orange. We both enjoyed giggling. We both REALLY liked to talk.
Needless to say, we were frequently separated. However, for some reason, as we went to kindergarten and then elementary school, we kept ending up in the same classes. I believe it was Mrs Lovejoy, our third grade teacher, who finally decided we were NOT allowed to sit together. EVER. PERIOD. "You two don't exactly misbehave, " she said, "But you're very silly."
And perhaps we were. But by the age of 9, we'd already been friends for five years -- over half of our lives -- and, well, there was just so much to talk and laugh about! And frankly, all of those things were MUCH more interesting than long division!
We were permanently separated.
It was very sad.
So Shilo's mom invited me over for an afternoon to play and have dinner.
To be honest, given my ability to injure myself with regularity, I'm continually surprised that ANY parents allowed me at their houses, EVER. I was the kid who managed to find the ONLY exposed nail in our entire nursery school and kneel on it (the memory of which still makes me feel incredibly queasy and as though I should have a tetanus shot). I was the kid who was always getting hit by the ball in gym. I was an impending disaster with really big feet.
Shilo's mom invited me anyway, bless her.
My mom said I could go.
So off I went.
We were having a grand time, giggling and playing and being goofy little girls when suddenly, I felt a sharp pain in one of my feet. My brain immediately went into research mode: let's see, what was this? Could we relate it to pains we had previously experienced?
Did I bump into something? No.
Did I cut myself? It didn't feel like a cut.
Did I step on something? No, there was nothing on the floor that I could see that I could have stepped on.
I tried another step. NOPE, it was definitely still painful.
I sat on the floor and looked at my foot. And there it was: a Thumbtack.
Well, this is new, I thought.
I'd like to say that I didn't cry. However, I probably did (I'm sure Shilo remembers this better than I do, but I know that my reaction to most injuries was still, at that time, crying. As I have gotten older, if I cry, it's more tears of resignation and weariness, as if to say STILL? Still with the accidents?).
I do remember that Shilo's mom came to see what the deal was and, at that point, I think she realized -- inviting the accident magnet was a bad idea. Here's how I know: while the rest of the afternoon was a bit of a blur, she had made a carrot cake for dessert. As usual, Shilo and I were talking and giggling all through dinner. When we got to the carrot cake, her mom seemed worried.
"You girls need to be careful," she said, "and not be talking and laughing while you're eating this. It would be very easy to choke on it." She looked at me, seemed to have an internal debate, and then decided to send Shilo to eat her cake in another room.
Separated again.
But at least we had an accident-free dessert.
Note: I would like to report, happily, that I still see Shilo with some regularity. And that while we still laugh and talk as much as ever, it's been a while since there was a mandatory separation.
My accident-prone-ness is a running joke in my family; at one point, my ex-husband told my father that he wanted to teach me to ski.
My dad looked at him steadily and finally said, "You know that she struggles with WALKING, right?"
It's true. If there is a bump on the ground to trip over, I will find it. If there is a single splinter on an entire deck, my hand will run over it. If there is ONE deranged driver on the road, I will make a beeline for him. I'm continually covered with bruises that I can't assign to a specific incident -- but that's primarily because there are so many incidents of crashing into things that, well, how would I choose just one?
However.
Even given my spectacular history of accidents and gracelessness, there are a few that really stand out.
Episode One: The Thumbtack Incident
Shilo and I met when we were in preschool and instantly discovered that we had several things in common. We both were very fond of the colour orange. We both enjoyed giggling. We both REALLY liked to talk.
Needless to say, we were frequently separated. However, for some reason, as we went to kindergarten and then elementary school, we kept ending up in the same classes. I believe it was Mrs Lovejoy, our third grade teacher, who finally decided we were NOT allowed to sit together. EVER. PERIOD. "You two don't exactly misbehave, " she said, "But you're very silly."
And perhaps we were. But by the age of 9, we'd already been friends for five years -- over half of our lives -- and, well, there was just so much to talk and laugh about! And frankly, all of those things were MUCH more interesting than long division!
We were permanently separated.
It was very sad.
So Shilo's mom invited me over for an afternoon to play and have dinner.
To be honest, given my ability to injure myself with regularity, I'm continually surprised that ANY parents allowed me at their houses, EVER. I was the kid who managed to find the ONLY exposed nail in our entire nursery school and kneel on it (the memory of which still makes me feel incredibly queasy and as though I should have a tetanus shot). I was the kid who was always getting hit by the ball in gym. I was an impending disaster with really big feet.
