No dates in the near future. Or the far future. So my friend gave me the advice you give to your pathetic friends- "you can use this time to work on you". OK, the pathetic part might just be me. So this is how I'm working on me.
Using RunDouble, I can run for 20 entire minutes (all at one time). In my snail's pace, that means I can run 1.24 miles. All. At. One. Time. I know I am far from 5K hopes. But I am signing up for a 5K in May. And my goal is to run/jog/not walk the entire time. Or die, I don't want to walk during the race or die. I like to set my goals high. The good news is, I'm still going. And I'm lapping everyone sitting on their couch.
By sticking to my points plus each week, I have lost almost 23 pounds. When you get to 22.8, I feel entitled to say 23. Realize, when I talk about my points for the week, I'm not really counting accurately. I don't count the extra 49 points they give you. (Imagine if I did-I would prove Weight Watchers wrong!) I figure by not using them, it accounts for the times I sneak something or lose my mind completely and inhale half a pack of Oreos before regaining consciousness. But I wouldn't know anything about that. Or about trying to calculate the points of an Oreo, then judge they are too many points to be worth putting in little baggies.
Donating platelets is something I've done dozens of times. I've donated (platelets and whole blood) enough times that I got my 10 gallon pin earlier this year. They are always excited to see me, I get a snack, sometimes I get to watch a movie- it's better than a lot of dates I've been on. Getting light headed, breaking out in a drenching, cold sweat and not remembering things clearly was not part of my plan on Saturday. I was in the last 90 seconds of a process that takes about an hour and fifteen minutes. Seriously, 90 seconds. I remember telling David that I was feeling light headed. That was it. Then I remember three people standing over me, tell me to cough. Not in a 'turn your head and cough', but because coughing helps to get your blood pressure up. I missed the part when they took the needle out, turned off the heating pad, tilting my chair, or the first eight times they asked me to cough. I do get the memory of David having to mop off my forehead. Oh, the humiliation. Community service feels so good.
Next is a Pampered Chef party. I'm showing off Loaded Baked Potato Chowder. It's delicious, cheesy, comforting and something that probably wrecks my points. For the week. Maybe the month. I also want to plan stamping projects. But that will take a bit more time and resolve. Mostly, the time and resolve is for cleaning my stamp room first, then working on projects. But I've been thinking that same thought for at least a month. Like I said, I like to set my goals high.
Monday, October 28, 2013
Monday, October 21, 2013
Love In The Time Of .....what??
Every once in a while, a snippet on AOL catches my attention enough to make me click on something. This time, the attention grabber was "what made dating difficult for this girl". She was young, cute and what in the world would make dating difficult for her? I was expecting something horrible, like she is a hermaphrodite, or experiences selective mutism, but only on dates. None of those. She is gluten intolerant. And there is a whole dating site for those who live gluten free and who want to date others who are gluten free. I'm not making this up. The title of the web article was, "Love In The Time of Gluten Sensitivity". I've seen it all.
I thought dating was all about learning about someone, learning to compromise, seeing if you are compatible. What's next? A dating website for people who are Steelers fans? (And if there is one, please let me know because that would totally ROCK!) I am starting to imagine things like: www.datemeifyouhatemushrooms.com, Obsessive Compulsive and Dating, or a matchmaking service for hypochondriacs between the ages of 29 and 34 who like big dogs, spicy food and video games. So that last one might be wishful thinking for a friend. Isn't part of the fun finding out about their likes and dislikes and then telling all your co-workers at lunch the next day? Bad date stories about the guy who doesn't eat lettuce or the one where the goodnight kiss was akin to getting my chin licked by a dog are the things to which marrieds look forward. How else will they appreciate their spouse?
Have I been so removed from dating that I missed the questionnaire period prior to dates? This seems so ultra-specific and doesn't leave room for things that might arise in the future. What if your perfect gluten sensitive date develops another allergy to seafood? If seafood is your favorite food, do you dump them?
