- Feeling better than I expected after a night of dancing.
- Seeing Max well and back to his playful self again.
- Icicle lights in the green room.
Today I ended a 12-year toxic relationship. Fuck you, Facebook.
Fuck the targeted ads, the lack of privacy, the lack of care with my data, the oh-so-broad definition of the word friend, the FOMO and the bullshit.
And fuck the lack of funny cat pictures.
The yoga instructor said, “Let go of that which does not serve you.”
I have been having a rough time lately, for reasons that I cannot pin down. I have a great job with people I like and I am living in my dream house in my dream location. And yet, I feel disconnected. And emotional as fuck.
I’m finding it hard to get a balance in my post-menopausal moods. So hard that apparently I can’t find the words for it right now. I feel like some of it still concussion-related, but what do I know?
“You need to write more,” said a woman I work with. She is so very smart; I adore her immensely. And yet I have snapped at her, made mountains out of molehills, and generally made an ass of myself. Thankfully she is a better woman than I, and sweetly accepted my tearful apologies.
So I am going to write more. And I am going to get rid of that which does not serve me. I’ve deleted everything off of Twitter (I can’t bring myself to delete my account and give up my name yet…I should though), purged so much from Facebook (gone are the Toronto people, breweries, concert venues and bars that are make me homesick for a place I haven’t even liked in the last 5 years), and made some lists. I’m going to yoga again tomorrow. And looking for a local doctor. And a therapist.
I need to get my shit together.
Every day, the shower routine is the same; start at the top and work my way down.
Shampoo the hair, rinse.
Wash the face, rinse.
Squeeze body wash on the floofy thing, wash arms (left first , left underarm then under and around the boobs, right arm, right underarm), belly, genitals, ass, down the left leg, then down the right leg. Rinse.
Same routine for drying, same order. For like the last fifteen thousand showers.
It’s not that I’ve ritualized it or made it a thing, it just seems the most efficient way. Of course, I’m sure that’s what people say who have ritualized a routine task or made it a thing.
But today I was distracted, stressed by waiting on other people, thinking about all the soon-to-happen changes and just how easy it would be for one thread to be pulled and unravel the whole damn thing (no, not really, I’m being dramatic for effect), and I washed out of order. And then I dried out of order.
My whole day has since felt a bit…off. Different. Like a bra that got put in the dryer instead of air dried, it still fits but it’s tight in the wrong places and is a constant reminder that shit isn’t quite right in a very small and slightly irksome way.
I’m not sure I like it, but I’m sure I don’t hate it. Kinda like masturbating with the left hand instead of the right. It just feels….weird.
Well. So much for those good intentions.
It’s not that I couldn’t carve out time to write here, about this and that, about how odd it is to be back around my high school haunts after thirty-odd years, about school and commuting and how I barely have time to connect with Keith much less with friends, or read for fun or knit.
I’m just still trying to find a flow to my days that isn’t going to leave me hating this. No, hating is the wrong word. Resenting might be closer. I’ll get there. Just been a bit of an adjustment to go from being a lady of leisure for a year (a role I was quite good at) to having to organize and budget and schedule more than I have ever had to. I’m not even going to show you my calendar; the last person I showed it to just said, oh dear, and patted my shoulder sympathetically.
One thing I’m glad I’ve scheduled in the half-hour every morning to drink my coffee and do morning pages. Am quite pleased and amazed with how just this little ritual has helped organize my thoughts. I feel less scattered, less anxious when things are piling up. And it’s only been three weeks.
Now that I have procrastinated a bit, I’m going to turn my attention back to my malt assignment and then drink some Chocolate Manifesto and watch it snow.
It’s 10:30 pm, and I’ve had a busy, active day according to my FitBit:
I have eaten healthy
all most of the day according to MyFitnessPal:
So I find myself at home at the end of the day, feet up, watching Netflix and sipping one of the delicious beers I brought back from Quebec in March, looking at the extra calories remaining, and thinking
Is it too late in the evening for a bacon sandwich?
After all the craziness of January and February, I thought that slowing down for March would be a welcome change. The chemistry course is done, marks and portfolio have been submitted for the college application, the 4 websites for clients are either done or on track, and all blogs are caught up.