Shilo's mom invited me anyway, bless her.
My mom said I could go.
So off I went.
We were having a grand time, giggling and playing and being goofy little girls when suddenly, I felt a sharp pain in one of my feet. My brain immediately went into research mode: let's see, what was this? Could we relate it to pains we had previously experienced?
Did I bump into something? No.
Did I cut myself? It didn't feel like a cut.
Did I step on something? No, there was nothing on the floor that I could see that I could have stepped on.
I tried another step. NOPE, it was definitely still painful.
I sat on the floor and looked at my foot. And there it was: a Thumbtack.
Well, this is new, I thought.
I'd like to say that I didn't cry. However, I probably did (I'm sure Shilo remembers this better than I do, but I know that my reaction to most injuries was still, at that time, crying. As I have gotten older, if I cry, it's more tears of resignation and weariness, as if to say STILL? Still with the accidents?).
I do remember that Shilo's mom came to see what the deal was and, at that point, I think she realized -- inviting the accident magnet was a bad idea. Here's how I know: while the rest of the afternoon was a bit of a blur, she had made a carrot cake for dessert. As usual, Shilo and I were talking and giggling all through dinner. When we got to the carrot cake, her mom seemed worried.
"You girls need to be careful," she said, "and not be talking and laughing while you're eating this. It would be very easy to choke on it." She looked at me, seemed to have an internal debate, and then decided to send Shilo to eat her cake in another room.
Separated again.
But at least we had an accident-free dessert.
Note: I would like to report, happily, that I still see Shilo with some regularity. And that while we still laugh and talk as much as ever, it's been a while since there was a mandatory separation.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
What is Past, Or Passing, Or To Come*
This time of year makes me antsy.
I think that perhaps everyone (at least, everyone who lives in a place where the winter tends to linger on like a horrid houseguest) gets a bit stir crazy in the early spring, when the world is caught between cold and warm, and you want to go outside and run around and be a little nutty but the ground is still pretty much frozen and there's a good chance that it might actually snow at least one more time. It's only natural to want to raise your face to the sky and feel the warm sun on your skin.
I want that too -- the gamboling about in the warmer air -- but that's not what I mean by antsy. I should have said that this time of year makes me anxious. April into May has not, traditionally, been a very good time for me. Yeats wrote that "things fall apart/ The center cannot hold" and for me, when things finally come as unglued as they can, as finally as they can, this is when they have done it.
Some days -- most days, many days -- I am fine. Other days I feel like McGyver, trying to build a framework of emotional stability out of a book of matches, a piece of gum, and a bicycle spoke before everything falls completely apart.
And so I feel anxious -- and yet, at the same time, this year I actually feel very healthy, which paradoxically might be making me more anxious, as though I have new legs and I've learned to stand and walk on them, but I'm treading on an unfamiliar surface and so, not wanting to fall, I take every step with exceptional caution; it's an exhausting way to walk, pondering every potential step and constantly checking for hidden dangers. (Which is, in and of itself, an exercise in folly because being hidden means that you WON'T be able to see them, doesn't it?)
I keep reminding myself that, if I should fall down, I have a choice. I can stay down, in the dirt and the grit, or I can get back up. I can try to do it on my own, or I can also ask for some help. I have plenty of people who will offer me a strong, warm hand. (And I also know that I LIKE being upright -- the view is much better from here.)
Still. Antsy.
Perhaps a much needed vacation will help.
*From "Sailing to Byzantium" by WB Yeats. One of my personal favorites. :)
I think that perhaps everyone (at least, everyone who lives in a place where the winter tends to linger on like a horrid houseguest) gets a bit stir crazy in the early spring, when the world is caught between cold and warm, and you want to go outside and run around and be a little nutty but the ground is still pretty much frozen and there's a good chance that it might actually snow at least one more time. It's only natural to want to raise your face to the sky and feel the warm sun on your skin.
I want that too -- the gamboling about in the warmer air -- but that's not what I mean by antsy. I should have said that this time of year makes me anxious. April into May has not, traditionally, been a very good time for me. Yeats wrote that "things fall apart/ The center cannot hold" and for me, when things finally come as unglued as they can, as finally as they can, this is when they have done it.
Some days -- most days, many days -- I am fine. Other days I feel like McGyver, trying to build a framework of emotional stability out of a book of matches, a piece of gum, and a bicycle spoke before everything falls completely apart.
