Michelle's House of Horrors

It sometimes occurs to me that my life is a bit small. I don’t do dramatic things like skydiving or mountain climbing. I don’t have glorious adventures. My significant other is a teacher, not a gazillionaire business tycoon. I do things like walking around in the park. Looking at flowers. Petting puppies. Pounding metal into jewelry. Watching British TV with my sweetheart. Going to football games and tailgating with family and friends.

Once in a while I think “shouldn’t I be doing something more…more-ish?”

Then I consider, and I say “you’re being an idiot. This IS more.”

Sometimes I think of my weight loss the same way. I had surgery! There should be dramatic announcements about losing massive amounts of weight! Big numbers!

But…the thing I have to keep in mind is that I started out just barely big enough to qualify for having surgery. I’m never going to lose 150lbs. I’d be nothing but a pile of loose skin and bones. I might lose 80-90 pounds over a year or two. Maybe 100 if I have trouble eating more when I get to a good weight.

So I have to figure out what constitutes a big announcement for someone like me.

Here it is–are you ready?

Ahem.

I’m not severely obese anymore.

Not even obese.

I’m just..overweight.

Right? It sounds underwhelming, doesn’t it? Like going for a walk in the park. Or riding my bike around the block. Big fucking deal.

But if you go for enough bike rides, and walks around the neighborhood it starts to add up. It adds up to 60lbs at this point. Small, insignificant things start to add up to something substantial.

Maybe “not obese anymore” doesn’t seem like much to you, but if you’ve ever been on the wrong side of that line you know it is!

Addendum: just got some labs back. My cholesterol is lower than it has been in years, and my Hgb A1C levels are normal. When I saw my PCP in November of 2017, when all of this started, it was in a range diagnostic for diabetes. If you ever wonder if losing weight can make a measurable impact, it can.

Me:  maybe I should do something productive now.

Also me: define productive first.

So what do I do when I feel guilty about not doing anything productive with my day? Well. It’s a process.

First, I have a popsicle. It’s hot outside, and I just picked up groceries and then took an hour long walk in the park. I need a popsicle.

Then, I remember it’s time for lunch, so I have a little something to eat because I can’t be productive if I am hungry. For one thing, I have a pesky habit of fainting if I am hungry or dehydrated.

Then, I remember that link sausages no longer agree with me.

Then, I brush my teeth and get some water. I’m still hungry. I get a protein shake, since my stomach is being uncooperative today.

Then I sit down at my workbench and admire a bracelet I worked on yesterday and post it on Instagram. It’s very pretty, by the way. Copper. Celtic knots etched on it.

Then I look at the floor, which really wants cleaning, and I start up the Roomba, but it isn’t charged. Again. I’ve kicked the power plug loose. Again. Well, I swept yesterday. It’s fine, except that apparently I am no longer smart enough to plug in an appliance.

I wonder if I should be concerned about it.

Very briefly.

Maybe I should watch a movie? No, that’s definitely not productive.

Maybe I should go back outside and try to ride my bike which just got tuned up? I look at the thermostat. No, I should wait for 13 to get home so he can call an ambulance if I either faint from the heat or crash. Again.

Have I mentioned that since crashing on my bike 3 years ago, I am terrified of riding it and might need psychoanalysis about it?

Then I decide to post about it. The productivity thing, not the fear of biking thing. Though, really, which is more important? Being a little unproductive or having an irrational fear? Is my sanity really in question?

I tell myself that being afraid of riding my bike is not really irrational given the number of  times I’ve fallen off of it for no apparent  reason. It could be that my bike is beset by demons. Is that a common issue with Trek bicycles, I wonder?

I decide not to Google that.

Realize that being me is a full time job, and requires a lot of confessional and self analytical writing. Requires? Well. No, not really. I don’t have to do this. I could stop writing and be REALLY nuts. Trust me, this is better.

There could still be a few people out there who think I’m actually sane. The ones who haven’t met me.