It feels weird. I’m fidgety. I’m laying in bed right now, at 11:23 on a Saturday morning, wondering what it is I should be/could be doing. I’ve been awake since 6, having taken Keith to the airport. He won’t be back until Monday night, so I don’t have him to bump around with.
I am feeling overwhelmed by waiting right now, if that can be a thing, instead of doing. Waiting for mid-March when I’ll find out if I’ve been accepted or not, waiting to find out which way my life is going to go in the short term, Plan A or Plan B/C/D. Waiting for someone, anyone to look at my resume and at least call me in for an interview. Waiting for next week. Waiting until I need to go to tonight’s derby double-header. Even waiting until I get hungry enough to drag my ass out of bed and find something to eat.
Now might be a good time to address some other projects that have been shelved; writing, editing the novel, knitting a sweater. I might even take another course, maybe the grade 12 Writers’s Craft, Canadian History or Philosophy courses.
Now might be a good time to review the referee hand signals and penalty codes for tonight.
Not would also be a good time to stop waiting and just get the fuck out of bed.
There’s a certain feeling that accompanies a planned Thanksgiving long weekend away to a Northern cottage when the weatherman says words like sunny, unseasonably warm, Indian summer. The dawning realization that you can take the motorcycle rather than the car brings with it an anticipation of joy that is exactly like what you felt the night before Christmas or your birthday.
I can ride up on Thursday, you think. And smile.
You grab the sidebags and start playing packing Tetris, trying to get as much in the two hard cases as possible, paring it down to that which is absolutely necessary. One sweatshirt, one long-sleeve shirt, one book, etc. You roll jeans and shirts around two growlers of beer and pull out the extra pair of shoes; beer is more important than shoes.
You open up old maps of your Dad’s, folded and unfolded so many times that the folds are close to dissolving, leaving you with so many loose rectangular puzzle pieces. You compare the layout of the old highways to the new ones on Google Maps to see if there are any places where the old roads remain to be explored. You plan a route by finding the roads with the most curvy squiggly lines and connecting them, and so are able to make a trip that would take 4 hours by car on 4-lane highway turn into something that will be closer to 7 hours from door to door.
Cross posted from goodaleandbeer.com, because I’m lazy right now.
I tell myself every year that this year will be different, this year I will be as prepared for the December holiday madness as it is possible to be.
I was on the right track; I realized early on that there would be no way to knit gifts for my nieces and nephews. This decision coincided with an email from the World Wildlife Fund, and the gifts were purchased and sent in record time. We are not going to be around for the holiday itself, so the usual travel itinerary between Stratford, Sudbury and Oakville does not need to be sorted, hostess gifts, presents and food do not need to be organized.
And yet, I am still discombobulated. Because of the misunderstanding in the due dates for my marks, I’ve had to drop the teacher-led class for a self-paced online grade 12 chemistry class. To say it has been difficult is an understatement; the frustration of not understanding it as quickly as I would like combined with the stress of the expedited timeline reduced me to tears in lesson two. Phone calls from far-off bff’s shook me out of it, and I have learned (again) to ask for help. I now know that I know not one but THREE people with chemistry-related degrees, and the science teacher at my old school has offered to help me with my homework.
Then on to the application to Niagara College itself, and I am stressing out over every aspect of the portfolio submission. The little voice in the back of my head whispers that I am too old, too late and without enough relevant experience to get it. The little voice would rather I not try than be turned down. Words fail to express how much I hate that little voice.
I am also trying not to slip in to my usual winter hermit mode. Have met some former colleagues for lunch, and went out on Monday with Jen from Ltd Supply to check out the Indie Ale House. It’s hard to say which was more delicious, the burger or the Christmas porter. Like I said to Jen, a good burger should fall apart before you’re finished which this one did in spades. The porter had a lovely warn gingerbread taste going for it, making it a perfect dessert for the meal.
We headed over to the Hole in the Wall where it is very possible that I may have drank a little too much of the Yuletide Cherry porter from Barley Days Brewery. Good conversation over good beer in a good locale – definitely worth braving the cold for!
And that is why I have not made my Mocha Stout yet. I’m going to take a look at the timing and plan it so there’s nothing that needs attention for the week we’re away on our southwest road trip. It might have to wait until we get back.