And so I feel anxious -- and yet, at the same time, this year I actually feel very healthy, which paradoxically might be making me more anxious, as though I have new legs and I've learned to stand and walk on them, but I'm treading on an unfamiliar surface and so, not wanting to fall, I take every step with exceptional caution; it's an exhausting way to walk, pondering every potential step and constantly checking for hidden dangers. (Which is, in and of itself, an exercise in folly because being hidden means that you WON'T be able to see them, doesn't it?)
I keep reminding myself that, if I should fall down, I have a choice. I can stay down, in the dirt and the grit, or I can get back up. I can try to do it on my own, or I can also ask for some help. I have plenty of people who will offer me a strong, warm hand. (And I also know that I LIKE being upright -- the view is much better from here.)
Still. Antsy.
Perhaps a much needed vacation will help.
*From "Sailing to Byzantium" by WB Yeats. One of my personal favorites. :)
Monday, April 4, 2011
Bananas (or Adulthood, Fail)
It was the bananas that sent me over the edge.
I'd spent the day with a good friend -- one I dearly love and have been pals with forever -- and feeling just the teensiest bit, well, envious of her life. Like all lives, it has moments of complete "AAAGHHHH STREESSSSS" -- show me one that doesn't -- but overall? This woman has it together. Let's look at the stats.
*Married for 12 years. (I've been divorced for 4 -- hey, a milestone is a milestone, people! Don't judge me while I'm judging myself!)
* Two fabulous children. (I have a deranged cat)
* Lovely, meticulously kept home. (I've lived in four different places in the last five years.)
*She's a stay at home mom with an emerging craft business. (I've changed careers three times and, um, write a blog where I talk about instances of falling down in public.)
I don't know what I would have to be envious of, right? We're EXACTLY alike. Practically twins.
I'm not usually a jealous sort, but now and then it creeps up on me that perhaps I haven't launched into the most successful attempt at adulthood ever. But what of it, I said to myself as I searched the shelves with my friend, looking for a child's bookshelf. I'm happy with where I'm at, even though it isn't quite where I expected to be. It's all good.
And it was.
Until I got home and noticed the bananas.
I don't usually buy bananas because I like them in very small doses (say, half a banana at a time). But in January, in yet another ill-fated attempt at Responsible Adulthood, I went to the doctor. The doctor said my potassium was low and that I should eat more bananas and potatoes. I went with the potatoes because -- well, potatoes are delicious and, frankly, keep for a lot longer than bananas.
Of late, however, there are few to no potatoes in my life for weight loss reasons. So, bananas. The store had a large selection of lovely, firm, yellow bananas. I was judicious in my selection of a bunch, knowing that five bananas was simply too many for one single me. One especially good looking bunch had three bananas on it. I looked at it. I'm pretty sure it winked at me and said, "Hey, pretty lady. Come here often? Wanna take us home?" (Okay, bananas don't have the best pick up lines. But whatever.)
Three bananas it was.
I put them on my kitchen counter where I would have to look at them every day so that, in my Responsible Adult fashion, I would eat them.
I ate one of them.
The other two -- formerly triplets, now just twins -- sat on the counter and waited.
I'll eat them later, I thought every time I looked at them.
Until yesterday, when I got home. There they were, hanging out on the counter. They were no longer the wholesome duo that caught my eye in the produce bin -- they were now two badasses that had clearly been around the block a few times and were up to no good. They were leering at me.
"Hey lady, did you forget about us?"
"DAMMIT!" I said out loud. "I SUCK at being a grown-up!"
I like to think that I am not overly dramatic.
I realize that I am wrong.
Because this is what went through my head next: What is wrong with me? How can I be such a fail at adulthood? Responsible people buy food and then EAT it! They don't leave it on the counter to ROT! And hello, don't kid yourself, those bananas are totally rotting on your counter because you didn't eat them. I. Am. Such. An. Idiot. This is why I'm single, I think. No, it totally is. Because I'm such a spaz that one minute I'm all "ooooh, bananas" and the next I'm all distracted by some other breakfast-y delicousness and all "whatever, bananas" and now look at this. Total waste. I bet my friend isn't so irresponsible that she lets bananas rot on her counter -- "
And then I started to laugh. Out loud. At myself.
Because I AM an idiot, but it isn't because I have two brown bananas on my kitchen counter.
