The Month To Come

It’s nearly time for February Fragments again!

As you may remember, FF began as a way to clean my drafts folder of the odd bits and pieces that have landed there over the previous year.  However, to say that the more recent additions to my drafts folder have not been entirely cheery would be a bit of an understatement. There’s quite a hodgepodge of emotion lurking in that 12-month collection. 

Now, I don’t intend to bludgeon you guys with 28 days of anger and angst. 

Most of the drafts will simply never see the light of day… but you may still end up with a bit of a mixed bag. 

Just remember that this is a collection of past writings.

Objects in the mirror may seem larger than they are. :-D

Channeling Lovey

You know, much as I dislike this whole “change your eating” thing (next blood test coming soon - wish me luck!), it has given me something to focus on when the emotional rollercoaster becomes too much. When the, “I’ve seen my future and it ain’t pretty” nausea becomes overwhelming, I can turn to this unnatural obsession with calories to distract me. And conversely, when “hanger” threatens to hijack my mood, my broken heart is more than happy to jump in and say, “OK, let’s talk about ME for a while!”

On paper, this combination certainly doesn’t sound like the healthiest symbiosis ever, yet the teetering balance between the two keeps me juuuust above the emotional quicksand — and that is good. I may not be happy but, so far at least, I’ve stayed out of the vast, sucking mire of depression that usually becomes my stompin’ ground in these situations. 

Now, I had known that you should try to distract yourself when you’re unhappy…, but it had simply never occurred to me to try distracting myself with something else that causes me distress. But then I realized that I’d actually been given that advice at a very early age.

I was watching Gilligan’s Island - the episode where, for reasons lost in the mists of time, Mr. Howell ended up dressed as his wife. He particularly disliked the high heels and asked, “Lovey, how do women stand to wear such uncomfortable shoes?” “Oh, that’s easy… We think about how much our earrings are pinching!”

Mrs. Howell’s School of Practical Living

Apparently, I am a graduate.

     Cum laude.

My Search For The Other Replacement

This one's not for another dom, tho'…

No, I’m having to go through the process of finding another massage therapist again. 

(Note to universe: If you must yank away a person’s primary source of human touch, you really should consider leaving them the only alternate they have in place - at least for a while. You may think you’re helping them downsize but in reality, you are just making their life bloody difficult. … ’k? Thanks! Love, Jz)

It’s funny how individualized touch preferences can be, even in the strictly platonic world. Or maybe (maybe?) I’m just too finicky for my own good…, but I’ve spent ages looking for my very own Baby Bear therapist. (“This is juuuust right!”) After a number of abortive attempts over the years, I was lucky enough to find one for a while - but she was a peripatetic soul and took off a year or two later, chasing her latest butterfly. 

Since then, my tactile life has been a jumble of confusion. 

     (bracketing BG and ThatThingWeDid)

I had one therapist who was so short, she had trouble reaching the entire way down my back (and attempted to compensate for the lack with excessive attention to my feet - which are ticklish;) a military wife who swept in, delighted my muscles, then went, “oopsie! transfer time!” and left; a sweet, gentle woman with very good hands but no self-confidence, who lost her office space and gave up her practice as a result; a Valkyrie with phenomenally strong hands, no sense of rhythm, and an unnatural fondness for horse liniment; and the most recent - a capable and efficient woman who was perfectly good, if lacking in magic. She has seen fit to move on, however, and I am once again Clueless at Square One.

But while I may be content to let the BG-shaped hole in my life go unfilled, my back won’t let me leave a massage-therapist-sized one open. So, the search has begun again. And yesterday was my first appointment with the latest candidate. I’m not absolutely certain that she is going to be The Next One but there are definite possibilities there. 

She’s another small woman, with tiny little (strong!) hands and a technique that is like nothing I’ve experienced before - but she definitely found the sore spots and worked on them with a nice level of pressure. Her methods are a bit unorthodox… She didn’t so much stroke the muscles as she did play them with vibrato, causing the table to rock rhythmically on the uneven floor. And when she picked my arms up, instead of leading them down gently over the side of the bench, she hopped right up onto the table with me, draping them over her thigh. That was a bit unexpected - particularly as she smooshed a goodly portion of side boob with one of her landings - but it wasn’t unpleasant, either. (Well, ok, the side boob thing was a bit twingey but not that bad. It wasn’t so much of a pinch as it was a displacement, if you see what I mean.) But my muscles felt very good and quite relaxed by the end of the session.

