Angst

I’m just not feeling right these days. Everything seems to be coming to a headless head. My body is changing, and I want to reach a truce with it. To be at peace with it; to cherish it even, despite its faults and foibles. Will that be possible? I want to treat my body better. When you get right down to it, your body is all you’ve got. Without your body, you’re walking around the ramparts moaning, “Adieu, adieu; Remember me.” And then its too late to wonder what might have been if you’d finally decided once and for all to just quit with the alcohol already; to find a way to do lunch that doesn’t involve driving up to a pimply teenager thrusting a greasy bag at you through an open window; to be able to say, “I just don’t care for chocolate,” without betraying yourself by laughing like a lying maniac until you fall over and start knee-slapping the pavement.

At least I don’t smoke. I like to give myself credit for that, but I can hear Chris Rock in my head chastising the brothers who boast that at least they’ve never been to jail. “You’re not supposed to go to jail!” he says in eye-rolling exasperation. Clearly, I need to set my goals higher. Anymore, saying, “At least I don’t smoke” is kinda like bragging that, “At least I don’t cut myself with dull, rusty razor blades and rub composted manure and dog spit into the wounds.” Well, no. I would hope not.

I am trying so hard to keep exercising. Please keep your fingers crossed that we will have summer one day soon. Hell, I’d even settle for spring.