I'm an idiot because, even though I know how silly it is, I still trying to live my life by the rules of "supposed to" and "should have" and then being surprised when I come up short. Of COURSE I come up short. We all come up short -- because no matter how well we're doing, we could be doing better, couldn't we? If we live by the rules of "supposed to" there's always another expectation to meet -- a better job, more money, bigger house, happier relationship, what have you.
But "supposed to" doesn't take circumstance into consideration. Your job -- and what you want out of your job -- can change. Money, while nice to have, won't feed your soul. If I know that I'm not cut out to be a homeowner (and oh, I am not) that doesn't lessen the joy I find in my (perfect for me, rented) space. Relationships come and they go until you find the partner who is meant to stay -- the failed ones are stepping stones on the way to the right one.
And two partially rotten bananas on the counter are JUST bananas that I didn't eat and not signposts of failure.
Or at least they were.
At the end of my tizzy, when I was done laughing at myself and getting a grip, I considered them in their sweet, soft, ripe banana-y goodness... and made banana bread.
That, my friends, is winning.
I'd spent the day with a good friend -- one I dearly love and have been pals with forever -- and feeling just the teensiest bit, well, envious of her life. Like all lives, it has moments of complete "AAAGHHHH STREESSSSS" -- show me one that doesn't -- but overall? This woman has it together. Let's look at the stats.
*Married for 12 years. (I've been divorced for 4 -- hey, a milestone is a milestone, people! Don't judge me while I'm judging myself!)
* Two fabulous children. (I have a deranged cat)
* Lovely, meticulously kept home. (I've lived in four different places in the last five years.)
*She's a stay at home mom with an emerging craft business. (I've changed careers three times and, um, write a blog where I talk about instances of falling down in public.)
I don't know what I would have to be envious of, right? We're EXACTLY alike. Practically twins.
I'm not usually a jealous sort, but now and then it creeps up on me that perhaps I haven't launched into the most successful attempt at adulthood ever. But what of it, I said to myself as I searched the shelves with my friend, looking for a child's bookshelf. I'm happy with where I'm at, even though it isn't quite where I expected to be. It's all good.
And it was.
Until I got home and noticed the bananas.
I don't usually buy bananas because I like them in very small doses (say, half a banana at a time). But in January, in yet another ill-fated attempt at Responsible Adulthood, I went to the doctor. The doctor said my potassium was low and that I should eat more bananas and potatoes. I went with the potatoes because -- well, potatoes are delicious and, frankly, keep for a lot longer than bananas.
Of late, however, there are few to no potatoes in my life for weight loss reasons. So, bananas. The store had a large selection of lovely, firm, yellow bananas. I was judicious in my selection of a bunch, knowing that five bananas was simply too many for one single me. One especially good looking bunch had three bananas on it. I looked at it. I'm pretty sure it winked at me and said, "Hey, pretty lady. Come here often? Wanna take us home?" (Okay, bananas don't have the best pick up lines. But whatever.)
Three bananas it was.
I put them on my kitchen counter where I would have to look at them every day so that, in my Responsible Adult fashion, I would eat them.
I ate one of them.
The other two -- formerly triplets, now just twins -- sat on the counter and waited.
I'll eat them later, I thought every time I looked at them.
Until yesterday, when I got home. There they were, hanging out on the counter. They were no longer the wholesome duo that caught my eye in the produce bin -- they were now two badasses that had clearly been around the block a few times and were up to no good. They were leering at me.
"Hey lady, did you forget about us?"
"DAMMIT!" I said out loud. "I SUCK at being a grown-up!"
I like to think that I am not overly dramatic.
I realize that I am wrong.
Because this is what went through my head next: What is wrong with me? How can I be such a fail at adulthood? Responsible people buy food and then EAT it! They don't leave it on the counter to ROT! And hello, don't kid yourself, those bananas are totally rotting on your counter because you didn't eat them. I. Am. Such. An. Idiot. This is why I'm single, I think. No, it totally is. Because I'm such a spaz that one minute I'm all "ooooh, bananas" and the next I'm all distracted by some other breakfast-y delicousness and all "whatever, bananas" and now look at this. Total waste. I bet my friend isn't so irresponsible that she lets bananas rot on her counter -- "
And then I started to laugh. Out loud. At myself.
Because I AM an idiot, but it isn't because I have two brown bananas on my kitchen counter.
