Mar
27
March 27, 2007
Today I am wearing a pair of jeans that have not fit since several months pre-pregnancy, so here’s a big old middle finger for the bathroom scale, and a jaunty cry of “Sit and spin, motherfucker. RIDE STOPS AT THE ELBOW.”
The only problem is that these jeans are old enough that they’re out of style. Believe me, I’m no fashionista, but jeans have changed in subtle ways from this once-trendy Gap variant—this pair is slim-fitting, stretchy, with a flared leg (rather than the noticeably different boot-cut) and a waist that, oh my god, sits at my waist. That’s right, I’m currently wearing what must be the last earthly pair of non-low-rise jeans. It’s weird and maybe less comfortable in some ways and I will freely admit these don’t give Good Ass the way low-rises do, but it is a refreshing sensation to be sitting down and not have half my lower body creeping up over the waist of my pants. I hardly know what to do with myself with all the free time I normally devote to furtively hauling up my southward-bound denim. Maybe I should take up knitting.
I’m glad to be distracted by the simple dumb happiness of wearing previously too-small, currently unfashionable jeans because last night before bed I was reading How We Die and wallowing in some fascinating stuff about pathology and clinical death and all of a sudden amongst the technical descriptions of myocardial infarctions and cerebrovascular accidents there was this gut-wrenching account of a little girl’s violent murder, which happened for absolutely no reason—she was randomly attacked by a knife-wielding psycho, right in front of her family—and went on to describe in vivid detail what happened to her body and included a first-hand account by her mother and jesus, it was probably the most horrible thing I’ve ever read in my entire life. I put the book down and turned off the light and I am not even lying when I tell you I forced myself to think about zombies because anything was better than dwelling on that little girl’s death.
I was still kind of haunted by that story this morning and thinking that while I sort of wish I could go back in time and skip that chapter, it gave me a chilly wash of perspective that’s actually helpful right now. We had a hard night with Riley yesterday and I was so frustrated and feeling hurt and unhappy, and while I don’t discount our own challenges it’s good for me to focus on how fortunate our lives really are. Break my heart all you want, little boy, just please, please, please be safe, forever and ever and ever.
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Did I mention zombies? I think I did! How about a wedding party doing the zombie “Thriller” dance? Knitted zombies? Zombie blog? How long before zombie muscles deteriorate? Zombie preparedness kit? Zombies attacking an Apple Store? OH ZOMBIES I FEAR YOU LOVE YOU FEAR YOU LOVE YOU SO.
Mar
26
March 26, 2007
I’ve started recording “Inhale”, the Oxygen channel yoga show with relaxed-and-groovy instructor Steve Ross, in order to spend each evening winding myself into complicated, painful bendy-straw positions. After the first workout, I noticed certain parts of my body were sore (“certain parts” meaning “every single muscle fiber between the top of my scalp and the tip of my big toe”), but now I’m really enjoying it. It’s so, so relaxing and my entire body feels tingly and happy afterwards. I even managed to convince JB to give it a try, and while he would like to know what in the hell Steve Ross does with his balls during the “Happy Cow” position because jesus, he’s tried tucking up and he’s tried tucking down and there’s just no way to avoid self-squashing goddamnit, he grudgingly admitted that he felt “very stretchy” afterwards.
My past week has involved multiple Turbo Jam workouts, some challenging yoga routines, and a diet that—excepting Friday’s lustful dalliance with the box of Junior Mints—consisted mainly of greens, fiber, lean protein, fruit, and freaky non-foods such as sugar-free Jello. And yet when I stepped on the scale this morning, its beshitted little digital readout displayed a number two pounds heavier than last Monday.
Do you remember the scene at the end of True Romance when the big gunfight is going on and Michael Rapaport’s character screams this howl of frustration over all the trouble the case of stolen coke has brought into their lives and he violently hurls the case into the air? That is exactly what I wanted to do with my scale this morning, ideally while pumping it full of .223 bullets, their cases falling onto the bathroom floor in a metallic tinkling clatter drowned out by my own rage filled battle cry and the ear-shattering explosive sounds of my Mini-14 rifle releasing round after round of deadly force into its stupid fucking 2-pound-weight-gain FACE.
Ahem.
Or maybe I should just stop weighing myself, because it kind of seems to be working against that whole yoga-relaxation effort.
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