Here’s my recommendation, just look at this picture and skip the rest of the blog. I am looking at this picture and skipping the rest of my feelings and life. This picture is EVERYTHING. First of all, he is gorgeous. His body is nearly-perfect. And, he has a tattoo. Then, there are books everywhere, nice, old, leather-bound, obviously used books which he — clearly — has put down, just briefly, to pose for this photo. And, and, he is wearing a top hat and tuxedo jacket. He has obviously returned from a formal event — and event he left early — because he’d rather be home reading, with me, nearly naked — as in, he is nearly naked — not me. And, and, and, the walls are painted brick — which I love — and and and and — the lighting: NOTHING IS MORE IMPORTANT TO ME THAN GOOD LIGHTING! I have a relatively small bed/living room area I call mine in which I have seven lamps I use in varying combinations depending on my mood and activity. There you go. I’ve objectified another human being. Now, be gone … you don’t want to read the rest of this post.
WHY ARE YOU STILL READING?
Don’t say I didn’t warn you . . . Last week my nephew forwarded me old photos of old — well, young — me. Photos found while going through my sister’s stuff. Throwback Thursday? Not so much, Throw-up Thursday, more like.
That’s me, the one with the scarf. And that look on my face … pretty much sums up my current mood, although, all these decades later, I have learned to — mostly, except while blogging — hide it.
After yesterday’s early blog, I lost my battle with the dysthymic down I’ve been fighting. This is extremely worrisome since, in the past, one of the most effective methods of prevention and cure has been exercise. I have never exercised as much as I am now, and thus, when I felt the warning signs of this coming on, I felt reasonably comfortable I was moving quickly enough that the beast would not be able to sink its vicious, poison-tipped claws into me.
Apparently I was wrong. Again. I understand that people who don’t suffer from this existential dread, physically present, life-consciousness level of depression often think it’s a character flaw, a bad attitude, a peccadillo of the self-indulgent: I wish. Each time this happens I have not only to live through it — which is a minute to minute challenge — and try to keep it under wraps and transparent to people with whom I interact — which is an energy-suck beyond description — but, also, to feel guilty about feeling this way, and, as I emerge, mourn the newest little piece of me that has died, the further declension of self I have suffered; because each episode makes me smaller and more resigned and a little less willing to try again. Each time there is denial, bargaining, anger, depressive guilt, and, finally, what passes for acceptance, as in, “Okay, here is how I will go on.”
All of which resulted in me NOT going to the gym yesterday. I tried the bookstore, which usually makes everything better, but not yesterday. So, then I ended up at Sports Authority in search of padded-butt biking shorts — now there’s a sentence I never thought I would be typing — which I really cannot afford but got anyway. I did not get the recommended compression socks at $50 a pair nor the biking gloves at $30 a pair. I mean, what the actual freak, biking is a more expensive hobby than reading — and it isn’t making me any smarter — just exhausted and sore.
I texted my friend, S, about how physically beaten up I was feeling and she said she was taking a body-rest day. I was so relieved. That meant I could too. Until later, S informed me she was — against her will — going on a six mile training ride. Some who know me would say it was my competitive nature which forced me to then pull on my only just purchased padded-butt biking pants and hasten to a six and a half mile ride; but some who know me would be wrong. What prompted the ride was guilt. If S is training and can do it, with all she has going on, then for me to sit out a day would just be slothful and self-indulgent and all the things I am already afraid I am.
Dammit. After that, my knees were throbbing. Oh goody, new pain. Here’s the thing — or, rather, here are the multiple things:
- In the past, on the rare occasion when I consider being a “biker” — it always involved me dressed in a fashionable combination of tastefully distressed denim and black leather on the back of a Harley, hanging on with great affection and occasional groping to the driver of the big, hulking Hollywood-slash-romance novel-slash-gay fantasy version of a biker. And, in addition;
- In the past, when I worried about my knees giving out, I never imagined it would be the result of my probably futile and fruitless and athletic pursuit while wearing what amounts to an athletic supporter, but rather, would be the result of my probably futile and fruitful pursuit of an athlete not wearing his athletic supporter. Oh, life.
All of which leads me to today, a morning when I wakened at six freaking a.m., feeling not great in the first place, only to weigh myself to find I had gained eight ounces. HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE?
I don’t know. I can’t cope. And it’s a MommaDay, meaning I will be driving the woman who gave me birth to a hair appointment, having lunch, and then taking her for blood tests — which is usually an excruciating experience of badly managed medical office/waiting room nightmare lasting at least an hour. So, here’s another objectification found on BuzzFeed, CLICK IT — 17 Bookstores That Will Literally Change Your Life — now, perhaps, had I the funds, travelling to all of these would perk me up.