I'm sitting in my pjs consuming pop culture. And coffee. And everything I'm supposed to do, everything in the whole world, feels intimidating and overwhelming and impossible. Everything.
So, I'm in full avoidance mode. On my fifth episode of my first re-watch of TBBT, season one, and it's 31 degrees out and I'm pretty much hiding. Inside the flat, it's pretty good, temperature-wise. For some reason this flat doesn't really get too hot, even in the really worstest part of the summer.
(Also, I made an important neurological discovery the other night: if you have temporal lobe epilepsy and run a fan at full blast next to your head 24 hours a day for a couple of days, the constant white noise will trigger a seizure. Good to know. Don't let this alarm you. I was diagnosed when I was 12 and get them so rarely now that I sometimes forget I have it. TL seizures, moreover, aren't that big a deal. They can be scary when you're a kid and don't know what's going on, but as an adult it's just a kind of glitch and over pretty quickly. Sometimes it leaves a headache. But the new rule is to turn the fan off once in a while, no matter how hot it gets because it's hard to concentrate on work when someone switches off the universe and you can't tell the difference between here and there, near and far, up and down...)
Anyway, since getting back from Gardone, I've mostly been sitting about in my beloved
I did pretty well at Garda with not eating carbs or drinking too much hoochies, or eating any ice cream (yes, the whole two weeks and not a drop of gelato. Really!). I think I skipped the pasta dishes at dinners every time except once, and I only had about two cocktails the whole time at cocktail hour. For a Garda trip, it was positively abstemious.
And I played tennis a bunch and really loved it. Like, LOVED it. Man, tennis! Who knew? Really amazingly fun, even when you suck at it. Like fencing only with fewer bruises.
So, overall, I had a pretty great time at Garda, and didn't come back thinking I'd blown the diet and exercise thing. And when I got back, I was pretty eager to get back to the gym, which I did, when I first landed. It took a couple of days to get untired after the trip, but then I went straight back to the gym lady. For two days. Then last Monday, I told the gym lady I was coming back on Wednesday, (that's a week yesterday) and I didn't.
It's just too fricken hot to go outside the house in the day time. It's been 30-35 degrees every day, and it's getting to the stage where it doesn't cool off at night, so sleeping, not so much. Anyway, that's my stupid excuse.
And it's a bad one, because honestly it was every bit as hot at Garda, and every day after lunch, I would grab the tennis racket and go running down the hill to the other hotel and bug the guys until they would come and play with me. Seriously. Like I was eight years old. It was just so fun to play tennis with Chris and Mike. And they were nice about me being really bad at it, and didn't yell at me or anything... not like in school.
So, I feel kind of crappy for quitting everything. And playing tennis in the roaring Italian heat reminded me that when I was a child, I didn't care about the heat, at all. I would just go running around the world and the weather was just the background, no matter what it was. But then I guess I lived on the Island, where it never got to be more than 28 degrees, even in mid-summer... But still, as a kid I never let the weather stop me running around and having fun.
Maybe that's it. When I was a kid, it was running around and having fun. There wasn't any baggage or obligation or goal. The having fun was the goal. Now all I can think about is the fact that I'm (probably) creeping up to 90 kilos and don't fit into my clothes any more. Then I start thinking about the h-word and cancer and All That, and I start freaking out. All of which makes going to the gym not "fun" but something I'm reluctantly obliged to do. So I don't do it.
You can tell I've been drinking coffee and not having too much social interaction, since my brain is running off a the keyboard.
Also, I keep looking across the room at the painting I did in Jordan Sokol's class and wondering why I suddenly quit arting immediately after it was finished. I abruptly cancelled all the classes I was signed up for for the rest of the summer. Not really sure why, exactly (except that I ran out of money to pay for them, which is a pretty solid reason, but wasn't really the reason, you know?). Just cocooning up. Haven't so much as picked up a pencil in six weeks. Am I intimidated? I think maybe. It really is difficult being neurotic.
Aaaaaanyway. I feel like a big blob now that I've gone over a week without going to the gym, and really without going outside much at all. The more I sit, the worse I feel.
And the neuropathy is back in my fingertips. It's ok after getting up in the morning, but by evening it gets really bad. Fingertips on fire, feet burning. Awful. Probably because of not enough exercise.
But in a week or so, I'll have to move. I have to go to Ontario, did I mention? I'm coming back to Canada next week. Like I promised myself I never would. Also awful. Leaving the house. Getting on trains and planes. Heaving luggage around. Not having my stuff around me. Being in crowds. Dealing with officials. Interacting with strangers. Waking up every day not at home. Being away from the cat. Having to act normal all the time.
Lawdy, but how I hate traveling!
But also been thinking lately how much I miss BC and want to go back to the Island again. Haven't been there since 1996 or so. And my Dad is out there somewhere. I want to see him.
What? Nothing. Just sharing too much. Sorry.