Well. Here we are again. Contrary to popular rumor I am still not dead, just slightly ticked off and silently brooding. I was bound and determined not to complain or write anything that sounded remotely like complaining on this blog, but then realized I’d cut off my whole idea base. How odd. Is that all there is to me then? Probably. But anyway, I’m going to write something and in keeping with my resolution to try and post positive and show more photos of rainbows and kittens and shit stuff I’ll try and keep the whine to a minimum.
First thing, dieting and trying to move around more is hard for me, but it must be done, and done consistently. This effectively means that for the rest of my life 50% of what I considered pleasurable about my existence just went into the toilet. Okay, I’m not going to lie about it, it’s more like 75%. And yes, lying on the sofa munching a big ‘ole chocolate doughnut meant just that much to me. I guess now I’m going to have to rediscover sex. *sigh*
The reason for all this thinking about dieting is that about three years ago my blood pressure started doing funky things and I began having to take pills for the things it was doing. The health professionals who prescribed the pills looked at me with pained expressions and made statements like “Oh this is such a shame, you’re so young!” Talk about freaking a person out, that’ll do it right there. I didn’t really know what they meant and to tell the truth I still don’t. I know it must not be good, though, whatever it is.
Right after my last pregnancy one of my legs began swelling and has remained slightly larger (about 1 cm proportionally) than the other one from the knee to the toes. I’ve been patient with it and decided to give it time and space to heal itself but it’s decided not to, so last week I went to a specialist. He tested me and found both legs otherwise healthy except for the slight swelling, and prescribed me some old lady pressure hose. Yes, those hose, the kind you see on 90-something grannies and occasionally drag queens. Not thinking this was a big deal since the doctor said I could wear them whenever I felt like it and was sorta nonchalant about the whole thing, I adopted the same attitude, waited a week, then popped into a pharmacy to order some.
I assumed, incorrectly, that this meant walking up to the desk and telling them I wanted the biggest pair of thick, flesh-colored hose they had in stock, taking them home and stowing them on my lingerie shelf until I found a real use for them, like… I dunno… straining homemade cottage cheese or something. But nothing could be further from the truth, apparently. The pharmacy lady got all frantic on me and said I couldn’t just wander in and order these, I had to be off my feet completely before I was measured and we’d have to make an appointment. I told her no, I was only in town once a week and the only time I had to do it was now.
Two phone calls to her manager at the main office and a haggling half hour later she agreed to do it then and there. Agreeing to do it then and there meant I went into a back room, got naked from the waist down, and this chick measured my legs at several points for a solid hour and a half. She measured me so thoroughly that if they want to make a pair of bionic legs the shape and size of mine they should have no trouble whatsoever. And the thing is, the whole time she’s doing this she had that same pained “Oh what a shame, you’re so young!” look on her face like she was measuring me for the executioner’s blade. I’m this close to getting really paranoid, people. Am I dying and no one has told me yet?
Next thing, I step on a bus this afternoon to pick up my son from Kindergarten, I’m locking the stroller down and getting settled, and a woman getting ready to exit the bus gives me a glare like I’m something smelly she just stepped in. I mean that literally. I stood next to the door so I’m conscious that if I’m not careful I’m going to block the exit, so when she got up I immediately looked over at her and saw her talking to one of her friends, then her head turned and when she saw me it was like “OH, Ewwwwww…. GROSS”. That exact expression was in her face. Then she turned away in disgust like she couldn’t bear to look at me anymore.
Now, old Lisa would have questioned this until her eyes bled and pondered it and having done nothing to this person would still be wondering about it years later and not understanding. New Lisa is a realist. It’s the fat. I’m huge and to some people that equals ugly, smelly, disgusting, horrible, don’t touch me it might be catching. And I get this look about… oh… 20 times a day if I go outside. I’m to the point where it still hurts a little but I’ve got to not care anymore. If I went around apologizing to everyone who thought I was ugly or disgusting during a day I’d get nothing else done, so I’m not gonna.
What I am going to do is try and get more of this weight off, but I’m doing that for *me*, because I’m fabulous. Granny hose or not. I’m worth it. The people who can’t deal with me now, I’m sorry for ya, but there’s no more room in my life for this nonsense. You’ll have to put your stuff on someone else.
Next, the baptism date looms ever closer and I’m slowly freaking out. I don’t like company. I don’t like people in my space. I don’t like people being in my space and it being open-ended, and me not knowing when they’re going to be gone again. And yes, I’m just weird that way. Don’t like it. Not a bit. So I’m counting down the days until I can endure this and get it over and done with.
And now to the morals portion of this segment. To get right to the meat of the matter, my husband cheats*. I used to think he was simply a superior human being for all the success he had, but now I know he’s successful because he’s exceptionally good at cheating. This does not bother him in the least. He feels like he’s smarter for cheating. Like, it’s a given that a person should cheat, therefore he’s clever because he finds a way to do it quickly and efficiently.
He also steals, while I’m at it, and rationalizes that theft away constantly. For instance, if he’s sent somewhere to do a job and as a courtesy the place where he is provides a coffee kitchen for visitors, he’ll help himself to everything he can get his hands on while he’s there and doesn’t think a thing of it. After all, they’ve provided these things for him, so why shouldn’t he take them? Now I realize that my way is not the only way and there may be many people who don’t see a problem with this, but back where I come from this is called ‘stealing’. A couple packets of hot chocolate in your briefcase because that’s what you would’ve partaken of while you were there, only now you’d like to save it for later when you can relax, okay. I think the company expects that. Those two packets are definitely provided for you. Cleaning out the whole drawer secretly and hiding the contents in your car under the seat in a duffel bag? Uh-uh. This bugs me.
And lastly, I have yet to finish anything I’ve ever started in knitting. I couldn’t figure out why before but now I think I have. Call it better psychoanalysis through knitting, the result of which is, I have a definite fear to commit. I cannot bring myself to commit a ball of wool or yarn to an object because I have a great fear that a better object or use for that wool or yarn might come along and I’ll be left at a loss. Go figure. So it doesn’t look good in the knitting department for me at the moment, which is a shame, but at least I know why.
That’s all for now and next time I’ll try and get a kitten picture up, for sure. Until then, be good, don’t grimace at fat people, don’t steal hot chocolate, and hug someone you love.
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*Update: I read back over this entry and to clarify in case it wasn’t already clear, when I say my husband cheats I mean at games, on tests, in contests, at cards, etc. If I ever wrote a post about him cheating on me with another individual – a boldness on my part which would be unlikely but you never can tell – I would start that post with “My husband is a randy no-good adulterin’ dawg”. I’m just sayin’.
