On Friday, I hung out with my Michfest friends Luckdragon and Emma. During the day, Emma and I tooled around, had lunch, went to the mall where I got my eyebrows threaded for the first time ever (Five words: OH. MY. FUCKING. GOD. OUCH!) and I bought Queen S some birthday presents. In the evening, we went to Luckdragon’s house for dinner, where we had homemade butternut squash ravioli and a bitchin’ salad that had cherries and walnuts (I think) and tomato bacon dressing. And frozen chocolate-dipped bananas for dessert. We watched Wall Street, which I had never seen and was unfortunately, erm, underwhelmed by, and then watched The Muppets Take Manhattan while Luck, a massage therapy student about to graduate, gave me a bitchin’ hour-long massage. It was one of the two best massages I’ve had in my life. The other took place a week before my 30th birthday (present to myself) in a heated room with warm oils, a heated rice pack which relaxed my spine, and it lasted two hours. TWO. Glorious.
On Saturday, Luckdragon and I visited a used bookstore which is large enough to take days to get through. I’d been feeling crappy with a stomachache that wouldn’t quit (Emma and I ate Mediterranean food for lunch on Friday and I snarfed down leftovers late on Friday night; too much lamb for one day, apparently) and I never made it off the first floor of the bookstore. I curled up in the African-American section and read part of a book by Sinbad that reinforced the truth that comedy is in the delivery. Reading his jokes? DULL. Remembering how funny the same joke is when he performs it? AWESOME.
After a hour or so, Luckdragon and I started back towards Emma’s house so we could meet another Michfest friend and drive back to the city for a roller derby game. On the way, Luck showed me the now-closed train station in Detroit and I wished I had my camera with me so I could’ve captured some shots. It was huge and Gothic and reminded me of the Kõlner Dom (Cologne Cathedral), which is right outside a train station from which I exited in 1989 while traveling in Germany as a 15-year-old exchange student. My classmates and I walked out of the train station, knowing we were close to the cathedral. Turns out we were so close it was looming over us. I remember looking up … and up … and up … and the massive cathedral just kept growing up into the sky, like some kind of architectural beanstalk.
I wish I could take that trip now, when I would truly appreciate it. At 15, I didn’t want to go on any of the sightseeing excursions which took us around Berlin, between East and West Germany, Mainz, Frankfurt, and other destinations. At 15 and desperately homesick (the trip was my first and longest non-camp foray from home), I found myself stuck in an unfamiliar bedroom in Lahnstein (where my host family lived), trying to be happy but not really succeeding at it. At least I have some good memories of trip, including wearing huge slipper shoes while we toured various castles and finding out my host sister was also a Wham! fan. I also saw the Berlin Wall before its destruction and know how boring it is to be stuck inside Checkpoint Charlie for hours due to a passport snafu and our German teacher, who, though native to Germany, could apparently not communicate in English or German.
Back to Detroit. On Saturday evening, I went to my first roller derby bout and had a great time. We sat in the ‘suicide seats’ right next to the track on the floor and I’m pleased to say that our team won. It’s weird to cheer for Detroit when one is not a native to “the D” (as my compadres kept saying), but fun nonetheless. After the match, I got a scenic tour of the scariest parts of Detroit when Emma and I kept getting lost due to construction signs that popped up practically without notice. We were due to stop in and hang out with a friend of hers and then go to Ann Arbor, some 45 minutes away, but didn’t arrive at the friend’s house until nearly 11:30 PM. As I had a long drive ahead of me the next day and was STILL feeling puny from my stomachache, I begged off and we went back to Emma’s house, where we watched the first season of Ugly Betty while I sporadically slept in the recliner.
On Sunday, I headed home after brunch at a Coney (which is analogous to Denny’s, apparently) and started my trek home. It rained during my ENTIRE trip up north – FIVE HOURS OF RAIN – and I was glad it only sprinkled a bit on my drive home. Everything was uneventful until I tragically got busted for speeding and got a $135 ticket. I was only minutes from crossing the state line, too, which made me mad. It’s not like I’m afforded a smooth-talk-or-cry-myself-out-of-a-ticket pass when in my home state, but at least I wouldn’t have been pulled over by Officer Friendly, who appeared to be engaged in a high-speed chase when he ‘caught’ up with me on the road. (I was only going 43 mph. Unfortunately I was apparently doing so in a 25-mph zone. Um. Oops?)
