You know when you’ve done stuff for years, to the point where it becomes part of the fabric of who you are, kind of like bolt-on DNA because it’s part of what defines you? It’s really bloody hard sometimes when you step outside of that familiarity you know?
I’ve got to be honest, this weekend has been a toughie. I was glad to get back to work this morning just for a sense of normality. It sounds ridiculous but genuinely, the lure of curling up in my big fat armchair in front of the TV, and not moving except for the odd trip to the fridge was so strong, and I can’t tell you how utterly pissed off I felt because I wouldn’t allow myself to do it.
I felt like a child on the verge of having a maHOOsive paddy because I wasn’t allowed to do what I wanted. I really surprised myself with the amount of rage I felt inside, I mean I’m so even tempered and easy going it’s a bit of a rare event when the red mist descends. I didn’t know quite what to do with myself.
I was in a sour mood to start with due to the the incident I shall refer to as pillgate. Three weeks’ worth of wasted effort. Dumbass. I set off on a long walk with Charlie dog but I’d eaten not long before I went out, and that, combined with the half-walk-half-stomp – think Whoopie Goldberg crossing the road in Ghost just after she gave the cheque away, if you know the movie you’ll know the scene – gave me a stitch and made my ankles hurt so my poor fur baby got marched to the top of the hill and then back down again, and short changed on the fun stuff.
I was just arsy all day. I was snippy with my mum, and that’s hard to forgive because she’s the sweetest wrinklie on the block. I’d promised to wax her chin since she was starting to sport a beard that that the Ayatollah Khomeini would have been proud of, and I stepped up to the task with a bit too much gusto. I doubt her chin hair will dare poke it’s head out again this side of Christmas.
Plus, I ate a family bag of Maltesers. Fucks’ sake. I might not have been sitting in the chair in front of the TV when I did it (which by the way according to the Asshole means it doesn’t count) but opening the bag and then having to go back to my phone to key in additional malteser points five times until Oh look the bag is empty…well, it’s got naughty child written all over it.
I rebelled against the headlock that this sweet spot has me in, and how ridiculous is that when I’ve had my nose pressed to the window for years trying to get in. But I sort of did it safely…yesterday was the first day of a shiny new weight watchers week and the collateral damage saw 50% of my ‘extra’ weekly points eroded in one hit. I’ll take that. And breathe…
On the basis that the storm has passed and I woke up this morning determined to make that additional pound get the hell out of dodge this week along with a couple of its friends, I think I might just have got away with it.
Days like that really suck. I can not let myself fall back into that comfort zone. I went hell for leather on the hurt machine last night as if my life depended on it, and in some respects it even might. I’m walking towards the magic, and I’m not going back there.
It’s bloody hard though sometimes, you know?
