This is a long weekend, and I, for one, am grateful. I have
so much on my to-do list, lots of things to catch up on, lots of chores to do
and errands to run and important issues to importantly resolve, and I am
delighted to say that this is the weekend that I’m finally, at long last, going
to pull out my lists, square my shoulders, and go right back to bed. I plan on
gloriously ignoring every single one of those things I thought about doing, and
sleeping from Friday night through Tuesday morning.
I am still sick, and still feeling sorry for myself, and it
is the idea of a perfect, pantless weekend that is keeping me alive and going.
The actual truth of an entirely pants-free weekend would probably kill me dead
of ennui. I really love the idea. I do. It is a siren song of freedom and
peace. But if I let myself wind down and come entirely to a halt, it is
doubtful that I will ever, ever start up again. I am so good at avoiding things
and not thinking about them and letting them fall by the wayside and if they go
there for an entire weekend, they will not get picked back up again, no. They
will lie in the ditch and get covered over with trash and eventually get washed
into the sewers and get eaten by C.H.U.D.s. And without a purpose in life, I
might as well get eaten by C.H.U.D.s. Anyone know a C.H.U.D.?
There is, of course, a middle ground. There’s got to be a
middle ground between temporary coma and endless action-packed endeavoring, and
I assume that’s where the normal people dwell quite happily without ever really
thinking about it. I have never managed
to find that place; I overshoot wildly every time I aim for it, and then I give
up and then everything goes right straight to hell. It’s the all-or-nothing
philosophy that fucked me over and over again when I dieted—I am perfect! I am
the perfect dieter full of perfect dieting and I will make No Mistakes! Except
for this one! I am foiled! I will plant my face in a cake and never come back
up! Please pass me a ham! Thank you!
All, nothing. I didn’t go to the gym yesterday; why should I
bother going to the gym at all this week? I’ve fucked up my running schedule,
and why start yoga in the middle of the week when you’re going to end up with
three whole days between classes and that is no way to start a new exercise
regime! Here, choke down some pie and feel really, really sick. Good girl. Now
smoke an entire pack of cigarettes and feel ashamed and broken, because there
is no other way to feel, except for perfect and saintly, and God knows you
certainly aren’t that. Faultless, or defective. I want middle ground.
I am perfectly capable of saying "Well, no one’s
perfect! I can’t beat myself up! You just start right over from where you
stumbled, and you stride forward and every step is a new chance you are giving
yourself!" I went to a lot of Weight Watchers meetings; I have been to a
lot of therapists. The problem is that I can tell myself that all I want…I just
tell myself that while I’m crying into the third chocolate pie that I am
washing down with a bottle of scotch. After the next pie, that’s when I’ll pick myself back up. Or the next one. Or
the next one. I am perfectly capable of knowing what the right thing to do is—the
problem is actually doing it. How is it possible to know what you need to do,
and why you need to do it, and be absolutely and completely unable to do what
you have to do? Even when you know it’ll make you happy? It has got to be a
design flaw. Or I am very, very stupid.
Sometimes, I am not very very stupid. Sometimes, I wish I
were—because, see, I wouldn’t have to be so aware of my idiot flaws all the
time, right? I could just toddle around enjoying sunshine and flowers and not
be troubled by my oh so tragic idiot
fucking flaws. They seem especially idiotic written out like this, I will
have you know. Boo hoo, I know what to
do! I just don’t do it! The things that I know I have to do, I mean! I have a
problem! Here is the solution! Oh woe is me, I have a solution! And, um, it’s
hard! So I don’t do it! Boo hoo? Where you going? Hello?
I want to sleep in all weekend, all the way through until
Tuesday. But maybe I can try thinking about the possibility of maybe trying to
consider perhaps taking a stab at, you know. Being a little less idiotic.