your time starts now
After having been SO down this past week or so, I woke up and *bling* am back to my regular self again. Still as tired as all buggery but at least I don't feel like throwing myself under a bus because I'm suuuuuuuuch a failure, and all that ridiculous, depressive, dig a deeper hole to climb into, aibee, shit. The tiredness and ennui will pass too, once I get back into working out and working (with my two (ahem) clients) regularly again. Not that I work out that often anyway but enough to feel more motivated and less like a waifish weakling. The gym down the road has a thirty days for thirty dollars deal going on too, and I'm still umming and aahing about it because filling in classes once every millenium means I still get to train for free at The World's Crappiest Gym, and yet I still don't train regularly and ..... would you look at me getting all ridiculously hard on myself? Before I head this last surgery (which wasn't even three weeks ago) I WAS training and me and my black and white perfectionist streak has suddenly made it up that I'm lazy and lacking motivation.
LIES.
Hello perspective, and thanks for that, blogger.
I reckon I'll take the gym offer up though, as their gym is quite nice, has longer hours for the creche, and if I pay for it, no matter how nominal the amount, I may actually use it more. I'm not looking forward to my first run back though, as three days before surgery I ran 6.5k, and I find it really hard to start back at a lesser level. I'd rather give up than be not as good as I was at something, so it becomes more of a mind game than it is a physical challenge. Perfectionist issues man, they doom you to failure.
The segue is that all this renewed vigor had me going back to Target and tossing this and that and the other thing into my basket, and having bought that load, I moved on to the The Other Target and availed myself of their clearance sale too, scoring two items I figured I'd invariably return because my feet are not a size 6 (not unless I amputate the little piggy that stayed home), and while Target sizes screw with the time/space equilibrium on a regular basis anyway, that vest? Looked awfully spacious. It was reduced to $5.04 (I suspect the 0.4 is to keep the mystery) though, from $49, but still, it wasn't really a bargain if I was never going to wear it.
BUT! I love a bargain so enjoyed the hoot worthy thrill of excitement when I found those red leather moccasins (for want of a better word. My brain, she leaks descriptive terms) and the flappy, gappy vest despite knowing they'd be going back toot sweet anyway.
HOWEVER! I took those babies home and tried them on and shiver me timbers if those fuckers didn't fit. All three of them (one shoe, the other shoe, the vest), so Dear Target, your loose adherence to the laws of Size Does Matter, Motherfucker, may piss me off for the most part, but yesterday? Worked for me and my feet and chesty bits thank you very much.
Daniel and I went to one of those play Play cafes with a friend and her six month old bundle o' joy on Thursday. Her older sister is Daniel's age, which is how I met her mother (which sounds like a great title for a tv sitcom), so while BabyM lay like a slug in her Phil and Ted's, Daniel cruised the joint and had a whale of a time. The owners/managers/whatever? Judgment time, folks, because you'd think if you were going into business that catered primarily for shortasses with no table manners and a penchant for pooping their pants, that you'd at least like the little rascals in the first place, but apparently not. Payback time came when Daniel discovered and sorted through the magazine rack (why anyone would place a magazine rack yay high from the floor in a room full of pesky kids is also beyond me)(I sound like we didn't have fun. We did! We did!) and rearranged them (probably alphabetically and cross referencing them according to popularity) all over the floor. Several times. I'm usually a real "ohImsosorryforthebladibladibla" type person, otherwise known as a pain in the rearendicular region apologiser, actually, but yesterday I was all up in my Entitled Mode and figured I'd paid my five bucks for Daniel to enjoy himself while I forgot I had him (What baby? That baby with the pile of Reader's Digests? Nope, no idea. *whistles innocently* ) and enjoy the peace and the coffee and the company, so left him to it and the grumpy assed manager to earn the big bucks. Oh, I am awful.
And waifish and weak. BUT! Despite currently being Stick o' Gal, I've come to the conclusion that I am also Woman, Evolved, because while everyone else peels off the baby weight once breastfeeding commences, I gained a fuckload of poundage and porked up more post natally than I ever did while pregnant. As soon as Daniel was nursing but once a day, it literally fell off me, plop plop plop, just like that, all over the floor, and within a week, I'd lost the seven pounds I'd gained that would NOT budge, no matter what, for that whole meantimey year (and a bit). Oh, and now I'm having trouble keeping it on which, had you told me that a year ago, I'd have laughed in your face before grabbing a handful of thigh and forcing you to look at just how much you were taunting me. POINT BEING, in the event of a famine, the nursing mothers with sleek silhouettes would be scraping to keep their babies fed and happy, while I would be drawing on my newly corpulent stomach and thighs and saying things like "Thank FUCK they're good for something". Of course, a famine is pretty unlikely to come our way so those other less advanced versions of Mother are still better off than me, the nursing porker upper, but IN THE EVENT, you know?
Anyway.
What else? I've not actually been doing much of anything of late apart from de swelling. Yes, that takes up a lot of my time. I'm still swollen, and still have a faint blush of bruise around my eyes. It's amazing how much the body heals in such a short time though as this time two weeks ago I wasn't even recognisable. I'm not kidding. You'd have walked right past me. Even the first operation, the one that involved the actual breaking of bones and moving them around, didn't give me that degree of anonymity.