I was due to meet King V and Queen S for the Queen’s birthday dinner but I called to reschedule as I was nearly two hours outside the city and was already exhausted. I just didn’t feel like cruising into town and getting out at the restaurant, exhausted and travel-pretty (read: unshowered and wearing slobby clothes), as restaurants tend to frown, one surmises, on guests who face-plant into the appetizers because they’ve had shit for sleep for four days. Additionally, the Queen’s birthday gifts were strewn throughout my luggage, none of which I cared to rifle through anytime soon. (Case in point: Luggage from trip still sitting in my living room, contents spilling out across floor.)
My work week progressed fairly normally. I didn’t realize or accept it then, but I was feeling like crap from eating non-WW-friendly food and it took all of last week to get it out of my system. The mental cleanse has been harder than anything, due to my tendency to beat the shit out of myself for any failure, perceived or real. I finally got my inner Mike Tyson calmed down. Going to the grocery and getting myself back on the foods my body has become far more used to, including nonfat yogurt, high-fiber English muffins, and fruit, has helped a great deal.
I also felt crappy because I didn’t drink enough water last week AND I hadn’t been to a ‘real’ therapy appointment in a few weeks. I just started seeing Therapist No. 5 (like Chanel, only, um, less expensive) and spent last week’s session being “evaluated” (Am I crazy? Please check ‘yes,’ ‘no,’ or ‘maybe.’) instead of therapized. Therapated. Therapied. Whatev. After the awesome ex-therapist moved to Texas, I saw one woman a few times who seemed more interested in her capri pants, cute toes, and kitten heels given the amount of time she spent glancing at them and smiling during our last session. Therapists #2 and #3 were one-timers, i.e., fine for someone else, but not for me, and Therapist #4 was The Racist.
I felt like crap through the weekend. Serena and I were both fed up (pun unintentional) with Weight Watchers. I found out on Saturday when I went to a meeting that I’d gained back nearly five pounds of the 11.4 I’d lost and I was pretty depressed. One really would’ve though the world was ending over 4.8 pounds but I really was stymied. I was feeling great, Emma had noticed I’d lost some weight, I was walking longer distances, not panting after walking up stairs, doing chores with aplomb, and going to the grocery store with such frequency that it was no longer daunting to walk into a store and be seen by actual people. I hadn’t ordered takeout in more than two months, I’d been saving money and calories … and then I threw it away so I could be like everyone else.
It’s frustrating to hang out with people who don’t have serious issues with food, people for whom putting down the fork and walking away from the table when they are full is no challenge. I’ve had a really hard time with food addiction since I began to refer to my compulsive overeating as such because, well, people need food to live. No one NEEDS alcohol or heroin or sex to survive. (Shut it.) I’ve had numerous times over the past several years when I wished I didn’t have to ever eat again, how much easier my life would be if I didn’t have to think about calories or consumption (under OR over), diets, points, numbers on a scale, the shame I feel from being overweight, etc. But I don’t have a choice. I’m a food addict and after a six-plus week hiatus from all the things I love (Taco Bell being el numero uno, I believe), I think a subconscious part of myself sort of … lost my mind. I was !free! to eat whatever I wanted, which is the best part about Weight Watchers … but that didn’t include Consuming All the Lamb in the World on Friday evening or Rolling Around in Taco Bell on Thursday, Drunken Haze Notwithstanding.
So, frustration aside, I ate like crap throughout the weekend but something clicked overnight between Sunday and Monday and I was done. I was ready to feel good again. I wanted back the woman who strode to her car parked at the end of the block after work instead of the fat loser who visibly hesitated when King V suggested walking across a big parking lot to get to a restaurant (that part’s coming). On Monday, I ate pretty much nothing but carrots during the day (I had nothing else healthy with me to eat) and concentrated on imbibing more water. I went to the store on Monday evening and stocked up on my body-friendly foods, including my new best friend, 100-calorie packages of Fudge Stripe cookies (mmmm) and got myself back on The Plan.
