Entry #685502, added on 01-27-10 @ 10:27 am EST
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| We'll see the bright and hollow sky. | Entry #685502 |
My child is a phlegm-machine. Wait, is that how you spell phlegm? No matter. The word and the substance do not have my respect.
Still, she wanted to do more yoga last night, insisted on it, actually, and though I was in no real humour to do it, I got down in downward dog and eventually ended up falling over attempting raven pose. There was a crop circle of used tissues in the vicinity, which kind of worked against my chakras aligning, but she was happy, if not tired and mildly annoyed by the chafed skin around her nose. M. was out with his friend C. for their usual Tuesday coffee and I was doing my best to shirk the onset of another tender mood, so yoga seemed like the right thing to do. For the record, I'm not getting better at it and don't really feel much stronger, but at least there's the peaceful feeling that comes afterward. That's something.
I went through my portfolio here last night and realized something: no one reads me. The journal is fine, this bad boy gets views, but the fact that I had a folder marked 'non-fiction short stories' and that it had only one story about a murderous madwoman kind of alerted me to the fact that no one has actually gone into said folder, including myself. I would think someone would have commented on it, otherwise, perhaps asked me what sort of world I inhabit that I could write so cavalierly about a crazy broad plunging a knife into the neck of her sister-in-law, but no one did. Then, I realized that I didn't even have a fictional short story folder, and what's more, when was the last time I actually wrote a short story? Do I even know how? Then, I re-read some of my poetry and was kind of annoyed that what I consider to be my better work has not only not been rated or reviewed, but most have not seen a single view. Really? My garbage-like work rests easy with hundreds of views and charity stars, but the newer stuff, the stuff I actually thought about and worked at? Nothing. Covered in dust.
Sour girl. That's me.
I blame it on winter, truly. I am aware that my personality splits come April and a brighter, happier me emerges, but I can't control the weather and have no real influence on things. I am a passenger, and I ride and I ride. I know that I try too hard to control things, despite having no real sense of direction or the ability to drive without hyperventilating. Maybe I should sit back and see where things go.
M. told me that C. just received his medical journal...thing...whatever it's called, and that it turns out that the over thirty per cent of the American population is obese. Not overweight, but obese. Canadians are between twelve and fifteen per cent obese, which is still high. He told M. that they are stunned by this, particularly the American figure (pun intended) and wonder why the huge contrast in numbers between countries that are neighbours. What is problem with Americans?
'I'd say it's because of the large African-American and Latino populations,' I said matter-of-factly. 'It's cultural. From what I understand, frying things is the norm in these cultures and they're not big on fresh vegetables. Then, economically, they're usually the groups who experience higher levels of poverty, which makes them turn to easy, inexpensive food which is basically garbage in nice packaging, so that's why, I think.'
As for all the 'fat' people I know in my vicinity, it's usually a result of sloth and eating whatever is fast and easy. Also, people don't cook like they used to because both parents normally have to work which makes cooking seem more like a chore than a pleasure. The women tend to use food for comfort, myself included, because when the going gets rough, the rough eat chocolate. Or something like that. I actually tell myself I deserve the foods that make me fat because I have had a hard day or because someone hurt my feelings. I never think that the immediate gratification is going to make things worse because that would take all of the fun out of eating. I know it's wrong, but I sometimes feel like it's the only pleasure available to me. It explains why I get excited over new food products at the local grocery store, and can even extend into the realm of cleaning supplies. A new cleanser comes on the market and I go wild, especially if it smells like flowers. Yesterday, after realizing that the few pounds I gained over last week weren't going to fall off magically, I got back onto my 'healthy lifestyle' high-horse and ate only foods that were pure and beneficial. This means that by mid-afternoon, I was light-headed and anxious because I was starving. Amazing how my metabolism works. I had a headache by the time I got home and I felt on the verge of tears. Blood sugar problem? No, I don't think so. I think I was just hungry because I had just come off a week's bender of carbohydrates and I was detoxing, or whatever. My body cried fritter and I defiantly ignored it. Then, like the brat that it is, it revolted. I have spoiled it so long it only makes sense that it has temper tantrums occasionally.
I'm sick of talking about body weight. We keep thinking we're making progress as a society and we tell ourselves that we live in the 'greatest' place on the planet, but we're all fat and depressed. Why do we think things are so great here? What experience do we have that allows us such confidence? I hate that we keep lying to ourselves. We're going to explode at some point, most certainly.
I am just finishing a business course at school and will likely take my exam today. I was surprised at how much I enjoyed the course because I am not a business minded person, at all. Still, as I made my way through the chapter on developing a business plan, I couldn't stop myself from fantasizing about my own business. I'd love to own a tea room/cafe. I would want live music and a literary theme. I would want foods baked from scratch on the premises and free trade coffee. I was imagining having poet-of-the-month themes and having weekly poetry readings from local artists. I would hang paintings from local artisans on the wall and would target the age group of 25-100. I fantasized about it and then I took an entrepreneurial aptitude test which told me I'm not entrepreneur material. Oh well. Dreams are nice to have, anyway.
On that note, off to face the day. I wish someone would drive me through it.
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