Right now I’m supposed to be enjoying a well-deserved post-workout cup of coffee, followed by a bowl of caramel Oatso-Easy, and bacon on toast, over a rerun of The Great British Bakeoff. But I can’t, because Eskom se poes. So I thought I’d blog instead. Yay for dropping R1 200 on a new laptop battery.
It’s been FOREVER since I’ve had time to blog, but don’t worry, you haven’t missed much. I haven’t watched the Bold in years, but I assume Brooke is still sleeping with a member of her family, new Ridge is crap, Taylor’s had more plastic surgery, someone has amnesia, and someone else just came back from the dead, despite being decapitated two years ago. My life’s pretty much the same. Less incest and miraculous resurrections; more ‘same shit, different day’.
I wrote it in a status on Facebook the other day, and I fear it may actually be coming true. I think I’m turning into the world’s most boring person. I haven’t blogged for 4 weeks (or something, too lazy to check), but you have literally missed nothing. Apart from a brief Easter weekend in Knysna, all I’ve been doing is working, coming in last at trail running, and attempting to fit into a stupid pair of jeans with a zipper that resolutely refuses to stay up. (I blame this on poor Mr Price quality, not my stomach.)
The one thing that has changed though, is my attitude. And not for the better. For the first time since I gave up alcohol, this is beginning to feel like work. Not the training part, weirdly enough. That’s going like gangbusters. The eating part and the booze part. All I want to do all day long is shove pizza and lemon meringue pie into my face. And all I want to do all night long is drink like a motherfucker.
This may have something to do with the fact that I’m watching the current series of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills over lunch. (No pants during the day, and tv at lunchtime – don’t you just want to smack me?) All those trashy gals do all day long is drink and swear, which used to be my life as recently as ten months ago. Albeit with fewer diamonds.
No, that’s not the reason. I honestly don’t know what the reason is. All I know is that I feel fidgety, restless. Like I have ants in my pants. (I know that 75% of my day is spent without pants on; the irony is not lost on me.) And I don’t know why. Why now? Why is it that all I can think about is eating junk food, and then bunking off work to go sink a keg of draught beer and throw name in some dubious establishment?
It’s getting harder and harder to resist the siren call of FUCKTHISSHIT, and while I’m just about managing it, it is H.A.R.D. Cuba Gooding Jr says it to Tom Cruise in Jerry Maguire and it’s true. You are hanging on by a very thin thread.
It may be because I’m tired. I average between 4 – 5 hours of sleep a night. My hatred of sleep has been well documented in this blog so I’m not going to bore you with it again. Suffice it to say that I don’t sleep enough, and probably never will.
It may be because my work schedule is unrelenting, with a tsunami of briefs pouring in every day. As an entrepreneur, this is a good thing. As a human being, this is not. Too much work, not enough time; too many headaches, not enough Myprodol.
It may be that this is a natural part of the process. I’ve been “up” for the past ten months. And despite his unnatural fascination with apples, Isaac Newton was right – what goes up, must come down. Perhaps this is a “down” part of my journey, and I just have to grit my teeth and soldier on through.
I literally have no idea what it could be. All I know is that I want to make sweet mouth love to as much junk food as possible, and then wash it down with an ocean of vino. Yes, even though I haven’t had a drink in 304 days, I still crave alcohol. Sorry to burst your bubble.
So I don’t know what’s going on with me, but I do know what I’m going to do. Keep on keeping on. I don’t really have a choice, and I don’t want to go back to wearing my fat pants. I want to wear those stupid freaking pants with the malfunctioning zip (that’s my zipper story and I’m sticking to it). So even though my body is crying out for Lindt Mint Intense, I will feed it chicken stirfry. Even though my soul is crying out for the sweet, sweet fermented nectar of Mexico, I will douse it in water. And even though my mind is saying AAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGG, I will just say, ‘there, there’ and get on with it.
Because it turns out when you do that, you go from this:
To this, in a week:
That’s what happens when you harden the fuck up. Now if someone could just get me some kind of cream for the ants/pants situation, everything would be fine.
Losing It 