I'm an idiot because, even though I know how silly it is, I still trying to live my life by the rules of "supposed to" and "should have" and then being surprised when I come up short. Of COURSE I come up short. We all come up short -- because no matter how well we're doing, we could be doing better, couldn't we? If we live by the rules of "supposed to" there's always another expectation to meet -- a better job, more money, bigger house, happier relationship, what have you.
But "supposed to" doesn't take circumstance into consideration. Your job -- and what you want out of your job -- can change. Money, while nice to have, won't feed your soul. If I know that I'm not cut out to be a homeowner (and oh, I am not) that doesn't lessen the joy I find in my (perfect for me, rented) space. Relationships come and they go until you find the partner who is meant to stay -- the failed ones are stepping stones on the way to the right one.
And two partially rotten bananas on the counter are JUST bananas that I didn't eat and not signposts of failure.
Or at least they were.
At the end of my tizzy, when I was done laughing at myself and getting a grip, I considered them in their sweet, soft, ripe banana-y goodness... and made banana bread.
That, my friends, is winning.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Grace In Small Things: Sunday, April 3
1. Being able to post on Sunday!
2. Huevos Rancheros at the Friendly Toast in Portsmouth, NH
3. Finding the perfect birthday gift for my favorite soon-to-be three year old.
4. Spending the day with an old friend (but how old? Shush ... we don't talk about that!)
5. Sunny, warm April days.
2. Huevos Rancheros at the Friendly Toast in Portsmouth, NH
3. Finding the perfect birthday gift for my favorite soon-to-be three year old.
4. Spending the day with an old friend (but how old? Shush ... we don't talk about that!)
5. Sunny, warm April days.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Saturday Photos
Totally random photo, I know (aren't they all?) -- but I will be so happy when I am looking at grass and flowers instead of snow!
Friday, April 1, 2011
99 Bottles of (ginger) Ale on the Wall ...
For those of you who have never actually seen me in person (and there are a couple of you out there), I should start this post by saying this: I'm an Irish girl.
Some Irish girls are built like the dancers you might see in "Riverdance". They're lanky and graceful and sylphlike.
And some of us are stocky and sturdy and well suited for farming potatoes and peat.
Guess which cateory I belong in. (Hint: it's not the first one.)
So while it's lovely to have the sort of frame that is well built for storing fat and surviving a potato famine, in a non-potato-famine surviving mode, it's a little bit ... I don't want to use the word "annoying", but ... it can be frustrating, because I find myself looking in the mirror and having these sorts of conversations play out in my head:
Me: Aren't my calves supposed to have some definition?
Calves (mortified) We're defined! We're CLEARLY calves! We serve the function of calves -- walking, standing -- just fine.
Me: But I think you are supposed to be slimmer.
Calves: I don't know why you're picking on us. Have you taken a good look at Thighs lately?
Thighs (Gasps): WHY ARE YOU THROWING US UNDER THE BUS? Stupid Calves!
Calves: ...
Me: Okay, maybe we could all -- overall, you know, all together -- maybe we could all stand to be a little ... smaller.
Arms: Us too?
Me (gently) Yes.
DNA: You know you're not really ever going to be "small" right? Potato farming? Fields? Sturdy-ness?
Me, Arms, Thighs, Calves: SHUT UP, Stupid DNA!
So I decided to go on a diet. Not a little diet, either. An expensive, fancy, food delivery diet. The kind I always said I'd never ever go on EVER... but I'm getting older and, you know, I'd like to have calves that are defined (and a little bit more separate from my ankles, because I'm vain like that).
And the diet is working, as I may have mentioned in the past.
There's just one thing.
You can't drink alcohol while on the diet.
Now, I'm not a tremendous drinker or anything, but did I mention? Nice Irish girl. Which means that in addition to the "Peasant Farmer Physique" that is encoded in my genetic material, I also ... on occasion ... now and again ... enjoy a beer. Or a glass of wine. Or maybe two.
Also, hello, dieting is STRESSFUL. You know what makes me less stressed out? An evening with my good friend Pinot Noir, that's what.
So I was like, well, maybe I can cheat and sneak in a drinkie poo here and there. No worries.
Which I did. Except that the other day, when I was like "WINE NIGHT! WOO!" I was pretty sure that I could hear my Calves saying with disappointment: "Seriously, she wants us to be more defined and THIS is how she respects her diet? Whatever. I'm going to slump RIGHT INTO those ankles. And then she'll have to talk to the Cankles. So there. Define THIS."