My panic is based on the application of this to my life. I'm hoping our society isn't that superficial. I hope no one is ruling me out because I do eat gluten or I told them I like canning salsa and jam. If they are against multigrains or mason jars, I'm sunk. Rule me out based on something real. Decide not to date me because my jokes aren't funny (but really, they are- I am hilarious). Cast me aside because I use proper grammar, not because I don't eat red meat and you are a butcher. Although, this does remind me of a recurrent theme. I tend not to relate well to men who don't drink coffee. Hmmmm. Tea drinkers beware.
I thought dating was all about learning about someone, learning to compromise, seeing if you are compatible. What's next? A dating website for people who are Steelers fans? (And if there is one, please let me know because that would totally ROCK!) I am starting to imagine things like: www.datemeifyouhatemushrooms.com, Obsessive Compulsive and Dating, or a matchmaking service for hypochondriacs between the ages of 29 and 34 who like big dogs, spicy food and video games. So that last one might be wishful thinking for a friend. Isn't part of the fun finding out about their likes and dislikes and then telling all your co-workers at lunch the next day? Bad date stories about the guy who doesn't eat lettuce or the one where the goodnight kiss was akin to getting my chin licked by a dog are the things to which marrieds look forward. How else will they appreciate their spouse?
Have I been so removed from dating that I missed the questionnaire period prior to dates? This seems so ultra-specific and doesn't leave room for things that might arise in the future. What if your perfect gluten sensitive date develops another allergy to seafood? If seafood is your favorite food, do you dump them?
My panic is based on the application of this to my life. I'm hoping our society isn't that superficial. I hope no one is ruling me out because I do eat gluten or I told them I like canning salsa and jam. If they are against multigrains or mason jars, I'm sunk. Rule me out based on something real. Decide not to date me because my jokes aren't funny (but really, they are- I am hilarious). Cast me aside because I use proper grammar, not because I don't eat red meat and you are a butcher. Although, this does remind me of a recurrent theme. I tend not to relate well to men who don't drink coffee. Hmmmm. Tea drinkers beware.
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
What I miss
In addition to having trouble falling asleep, I have weird dreams. I will wake up and feel like my dreams were vivid and lengthy. My personal theory on dreams is based on a freshman psych class. It was the largest class I had at Bloomsburg, and there were about 600 of us in an auditorium. Well, there were 600 on the days we had tests. It was an 8 am class after all. Three professors split the lecturing and my favorite was a relatively young prof whose name escapes me at the minute. He was very animated, even in front of 600. He mentioned his theory on dreams and I developed my own adaptation to suit my needs. Dreams are a combination of things to me. Mainly, I think it is memories or thoughts that are distorted. No premonitions, no visions of the future, no miracle solutions for problems. There is also an aspect I believe about dreams being a manifestation of what we are feeling in our present life that we allow ourselves to express in our dreams. That would explain the dreams I have where I am an angry, screaming, ranting lunatic or ones where I am using weapons to destroy the enemy. I have more of the former than the latter. My theory doesn't explain why my dreams have included a lot of alcohol lately. More on that later.
Last night's dream is more of the wistful variety. I was with friends and we were at some kind of bar/hotel where there were multiple floors. Each floor had a different theme- sports bar, karaoke, music, restaurant. The friends were a mix of people that would never know each other in real life: people I graduated high school with, friends from work, a few cameos by friends from college. It was like my worlds colliding (to steal a phrase from Mary). I remember we were drinking and I was focused on my shoes. I had on high platform heels (which I never wear) and was concentrating on not falling. Which was hard, because we were drinking. By the end of the night/end of the dream, Michele set me up with someone. He was someone who graduated with me from high school, but I can't really say we were friends. We were holding hands, and looking into each others eyes; very much first date behavior. But what I recall most, we were hugging. It was more than looking at an image of me hugging someone. It was like I could feel it. And when I woke up, it made me sad. The sad part- it felt so nice in the dream and it was only a dream. I've had similar kinds of dreams about some person I'm in a relationship with. With distinct clarity, I remember things like kissing, or holding hands, or watching a movie curled up on the couch.
