Doc B and I have been cleaning out the junk room which is similar to the junk drawer except the square footage is bigger as are the useless items. I’m guessing this is the reason we haven’t tried very hard to un-stick the room’s rubbing door jamb and perhaps also the reason we haven’t turned the space into the master bathroom that the mortgage company would like it to be.
Yesterday I opened up a box that I thought was just some old tax returns and perhaps some 1980’s VHS porn tapes but instead stumbled upon a collection of my old journals. I spent the next two hours reviewing this anthology of angst, adult beverages, food logging, and grumpy yoga. From these journals, you’d think I’d been divorced twice, held against my will by monastery monks, barely survived in a third world country, endured a women’s prison that didn’t at all resemble Orange is the New Black and been on a juice fast for at least 17 years. Because after all, who journals when they’re happy and content?
Rather than just toss the journals, I decided to analyze them, identify common trends, accept some of the rants as part of my life and perhaps work to change others before I turn 50. Have I told you that I’m turning 50 this year? Oh, I have? In every recent post? Well, you only have 8 more months to hear about it so please recline and enjoy the cushion.
I’ve not yet decided which I will accept and which will become “before 50” changes, but here’s what I discovered:
- I’ve been counting calories and tracking my food and beverage intake off and on for at least 25 years and, even at my lowest weight, my goal was to lose 5 pounds. WTF?
- For many years at a time, I’ve put off going to the doctor because I hadn’t yet lost those 5 pounds. Since the dentist and the mammogrammers don’t care about my weight – my chops and boobs are just dandy.
- Mac and cheese, grits, tater tots and wine are listed quite regularly as cheats to my calorie counting.
- I’m good at making bold, sweeping demands on myself such as “You will not put salt on anything this week, not even on the rim of your margarita glass”. Or, “You will not drink any margaritas this week… with salt on the rim.”
- I have a long history of bitching about yoga teachers not remembering me or my name after I’ve paid for and attended months of their classes and been accidentally (?) groped by their adjustments. And I haven’t written about that in almost three years, ever since I started Mysore at Ashtanga Yoga Atlanta.
- I’ve done even more complaining about showing up for what I thought was just a regular old yoga class and then got stuck in partner yoga, blindfolded yoga, dance yoga, wind releasing yoga and who forgot to shower yoga. Again, I thank all of those indiscriminate, broadminded higher powers for Ashtanga Yoga Atlanta.
- Sometimes my handwriting and thoughts don’t look or seem like me at all; but I clearly inherited a love of flair pens.
- About this time every year, I talk about wanting to lose weight for my annual beach vacation and it never happens. Then a month after the trip I start griping about how I couldn’t keep it going to make it happen. The whole process starts over as I approach my birthday month.
- I’m dying to write extensively about my place of employment but am not prepared to be fired.
This was certainly an excellent way to avoid finishing the junk room job. At least I now have a title for my first book – The Journal of Applied Angst: An Anthology of Adult Beverages, Food Logging, and Grumpy Yoga.