I was guilt laden. I don't enjoy guilt. I certainly don't enjoy being laden with it. So I was like, Okay, okkkaaaaay, I won't enjoy anymore drinkie poos while I'm on the Diet (which should really be capitalized, I guess, because it's SERIOUS. It's a Diet). Sheeesh. Drama over.
But then I had a very stressful week and found myself standing in the wine aisle at WalMart of all places, dreaming of a big old glass of Merlot and nearly whimpering.
Calves and Thighs: INTERVENTION!
And they marched me over to the soft drinks.
Which is how I came home with two cases of Diet Ginger Ale. Because it's ALE, right? And if you pour it in a wine glass, it's the same colour as pinot grigio. And if you've anthropomorphized your overweight body parts, you can obviously convince yourself that a diet ginger ale is nearly as wonderful as a cold beer on a crazy busy stressful day.
Right? (Takes giant slug of cold, delicious diet ginger ale.)
Well ... maybe.
Some Irish girls are built like the dancers you might see in "Riverdance". They're lanky and graceful and sylphlike.
And some of us are stocky and sturdy and well suited for farming potatoes and peat.
Guess which cateory I belong in. (Hint: it's not the first one.)
So while it's lovely to have the sort of frame that is well built for storing fat and surviving a potato famine, in a non-potato-famine surviving mode, it's a little bit ... I don't want to use the word "annoying", but ... it can be frustrating, because I find myself looking in the mirror and having these sorts of conversations play out in my head:
Me: Aren't my calves supposed to have some definition?
Calves (mortified) We're defined! We're CLEARLY calves! We serve the function of calves -- walking, standing -- just fine.
Me: But I think you are supposed to be slimmer.
Calves: I don't know why you're picking on us. Have you taken a good look at Thighs lately?
Thighs (Gasps): WHY ARE YOU THROWING US UNDER THE BUS? Stupid Calves!
Calves: ...
Me: Okay, maybe we could all -- overall, you know, all together -- maybe we could all stand to be a little ... smaller.
Arms: Us too?
Me (gently) Yes.
DNA: You know you're not really ever going to be "small" right? Potato farming? Fields? Sturdy-ness?
Me, Arms, Thighs, Calves: SHUT UP, Stupid DNA!
So I decided to go on a diet. Not a little diet, either. An expensive, fancy, food delivery diet. The kind I always said I'd never ever go on EVER... but I'm getting older and, you know, I'd like to have calves that are defined (and a little bit more separate from my ankles, because I'm vain like that).
And the diet is working, as I may have mentioned in the past.
There's just one thing.
You can't drink alcohol while on the diet.
Now, I'm not a tremendous drinker or anything, but did I mention? Nice Irish girl. Which means that in addition to the "Peasant Farmer Physique" that is encoded in my genetic material, I also ... on occasion ... now and again ... enjoy a beer. Or a glass of wine. Or maybe two.
Also, hello, dieting is STRESSFUL. You know what makes me less stressed out? An evening with my good friend Pinot Noir, that's what.
So I was like, well, maybe I can cheat and sneak in a drinkie poo here and there. No worries.
Which I did. Except that the other day, when I was like "WINE NIGHT! WOO!" I was pretty sure that I could hear my Calves saying with disappointment: "Seriously, she wants us to be more defined and THIS is how she respects her diet? Whatever. I'm going to slump RIGHT INTO those ankles. And then she'll have to talk to the Cankles. So there. Define THIS."
I was guilt laden. I don't enjoy guilt. I certainly don't enjoy being laden with it. So I was like, Okay, okkkaaaaay, I won't enjoy anymore drinkie poos while I'm on the Diet (which should really be capitalized, I guess, because it's SERIOUS. It's a Diet). Sheeesh. Drama over.
But then I had a very stressful week and found myself standing in the wine aisle at WalMart of all places, dreaming of a big old glass of Merlot and nearly whimpering.
Calves and Thighs: INTERVENTION!
And they marched me over to the soft drinks.
Which is how I came home with two cases of Diet Ginger Ale. Because it's ALE, right? And if you pour it in a wine glass, it's the same colour as pinot grigio. And if you've anthropomorphized your overweight body parts, you can obviously convince yourself that a diet ginger ale is nearly as wonderful as a cold beer on a crazy busy stressful day.
Right? (Takes giant slug of cold, delicious diet ginger ale.)
Well ... maybe.
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