Which brings me to...how did I get to *mumblemumble* years of age without realising (until spellcheck asked me what in tarnation I was trying to say, because the damn word is "anonymity")(spellcheck also tries to tell me to use a z not an s, which, no spellcheck, you yankee loving bahstard) that anonyminity isn't actually a word? How embarrassing.
LIES.
Hello perspective, and thanks for that, blogger.
I reckon I'll take the gym offer up though, as their gym is quite nice, has longer hours for the creche, and if I pay for it, no matter how nominal the amount, I may actually use it more. I'm not looking forward to my first run back though, as three days before surgery I ran 6.5k, and I find it really hard to start back at a lesser level. I'd rather give up than be not as good as I was at something, so it becomes more of a mind game than it is a physical challenge. Perfectionist issues man, they doom you to failure.
The segue is that all this renewed vigor had me going back to Target and tossing this and that and the other thing into my basket, and having bought that load, I moved on to the The Other Target and availed myself of their clearance sale too, scoring two items I figured I'd invariably return because my feet are not a size 6 (not unless I amputate the little piggy that stayed home), and while Target sizes screw with the time/space equilibrium on a regular basis anyway, that vest? Looked awfully spacious. It was reduced to $5.04 (I suspect the 0.4 is to keep the mystery) though, from $49, but still, it wasn't really a bargain if I was never going to wear it.
BUT! I love a bargain so enjoyed the hoot worthy thrill of excitement when I found those red leather moccasins (for want of a better word. My brain, she leaks descriptive terms) and the flappy, gappy vest despite knowing they'd be going back toot sweet anyway.
HOWEVER! I took those babies home and tried them on and shiver me timbers if those fuckers didn't fit. All three of them (one shoe, the other shoe, the vest), so Dear Target, your loose adherence to the laws of Size Does Matter, Motherfucker, may piss me off for the most part, but yesterday? Worked for me and my feet and chesty bits thank you very much.
Daniel and I went to one of those play Play cafes with a friend and her six month old bundle o' joy on Thursday. Her older sister is Daniel's age, which is how I met her mother (which sounds like a great title for a tv sitcom), so while BabyM lay like a slug in her Phil and Ted's, Daniel cruised the joint and had a whale of a time. The owners/managers/whatever? Judgment time, folks, because you'd think if you were going into business that catered primarily for shortasses with no table manners and a penchant for pooping their pants, that you'd at least like the little rascals in the first place, but apparently not. Payback time came when Daniel discovered and sorted through the magazine rack (why anyone would place a magazine rack yay high from the floor in a room full of pesky kids is also beyond me)(I sound like we didn't have fun. We did! We did!) and rearranged them (probably alphabetically and cross referencing them according to popularity) all over the floor. Several times. I'm usually a real "ohImsosorryforthebladibladibla" type person, otherwise known as a pain in the rearendicular region apologiser, actually, but yesterday I was all up in my Entitled Mode and figured I'd paid my five bucks for Daniel to enjoy himself while I forgot I had him (What baby? That baby with the pile of Reader's Digests? Nope, no idea. *whistles innocently* ) and enjoy the peace and the coffee and the company, so left him to it and the grumpy assed manager to earn the big bucks. Oh, I am awful.
And waifish and weak. BUT! Despite currently being Stick o' Gal, I've come to the conclusion that I am also Woman, Evolved, because while everyone else peels off the baby weight once breastfeeding commences, I gained a fuckload of poundage and porked up more post natally than I ever did while pregnant. As soon as Daniel was nursing but once a day, it literally fell off me, plop plop plop, just like that, all over the floor, and within a week, I'd lost the seven pounds I'd gained that would NOT budge, no matter what, for that whole meantimey year (and a bit). Oh, and now I'm having trouble keeping it on which, had you told me that a year ago, I'd have laughed in your face before grabbing a handful of thigh and forcing you to look at just how much you were taunting me. POINT BEING, in the event of a famine, the nursing mothers with sleek silhouettes would be scraping to keep their babies fed and happy, while I would be drawing on my newly corpulent stomach and thighs and saying things like "Thank FUCK they're good for something". Of course, a famine is pretty unlikely to come our way so those other less advanced versions of Mother are still better off than me, the nursing porker upper, but IN THE EVENT, you know?
Anyway.
What else? I've not actually been doing much of anything of late apart from de swelling. Yes, that takes up a lot of my time. I'm still swollen, and still have a faint blush of bruise around my eyes. It's amazing how much the body heals in such a short time though as this time two weeks ago I wasn't even recognisable. I'm not kidding. You'd have walked right past me. Even the first operation, the one that involved the actual breaking of bones and moving them around, didn't give me that degree of anonymity.
Which brings me to...how did I get to *mumblemumble* years of age without realising (until spellcheck asked me what in tarnation I was trying to say, because the damn word is "anonymity")(spellcheck also tries to tell me to use a z not an s, which, no spellcheck, you yankee loving bahstard) that anonyminity isn't actually a word? How embarrassing.
posted by aibee at 13:54
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