So I guess my point is: what is a productive way to spend my day?

Then I accidentally post this before it’s actually finished. So, does that mean this was a waste of time? This is all very complicated.

I think I will just look at a picture of GingerBelle’s new puppy on Facebook….whatever being productive is, I’m sure it’s overrated. I got groceries. I exercised. I thought about cleaning. I’m good for now.

 

It’s always seemed to me like the myth of the miserable artiste producing art through times of great trouble was…overstated…exaggerated…maybe even untrue.

When I am happy, though, it doesn’t seem like there is much to write about. Because I am doing other things? Perhaps. Making more silver rings than I will ever wear. Roaming around with 13. Trying to read books that I never finish. Going to football games. Poking around Pinterest for new recipes.

Am I happy?

Mostly, very.

There are some things that are still mashing down my angst button pretty hard. Work, mostly. Actually, work period. The tenuousness of my position at work is still not resolved. I have an interview scheduled for a “permanent” spot on the team that’s replacing mine this Friday. That should make me feel a bit better…but…then the rumor mill started reporting that the positions have already been filled and would be announced this week. News to me, the one who hasn’t had her interview yet.

And it just sort of keeps going on like this.

“Everyone” tells me that the company will keep me. “Everyone” says that I am too valuable to the company to lose. But I know that “everyone” is often wrong about such things. Especially this year. So I try to focus on all of the great stuff going on in my life, and not worry about work. Mindfulness, y’all. I’ve got alternatives. I don’t need to worry. Worrying won’t help.

Still. Like the scorpion that stings the raccoon saving his life by swimming him across the river on his back…it’s my nature.

I’m not sure that’s a good analogy, but let’s just stick to it. After all, I’m only stinging myself and I won’t drown.

Anyway, to round back to my original point, I must be pretty happy because I am not writing. I’ve always written more when I’m either unhappy or dissatisfied in some way, even back in my letter writing days.

Does it follow that if I’m not writing I must be happy and satisfied?

I’m not sure the logic really works here, but I’m pretty happy and satisfied right now and I am not a logician. My creative life is fulfilling, and certainly my romantic life is going wonderfully well. I’ve only cried in the car on my way home from work once or twice in the last 3 months. I’m apparently not having night terrors. I don’t even mind going to a pub and not being able to have a beer. Much.

So what’s with the lack of writing if I can’t blame it on happiness?

Time, partly.

Shiny new stuff like 13 and making things. The jewelry is literally shiny, but 13 is only metaphorically so.

But…it’s not like I have more or less time than I did when I was less happy. I just have to prioritize, and I haven’t prioritized this for some reason.

Maybe you just get to have so many good things going on at a time. For..balance. It’s like that saying about food. Quick, cheap, good: pick 2.  You don’t get overflowing  with awesome romance, creativity, intellect, plenty of exercise, home cooked meals, time to do nothing AND an awesome work life–something’s got to give.

Right?

I mean, can you have it all?

No, I don’t think you can, and I don’t even want to. I don’t want one of those oversized lives, running everywhere to jam as much activity in as I can. I don’t want to be oversubscribed and under-relaxed. I need time to putter around and figure things out.

I need to have time to drink my fucking coffee. Time to read. Time to watch the Bette Davis marathon on TCM. The essential joys of life.

This isn’t a contest or a race. The one who dies with the most toys, friends, clothes, work certifications, jewelry, or WHATEVER still dies. Who wants to win the race to *that* finish line?

Hint: it’s OK, we all die. Life is 100% fatal.

Seriously. It’s OK. We go to Heaven, or we just die and cease to be or whatever it is that happens to us and it’s OK. It always has been.

As usual, I have deviated somewhat from my point. Which appears to be that I have no idea if being angst-ridden and depressed makes a person more creatively productive. I’m pretty happy and I made 5 silver rings and a bracelet last month.

What does that mean?

Not much, really.

It means I’m happy.

So maybe it actually means a lot.