I've grown lazy, both physically and intellectually.
I swore I would lose the weight I gained back after the wedding, but not only have I not done so, I've made peace with it and kind of like the curves. And I really like the eating, and I love the chocolate. But now my fat jeans--the ones I retired last spring because they were huge--are tight, and I'm starting to feel sort of disappointed in myself. Indulgence is all fine and well, and I believe it is necessary at least once in a while, but maybe the bedtime cup of hot chocolate and dessert pint o'ice cream will have to go.
More to the point, I have to stop being so lazy and get some exercise. And no matter how hard I try to convince myself, the treadling action involved in spinning cannot count as exercise. Believe me, I have that debate with myself every afternoon when I come home from work. Last night I had a wee twinge of guilt when I chose the spinning wheel over the bike--but then I heated up a plate of leftover chocolate bread pudding, sat down at the wheel and conceded defeat.
You know how they say "nothing feels as good as thin"? Chocolate. Chocolate feels as good, if not better.
I'm not saying that to sabotage my dear friends who are steadfastly dieting. I totally support them and know I should be right there with them. But I spent nine months of last year recording every single bite I put in my mouth (thank you, Calorie King!) and every single calorie I expended. Not to mention the year before that, when I tried every bean burger recipe known to man to bring my cholesterol down. I deprived myself to the extent that I haven't been able to face the deprivation again, yet. But I think I'm starting to get there.
I'm not bashing myself. If anything, I'm a little too pleased with myself. When I can look in the mirror and praise the curves that others would call love-handles, maybe it's time to take myself down a notch.
Plus, come September my doctor's going to want to test my cholesterol again, so I might as well start the diet, exercise and bean burgers now.
The intellectual laziness is harder to put my finger on. It's more a feeling than anything else. I read books. I keep up with current events. I'm still learning stuff at work--designing ads with new graphic design software, thinking up radio spots.
But over lunch a few weeks ago, my friend S. asked me if I'd been doing any writing, and I said, no, I don't have the time. And she said, you should, you're a good writer.
Isn't it amazing how a kind and generous compliment can make you feel so terrible?
Until I dropped it last spring, I had a part-time freelance job writing biographies of noteworthy locals for the town newspaper. S. writes for the paper and helped me get the job. The great thing about it was that every interviewee taught me a little something about their profession. Flying, clockmaking, nursing, cakebaking, you name it. Some sent me away with books so I could learn more. Melanie noted my ability to talk to anyone recently, and that's one of the places I learned it.
The bad thing about the job was that every article took a minimum of five hours, by the time I was done interviewing and writing. Much as I enjoyed them, some interviews would last 2-3 hours. I started using shorter tapes because I discovered people would talk until the tape recorder shut off. By the time I was done, I was lucky if I earned $10 an hour. And I was starting to feel like I was in training to write obituaries.
I got too busy at my "real" job to be able to spend hours interviewing and writing. Plus, I was planning a wedding. But the wedding is over and I have a little more time now.
I've just gotten too content to let someone else (an author, a blogger) tell me a story, instead of writing the story myself. It's relaxing, it's easy, it's fun. I haven't wanted to write; I've been perfectly happy letting others do the heavy lifting. I spend my spare time at work reading your stories, and I love it. Thank you all so much for entertaining me!
The only writing I do these days is on my blog, and I think we've all seen how reliant I've become on poorly-lit, blurry photographs to tell the story. There's very little writing there.
While I know I don't want to go back to the local paper, I know I need to do... something. Maybe explore a nice, juicy local history angle. I was working on one two years ago, but the trail ran cold and could only, maybe, be found with a trip to Los Angeles for a copy of an obituary. If the person in question even died in LA. And if the obituary gave surviving family information. And if I could find a surviving relative who knew the story. I have no intentions of flying to LA for a needle in a haystack, but I do think I need to incorporate some research and/or writing back into my life.
And since exercise and research take time, that means less time for knitting and spinning. It's kind of like the fiber arts are my personal Land of the Lotus Eaters. I've forgotten the things I used to do before I had a knit blog. I'd rather just spin and knit (or read about spinning and knitting).
Is that a bad thing?