I promise, I'm getting to my point. When I think about times I was in relationships, there are things that I miss. Everyone complains about spouses or significant others, or will share an exceptional example of a good deed (usually out of the ordinary) but we don't really talk about the pleasant, every day things that happen. Those are the things I miss. Like kissing someone when they walk in the door. Or hugging before you leave for the day. Apparently, I long for physical contact. Not in a weird, sexual way. Everyone in education has heard that you need a certain number of non-threatening touches to survive, and even more to thrive. I don't remember the specifics, but I know I'm not hitting the minimum.
Other things I miss sound ridiculous. I miss going some place and knowing I have someone with me. It's lonely knowing you are going home alone every time. I miss private jokes. Those secrets no one else understands are rare when you live with dogs. I miss conversations that happen when you are just about to fall asleep. Sleepy conversations when you almost feel like you are mumbling because you are drifting off to sleep are the most honest conversations. There is no filter then. I miss making dinner for someone. Or baking them cookies. Apparently, I was a housewife in the 50's in a previous life. I miss putting my hand on his knee. There is comfort there. But most of the time, I miss hugging more than anything.
Last night's dream is more of the wistful variety. I was with friends and we were at some kind of bar/hotel where there were multiple floors. Each floor had a different theme- sports bar, karaoke, music, restaurant. The friends were a mix of people that would never know each other in real life: people I graduated high school with, friends from work, a few cameos by friends from college. It was like my worlds colliding (to steal a phrase from Mary). I remember we were drinking and I was focused on my shoes. I had on high platform heels (which I never wear) and was concentrating on not falling. Which was hard, because we were drinking. By the end of the night/end of the dream, Michele set me up with someone. He was someone who graduated with me from high school, but I can't really say we were friends. We were holding hands, and looking into each others eyes; very much first date behavior. But what I recall most, we were hugging. It was more than looking at an image of me hugging someone. It was like I could feel it. And when I woke up, it made me sad. The sad part- it felt so nice in the dream and it was only a dream. I've had similar kinds of dreams about some person I'm in a relationship with. With distinct clarity, I remember things like kissing, or holding hands, or watching a movie curled up on the couch.
I promise, I'm getting to my point. When I think about times I was in relationships, there are things that I miss. Everyone complains about spouses or significant others, or will share an exceptional example of a good deed (usually out of the ordinary) but we don't really talk about the pleasant, every day things that happen. Those are the things I miss. Like kissing someone when they walk in the door. Or hugging before you leave for the day. Apparently, I long for physical contact. Not in a weird, sexual way. Everyone in education has heard that you need a certain number of non-threatening touches to survive, and even more to thrive. I don't remember the specifics, but I know I'm not hitting the minimum.
Other things I miss sound ridiculous. I miss going some place and knowing I have someone with me. It's lonely knowing you are going home alone every time. I miss private jokes. Those secrets no one else understands are rare when you live with dogs. I miss conversations that happen when you are just about to fall asleep. Sleepy conversations when you almost feel like you are mumbling because you are drifting off to sleep are the most honest conversations. There is no filter then. I miss making dinner for someone. Or baking them cookies. Apparently, I was a housewife in the 50's in a previous life. I miss putting my hand on his knee. There is comfort there. But most of the time, I miss hugging more than anything.
Monday, October 14, 2013
A Meg Ryan/Sally Albright Moment
Some nights, I have trouble falling asleep. A lot of nights. And when that happens, my mind wanders through various, sometimes obscure, thoughts that flash through my brain. As I drift closer to sleep, the thoughts get more and more unusual.
