I'm all blocked up...

Forgive me Lord, for I have sinned.  It has been THREE WEEKS since my last blog entry.

Sorry guys.  I’ve tried.  I wanted to write a blog  - something witty, articulate, maybe just a touch sarcastic.  Alas, I have been unable to come up with a literary masterpiece that involves any of those adjectives.  Having writer’s block is very much like being constipated.  You try your best, but no matter how hard you push, you’re left sitting there thinking to yourself  “I got nothing.”

I think part of the problem is there really just hasn’t been anything all that earth-shattering going on in my life.  Work is crazy.  Life at home is busy, but really, nothing noteworthy.  Oh, there have been moments.  I’ve run across my share of dumbasses, sociopathic narcissists silently (or not so silently) screaming for attention, brilliant flashes of complete and utter absurdity, but seriously, nothing all that inspiring.  I haven’t found myself off the hook angry, incredibly amused, or caught up in the irony of life.  Sad for someone who loves to wax poetic about such moments.  I enjoy writing about the humor in everyday life.  In fact, people often tell I’m funny.  They want me to be funny.  Often they leave the conversation confused, or disappointed, or both.

Annoying Person - “Say something funny.”

Me - “No, not right now.”

Annoying Person - “No really, you’re soooo funny.”

Me - “Honestly, I’m just not feeling it.”

Annoying Person -  “Please, anything…”

Me - “You’re an annoying asshole.”

Annoying Person - “That’s not funny.”

Me - “I thought it was HILARIOUS.”

End of conversation.  Generally speaking, I usually don’t end having these people as friends, not that it’s any great loss.

I did have a moment recently while on a business trip that at first left me speechless, then left me shaking my head in something between disbelief and amusement. I was sitting at a rather large business dinner, happily sucking down a glass of wine and wondering if there would be anything chocolate-related for dessert.  The gentleman to my left, who was actually quite witty and an inspired conversationalist, leaned over and said in a voice just above a whisper “I’ve read your blog.”  My first thought was to down the glass of wine and abruptly leave.  Instead, I sat there stunned, with a look on my face which must have conveyed my sheer horror, because the next thing out of his mouth was “Mary is going to kill me for telling you that we read it.  But you know, you’re a very talented writer.”  My look of horror must have softened, but I decided a refill on the wine would probably be a good idea. My first response was my total surprise that he actually found it, because I write under a pseudonym and I am obsessive about not mixing work with my personal life, and for good reason, not to mention the fact that my blog is very personal. I asked him which blog he read, and he responded “the one about the red boots.” Crap. Out of all the blogs I’ve written, I would have hoped it would not have been THAT one.  Ok, the rouse is up. Busted.  Now the world knows I’m a functioning alcoholic, with a penchant for the word f***.  He reassured me that he found it a great read, and again complimented my literary prowess – a pretty strong seal of approval, considering he is a communications director for a lobbying association.  I relaxed and decided what the hell.  I am who I am. Yes I say f***, f***er, f***ed – a lot – and yes, I drink...often.  Shocking, I know.  Most of my friends will read this and think “This is a surprise?”

Speaking of drinking, St. Patrick’s Day was wicked fun.  I’d tell you all about it, but then my friends would kill me.  Yes, there are photos. No I can’t show you…unless you give me cash.

Ok, so let’s review.  I’ve compared writer’s block to constipation.  I’ve dissed dumbasses, attention-seeking sociopathic narcissists, and annoying individuals.  I’ve said f*** in some form at least three times (actually four times.) I breezed over my St. Patrick’s Day antics. And we now know there are certain people reading my blog, and not the particularly favorable entries.  Wow, after reviewing, it seems I don’t have writer’s block.  I have writer’s attention deficit disorder.

Oh look…a puppy!

A pound is a pound...

An old high school classmate (a guy that I used to like until today) posted on his facebook wall that he lost 6 lbs...SIX WHOLE POUNDS! I was overcome with envy. I have been going to the gym four days a week for the past two and half months. My reward? I gained 3 lbs…THREE WHOLE POUNDS!!!! This has not pushed me “over the edge” on the scale, but it leaves me teetering on the brink. My trainer told me that it’s because muscle weighs more than fat. No Mr. Dumbass, a pound of muscle and a pound of fat weigh EXACTLY a pound, and now I have three extra ones. I hate that SOB too. I especially hate him on Saturday mornings when he is killing me with ab exercises. My conclusion on the whole “ab exercise thing”? I need a tummy tuck, topped off with a little lipo. That should do the trick.

Why is it that we, as women, are so wrapped up on that magic number on the scale? Every woman’s magic number is different, but when any particular woman reaches “her” magic number, suddenly every other woman’s “magic” number is adjusted. We look at each other, size each other up – “Is my ass bigger than hers?” “My magic number is bigger than her magic number…does that mean I’m fat???” I don’t know about you, but I can drive myself batshit crazy pondering “the magic number”. And when I go OVER my magic number? It’s not pretty, let’s just leave it at that.

I look at my friends and I wish I could be as accepting of myself. To me, they are all beautiful, with their own styles, their own individualities. I appreciate them for exactly who they are, and can find beauty that is unique to each of them, no matter what their shape or size. I am not so kind when it comes to critiquing myself. I've tried to overcome this personality flaw, but it is my mountain to climb. I wish the mountain wasn't so high. Most of the time, it just leaves me exhausted.

For me, my magic number is my happy place--I can still eat, my clothes fit perfectly and I do not look like I’m pregnant at that weight. I've weighed more, much much more, and was miserable. I’ve weighed less, and was thrilled with my accomplishment, but as a magic number, it simply wasn’t realistic. A girl can only eat so much lettuce and drink so much seltzer water before she wants to gnaw her own arm off to fight off starvation.

For some reason, the male population only adds to the magic number angst. They, no matter what their age, simply cut out soda and drop ten pounds. It’s not fair, if for no other reason than the fact that they’re not all that wrapped up in their magic number to begin with, at least for the most part. They are not tormented by their need to be a certain weight. They are not plagued with “do I eat that piece of chocolate and exercise for an hour to burn it off?” syndrome. They simply eat the chocolate and that’s that. I eat the chocolate then punish myself for being weak. Sometimes I swear that I can see the piece of chocolate residing right there on my hip, clear as day, mocking me.

I will continue going to the gym, despite my three pound gain, because it is GOOD for me. I can see that I have made progress, I feel stronger, and I could be imagining it, but I seem to look better in my clothes. I will continue to watch what I eat during the week, give myself a bit more freedom on the weekends, and I will try to reinforce in my head that I’m “slightly beyond 29, so it’s all good.” Above all, I will remember that life is short. If I’m gone tomorrow, no one will ever notice those three pounds. Hopefully they will simply see someone who loved with all her heart and did her best. That’s really all any of us can ever hope for, on any given day.

To my old friend Thom, whom I still adore…congratulations on your six pound loss, now shut the hell up.