I think that once I’m more used to her style, she could prove to be a keeper, even if not an actual Baby Bear. We just have to see how we make out with the Deep Tissue Test.
Stay tuned...

My Replacement Dom

*fuck me sideways*

It’s not really a great trade.

This one doesn’t make me particularly happy.

It’s not adding joy to my life.

In fact, I downright hate becoming one of those people. 

     The ones who count, measure, and record.

“Dammit, Jim! I’m a technician, not an accountant!”

No offense to accountants - the world needs you guys more than it needs me. But precision is not my style. I get antsy when I have to parcel my life out in tiny, specific, pre-portioned bits.

I hate being dictated to,

   I hate rules, 

     I hate having no wiggle room,

        confinement makes me irritable and itchy and fidgety.

I simply do not thrive under incessant externally-imposed control.

On the other hand, I’m pretty confident that I’d hate living under a regime of insulin even more.

So I choose the lesser of two evils.

I leave this tab open in my browser during all waking hours.

   I count, I measure, I record...

     And I learn that I suck at dieting even worse than I sucked at submission…

“Congratulations! You’ve logged your food for 32 consecutive days! At this rate, you will reach your goal weight on Jan. 13, 2035!”

*sigh*

(maybe I shouldn’t be surprised I can’t hang onto a dom?)

Things I Need to Remember Not to Do, #17

Here in my little village, it’s not mandatory to shovel any sidewalks, merely a courtesy. (Probably because sidewalks themselves are practically non-existent anyhow.) But there is one, and I follow it for a portion of my daily walks. 

Well, it snowed yesterday. One of those light yet icy snows that had already melted, then iced up by the time most people got home to shovel - making any clearing efforts spotty, at best.

So there I was this morning, hot-footing it along, trying to get my walk in before the next snow hit. (Made it with 45 minutes to spare!) I usually wait a while to let things warm up a little but I didn’t have that luxury today, so off I set. Golly, it was cold, tho’! 18ºF, raw and blustery. 

But, I was a woman on a mission, so here I go…!

At about 3/4 of a mile, however, the wind won out over my sinuses. I really, really needed to blow my nose. But I'm in a hurry to get home, right?

So, without breaking my stride…

I removed my gloves,

Fished a tissue out of my pocket,

Blew my nose,

       and promptly steamed up my glasses so badly that I couldn’t see.

Unhappily, I did all this just as I was approaching a dip in the curb at a cross street.

An un-shoveled curb,

       obfuscated by snow, with an undercoating of ice.

I didn’t quite end up sprawled in an ignominious heap in the middle of the intersection, but it was one heck of a close call, let me tell you. I'm just grateful that luck was with me... and I escaped having “Inattentive nose-blowing” listed as my cause of death. 

(A small thing to celebrate but I need any victory I can come up with these days!)

From now on, however, I'm going to try to remember to pause for tissue breaks.

:-D

TMI Tuesday - Happy New Year!

1. How is your year going?

Well, let’s see… 

So far I’ve scored big in the post-holiday shopping challenge, dang-near injured myself bench-pressing a garage door overhead so an elderly neighbor could work on it (veeerrrrryyyyy sloooooowwwly, might I add? *wincing*,) visited the infirm, eaten at least one of every cookie in existence within a 10-mile radius, and chatted with SP…

I think it’s going pretty well!

2. Did you go out on NYE or have a New Year’s day celebration?

NYE was spent at home, with friends for company, and a very near miss at being up late enough to watch the ball drop. New Years Day was some cozy baking and emails before heading out to the malls with Tiny Woman, where we were both magnificently successful - albeit in completely different departments. 

3. Ahh yes, those pesky New Year’s Resolutions. How did you do with your 2016 NY resolutions–did you keep them?

I tend not to make resolutions. I just think, “Let’s try to do better than last year.”

(Which often proves to be a bit too vague, frankly…)

4. Year 2017, are you carrying over any resolutions from 2016? What?

“Better than last year” is more of a perpetual loop than a carry-over…

5. What new experiences are you planning to have or hoping to have in 2017?

I thought I’d try to get all caught up on the work needed around my house.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

          (I crack myself up…)

Bonus: Did you see fireworks on New Year’s eve?

Didn’t see any, but I heard them. (partial credit?)

I did, however, see a lot of flashing lights from the cop cars blocking off my road, and if you sort of squint your eyes and mush the image together with the sounds, it’s almost as good as the real thing!

See Who Else is Playing TMI Tuesday!