So get this stream-of-consciousness: My friend, J, has a tradition with her siblings that when one of them turns 50, they go somewhere together for the weekend. In about a week, she's spending a weekend at her sister's house and they are getting spa services because it's her brother's birthday. I thought how fun that would be to relax and get pampered. Then I thought about how another friend who turns 50 this April. I won't name her, but her initials are MM. And she has red hair. I thought how fun it would be if we got a bunch of friends together to go to Hotel Hershey and get massages and drink wine and eat chocolate and shop and drink wine. We should probably make reservations for April because they get booked. I thought about how it would be great to be surrounded by fun friends when I turn 50. And then I turned into Sally Albright.
***If you don't get the Meg Ryan/Sally Albright reference, please follow the next four steps immediately:
1. Turn off your computer.
2. Drive to the nearest Target or Walmart.
3. Buy "When Harry Met Sally...", some microwave popcorn and some Swedish red fish. You should already have some diet Coke at home.
4. Upon your return home, plant yourself with popcorn and candy in front of the TV, and watch the movie, paying special attention to the diner scene (I'll have what she's having) and when she finds out her previous boyfriend is getting married. You're welcome.
So it hit me. I'm going to be 50. In. SEVEN. YEARS. I know that is a long time from now, but it's out there. What if, when I turn 50, I'm still 'alone'. And by alone, I mean in a 7th-grader-who-is-afraid-she-will-never-have-a-boyfriend-kind of alone. I can't make this up. I started to think about how long I've lived by myself and how long I might continue to live by myself. It was a bit of a panic attack in the making.
The picture of me turning 50 without a significant relationship makes me uncomfortable. I know, I know- I have friends, a great life, so much to be thankful for, I've worked so hard to get where I am, I certainly wouldn't want to settle for just any relationship, blah, blah, blah. I can work so hard to achieve so many things in my life, why can't I achieve this one thing? My usual optimism was suddenly on hiatus. I've gone to so many events solo, what if that never changes? What if I'm so high maintenance that no one is willing to put up with me? I need to accept that I might never find a relationship or be married. It's a slow process to accept that. One that is best accompanied by ice cream. And more chick flicks.
So get this stream-of-consciousness: My friend, J, has a tradition with her siblings that when one of them turns 50, they go somewhere together for the weekend. In about a week, she's spending a weekend at her sister's house and they are getting spa services because it's her brother's birthday. I thought how fun that would be to relax and get pampered. Then I thought about how another friend who turns 50 this April. I won't name her, but her initials are MM. And she has red hair. I thought how fun it would be if we got a bunch of friends together to go to Hotel Hershey and get massages and drink wine and eat chocolate and shop and drink wine. We should probably make reservations for April because they get booked. I thought about how it would be great to be surrounded by fun friends when I turn 50. And then I turned into Sally Albright.
***If you don't get the Meg Ryan/Sally Albright reference, please follow the next four steps immediately:
1. Turn off your computer.
2. Drive to the nearest Target or Walmart.
3. Buy "When Harry Met Sally...", some microwave popcorn and some Swedish red fish. You should already have some diet Coke at home.
4. Upon your return home, plant yourself with popcorn and candy in front of the TV, and watch the movie, paying special attention to the diner scene (I'll have what she's having) and when she finds out her previous boyfriend is getting married. You're welcome.
So it hit me. I'm going to be 50. In. SEVEN. YEARS. I know that is a long time from now, but it's out there. What if, when I turn 50, I'm still 'alone'. And by alone, I mean in a 7th-grader-who-is-afraid-she-will-never-have-a-boyfriend-kind of alone. I can't make this up. I started to think about how long I've lived by myself and how long I might continue to live by myself. It was a bit of a panic attack in the making.
The picture of me turning 50 without a significant relationship makes me uncomfortable. I know, I know- I have friends, a great life, so much to be thankful for, I've worked so hard to get where I am, I certainly wouldn't want to settle for just any relationship, blah, blah, blah. I can work so hard to achieve so many things in my life, why can't I achieve this one thing? My usual optimism was suddenly on hiatus. I've gone to so many events solo, what if that never changes? What if I'm so high maintenance that no one is willing to put up with me? I need to accept that I might never find a relationship or be married. It's a slow process to accept that. One that is best accompanied by ice cream. And more chick flicks.