It’s now Wednesday and I’m feeling pretty spiffy. I have yet to “really” exercise, but I did wrangle a bunch of trash last night, which involved the extra work of (A) not barfing when I had to dispose of kitty litter (B) not barfing when the heavy-ass bag I was carrying RIPPED, spilling trash and used kitty litter on my sandaled foot (AUGH!) and (C) not crying when I realized I had to go back out to the car and carry in a 40-pound bag of kitty litter into the house, which almost resulted in The Hernia That Ate San Diego. I was pleased as punch with myself because I did everything before sitting down for the evening to watch more reruns of Six Feet Under, my current mind candy obsession, so I finally got some overdue chores out of the way, not to mention cat poopie out of my house. (Well, of the back porch, anyway.) As the porch’s windows don’t open (W.T.F.?), I left the back door open so the room could air out and I think Ms. George started getting herself into a heap o’ trouble. Around the time I was going to bed last night, I heard a weird cat-apparently-caught-in-a-fax-machine kind of noise and went to investigate. Just as I got to the back door where I imagined the psycho killer, who had perfected his coed-luring-imitation of weird cat-apparently-caught-in-a-fax-machine noises, was waiting for me, George tore through the cat door, panting and wild-eyed. I get the feeling that Ms. Domesticated was about to get fucked up by some neighborhood cats that live behind the dumpster and mock the freshly brushed and oft-petted cats they happen upon. That’s me. Poopie pan emptier and fluffy cat saver. Yay rah.
Before my evening of rescuing mischievous cats and my second weekend of not-great food consumption, the royals and I finally made it out for Queen S’ birthday dinner on Friday. We went to P.F. Chang’s, forgetting that other people like to go out to dinner on Friday nights too. The wait for a table was either one hour and 40 minutes or one hour and 50 minutes. At that point, King V suggested trotting over to the mall (not a long walk, by any means, but longer than my out-of-shape-and-feeling-it ass was prepared to walk). So we trotted to the mall, mindful of the fact that it was 7:30 PM and I was due to pick up my chair in an hour. Back story: The chair whose fabric matches my futon fabric, the same that Venus linked me to on Craigslist, was still available and after putting off the seller for about 10 days (I’ll be out of town; I’m broke; where do you live again?; no seriously, I want the chair, I promise), I was finally able to go pick it up Friday evening.
The fam and I noshed at a food court in the mall, which was perfectly fine with Queen S. (*I* still think it's weird, but that's just me.) We hopped on the interstate in my parents’ van (old people and despair!) and headed to the seller’s house. We had to head down a road with no fewer than three ROAD CLOSED signs in order to get to the seller's subdivision, which we soon saw was primarily still under construction. I commented aloud that it felt like we were driving into a Stephen King novel.
Getting the chair out of the van and up my stairs wasn’t difficult, but then … the chair wouldn’t go through the door. After road closings and almost getting creamed by a semi on the interstate, I was stuck in my apartment while my father and new chair blocked the foyer. Finally, neither of us being too good with physics, King V departed and I put a note on the chair apologizing to my wholly inconsiderate upstairs neighbors for its presence. And then I went to bed.
In the morning, I headed for WW (where I discovered the 4.8-pound weight gain) and then headed out for lunch with Serena where we had
Today is my second appointment with the new therapist. She gives out homework assignments, like journaling for a minimum of 20 minutes a day. So far, not doing so well with the homework, but I just got back to myself on Monday. It’s going to take another couple of days to be fully present and not cringe-tastic at the very sight of my journal.
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Apropos of nothing, two of the best phrases I’ve read today:
From the ThinkGeek newsletter: Hey folks, Mom's day is creeping up faster than a legion of undead approaching a cerebellum farm.
From Sardonic Bomb, in which blog author Scott talks of his dog’s ability to remain in a poo-free environment: Our beloved beagle, for being a "simple" beast, is smart enough to back her butt up to the door of the crate and jettison her doodie out and onto the carpet, on the occasion that she has diarrhea when we're not home. Innovative, but gross.
And finally, here's a self-portrait just so we part ways in poo-free peace:
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