Friday, October 11, 2013
It's 2013
Warning: This blog is intended for adult audiences. I usually refrain from cursing. And by refrain, I mean I curse when it will get me a laugh or when I am so frustrated, I can't use my words. If you are offended by curse words, don't read my blog. If you are really offended by curse words, then we probably aren't friends.
I emailed the Dating Coordinator about getting some feedback. For future reference, I may refer to Dating Coordinator as TB, That Bitch. I had exchanged phone numbers with the last two matches and thought I might hear from them. I didn't. The response from that bitch was, "After consulting with one of my co-workers, he suggested that is 2013 and if you exchanged phone numbers, he might want you to contact him." Seriously? That is feedback? Are you fucking kidding me? I'm paying you more money than I want to admit and your advice is that I have to call him! Lucky for me, I don't have to pay extra for the condescending attitude. And I know condescension. I use it well. The only revelation you can share with me is that it is 2013? Maybe she thought I was still writing the wrong date on my checks. Maybe she thought I was writing 1954 instead of 2013 and she was doing me a huge favor. Thank god she informed me of that! I had no idea it was the 21st Century. I was still putting on my chastity belt each morning as I jumped into my sidesaddle to ride my horse to work. Wait, I wouldn't be going to work, I would be riding to the general store to buy something to make my husband for dinner. Without knowing it was 2013, I might have thought that women should be seen and not heard, or only be barefoot and pregnant, or some other ludicrous shit. Has she not seen any chick flicks in her life? I want to refer her to "He's Just Not That Into You" and require her to watch it immediately. This should be mandatory for anyone working there. For anyone interested in dating, male and female, because Alex and Gigi evolve so perfectly. You can even ignore their last scene.
I did find out that I get to meet with a Dating Coach. At about the six month mark, I get to meet with a Dating Coach who is also a certified Life Coach. Apparently I am supposed to be excited about that part. She is ALSO a certified Life Coach (there was emphasis on also). Because I haven't figured out how to live for the past 42 years? I can't to find out her words of wisdom. Maybe she will tell me I don't owe him sex if he buys me dinner. I do need a Dating Coach, but I've got the 'living my life' part down pat. I've not only secured gainful employment, but have changed jobs twice to make sure I was employed in a place I love doing what I love. I've not only purchased a house, but paid off the mortgage. I've managed to fill my house with things I love- craft supplies, canning supplies, dogs. No coach needed. This is 2013 after all.
I emailed the Dating Coordinator about getting some feedback. For future reference, I may refer to Dating Coordinator as TB, That Bitch. I had exchanged phone numbers with the last two matches and thought I might hear from them. I didn't. The response from that bitch was, "After consulting with one of my co-workers, he suggested that is 2013 and if you exchanged phone numbers, he might want you to contact him." Seriously? That is feedback? Are you fucking kidding me? I'm paying you more money than I want to admit and your advice is that I have to call him! Lucky for me, I don't have to pay extra for the condescending attitude. And I know condescension. I use it well. The only revelation you can share with me is that it is 2013? Maybe she thought I was still writing the wrong date on my checks. Maybe she thought I was writing 1954 instead of 2013 and she was doing me a huge favor. Thank god she informed me of that! I had no idea it was the 21st Century. I was still putting on my chastity belt each morning as I jumped into my sidesaddle to ride my horse to work. Wait, I wouldn't be going to work, I would be riding to the general store to buy something to make my husband for dinner. Without knowing it was 2013, I might have thought that women should be seen and not heard, or only be barefoot and pregnant, or some other ludicrous shit. Has she not seen any chick flicks in her life? I want to refer her to "He's Just Not That Into You" and require her to watch it immediately. This should be mandatory for anyone working there. For anyone interested in dating, male and female, because Alex and Gigi evolve so perfectly. You can even ignore their last scene.
I did find out that I get to meet with a Dating Coach. At about the six month mark, I get to meet with a Dating Coach who is also a certified Life Coach. Apparently I am supposed to be excited about that part. She is ALSO a certified Life Coach (there was emphasis on also). Because I haven't figured out how to live for the past 42 years? I can't to find out her words of wisdom. Maybe she will tell me I don't owe him sex if he buys me dinner. I do need a Dating Coach, but I've got the 'living my life' part down pat. I've not only secured gainful employment, but have changed jobs twice to make sure I was employed in a place I love doing what I love. I've not only purchased a house, but paid off the mortgage. I've managed to fill my house with things I love- craft supplies, canning supplies, dogs. No coach needed. This is 2013 after all.
Thursday, October 10, 2013
Asking for trouble
Constructive criticism is a euphemism for saying something negative and it protects anyone from getting their feelings hurt. Or so they say. Really, feelings get hurt. It's inevitable. But you aren't allowed to show that because it is under the guise of "constructive criticism". How can you hear something bad about yourself and not feel bad. So why would anyone ask for constructive criticism? More importantly, why would I want to hear something negative and pretend it doesn't slice to my very core?
I can't answer why, but I did. I sent an email my Dating Coordinator asking for feedback. That was one of the aspects of this matchmaking service that intrigued me. It is fascinating to have the ability to hear what they thought, or what was positive or even better, what wasn't. Who said what comment didn't concern me. I just want to hear what was said. I say that now because I haven't actually heard any of the comments. I might change that opinion shortly.
I feel like I'm asking for trouble. Aren't women already repeating enough negative self-talk for a lifetime? I am already my own worst critic. Why am I adding to this litany? Currently I am my own personal filibuster of disappointment, doubt and sometimes disgust.
Perhaps this is a journey of self-discovery? Maybe I am entering a period of personal growth? I'd like to think that was true. This entire matchmaking adventure was intended to reach a goal. The goal of finding a match. Maybe I have the wrong goal? It's like all those surveys for dating sites that ask you to rate yourself or list your personality characteristics or describe any number of values, ideals and traits. No one can do that accurately. No one really knows how they appear. You only know your perception of things. No one ever says, "I'm a raving, jealous bitch," or "I'm dumb and can't manage money." To that person, there isn't anything wrong with what they do. You'll never hear me say I'm moody or demanding or possibly boring <insert self-doubt here>. But am I? Who would tell me that? Now that I've asked for constructive criticism, I might just find out.
I can't answer why, but I did. I sent an email my Dating Coordinator asking for feedback. That was one of the aspects of this matchmaking service that intrigued me. It is fascinating to have the ability to hear what they thought, or what was positive or even better, what wasn't. Who said what comment didn't concern me. I just want to hear what was said. I say that now because I haven't actually heard any of the comments. I might change that opinion shortly.
I feel like I'm asking for trouble. Aren't women already repeating enough negative self-talk for a lifetime? I am already my own worst critic. Why am I adding to this litany? Currently I am my own personal filibuster of disappointment, doubt and sometimes disgust.
Perhaps this is a journey of self-discovery? Maybe I am entering a period of personal growth? I'd like to think that was true. This entire matchmaking adventure was intended to reach a goal. The goal of finding a match. Maybe I have the wrong goal? It's like all those surveys for dating sites that ask you to rate yourself or list your personality characteristics or describe any number of values, ideals and traits. No one can do that accurately. No one really knows how they appear. You only know your perception of things. No one ever says, "I'm a raving, jealous bitch," or "I'm dumb and can't manage money." To that person, there isn't anything wrong with what they do. You'll never hear me say I'm moody or demanding or possibly boring <insert self-doubt here>. But am I? Who would tell me that? Now that I've asked for constructive criticism, I might just find out.
Thursday, October 3, 2013
The Horizon
My mother can be a ray of sunshine. I think that to myself when she states the painful, obvious truth. So imagine that she is like that ray of sunshine that cuts through your flesh and pierces your heart in a blistering attack. So when I reported the details about my date with Delaware, she abruptly announced, "He's not going to call." Thanks for dashing any bit of hope I had managed to salvage. Even though she was right, and even though I knew he was telling me, "I'm sorry you wasted your time driving this far for nothing," it still smarts when you accept that fact. Couple that with the fact I actually did get the final call from FG. It took him two weeks to make the call. He said he was putting it off because he didn't know what to say. Then he didn't say anything. He was silent. I considered helping him out and offering him a statement to get him started. "It's not working out." "You're just not feeling it." "There isn't the spark you had hoped for." "We're heading in different directions." "We don't seem to have much in common." And that was off the top of my head. Instead, I let him suffer. He eventually spit out that he didn't feel the connection he thought he should feel. I made sure to tell him I figured out he felt that way when he didn't call for two weeks. He needed to know that I wasn't surprised. Or maybe I felt the need to tell him that. Either way, it's over and I'm not devastated. But I felt uneasy, unsettled. Was it because I didn't get to say it first?
So I did what any good single girl does. I threw myself a pity party. This particular one has lasted about four days. There were tears. Not just the single tear, dramatically making its way down my cheek. I had one of those streaming tears/sobbing/can't catch your breath/even the dogs look at you funny/your eyes stay red for an entire day kind of cries. It was ugly. Like any good party, it also involved shopping. Not for favors or decorations, but for raising up my spirits and reinforcing my independence. I also spent some time in deep reflection and bring productive-cleaning, re-organizing, putting stuff away. Uncluttering my space has a way of uncluttering my brain. But I spent even more time lying in bed with the dogs, feeling sorry for myself.
And now I'm back. Party over. Back to the world of the living where I need to do laundry and contribute to society. At the gym last night, I was able to jog on the treadmill for ten whole minutes. In a row. And I did that twice. Marathon runners scoff, but for me, that is an accomplishment. I think I was able to sweat out the negativity.
Coming up, my brother will be home for two weeks. We'll have plenty of family time to keep me occupied. And I'll keep adding to that time on the treadmill. I have some plans for putting up French Onion Soup and chicken stock. And football and baseball (who knew the Bucs could make it into the playoffs?) will be there to entertain me. There are no dates on the horizon. But lucky for me, I still have clear skies ahead for myself. I'm the one in control of that.
So I did what any good single girl does. I threw myself a pity party. This particular one has lasted about four days. There were tears. Not just the single tear, dramatically making its way down my cheek. I had one of those streaming tears/sobbing/can't catch your breath/even the dogs look at you funny/your eyes stay red for an entire day kind of cries. It was ugly. Like any good party, it also involved shopping. Not for favors or decorations, but for raising up my spirits and reinforcing my independence. I also spent some time in deep reflection and bring productive-cleaning, re-organizing, putting stuff away. Uncluttering my space has a way of uncluttering my brain. But I spent even more time lying in bed with the dogs, feeling sorry for myself.
And now I'm back. Party over. Back to the world of the living where I need to do laundry and contribute to society. At the gym last night, I was able to jog on the treadmill for ten whole minutes. In a row. And I did that twice. Marathon runners scoff, but for me, that is an accomplishment. I think I was able to sweat out the negativity.
Coming up, my brother will be home for two weeks. We'll have plenty of family time to keep me occupied. And I'll keep adding to that time on the treadmill. I have some plans for putting up French Onion Soup and chicken stock. And football and baseball (who knew the Bucs could make it into the playoffs?) will be there to entertain me. There are no dates on the horizon. But lucky for me, I still have clear skies ahead for myself. I'm the one in control of that.
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