Procastination and Self-Loathing

Truth is, I’m mired in the worst writer’s block I’ve ever encountered.  First, I was just taking a month off.  Just a simple one month break. Thirty days post-graduation to catch-up with my family. I suppose it all began as some lame attempt to assuage the guilt that had built up over two years of placing grad school deadlines before my children. But somehow, that August break crept into September, bled into October, and has now begun to ooze into November. The Break grows increasingly vile by the day, slowly morphing into an insidious hole that now threatens to erase my very need to write.

In September, I wrote just one rough piece. Something I hastily cranked out in order to meet the deadline imposed by my writers group. A  group composed of my amazingly talented friends. These are the people who have, over the past two years, become some of the best friends I have ever made. They are people who are actually doing something with their talent, like Penny Guisinger whose amazing work appears here, and Kerri Dieffenwierth whose fabulous words have been published here.

Truth is, despite the insightful (and patient) comments of my highly respected peers, I haven’t revisited that rough piece I submitted since we met via Skype a month and half ago.

Excuses don’t excuse my lack of inspiration.

Truth is, I have a memoir that is 90% finished and I’ve been too chicken shit to finish my book proposal. I’m in full avoidance.

I’ve been home pre-schooling Kate this year. Mostly because the cooperative preschool we belonged to for nearly four years turned out to be rather uncooperative and less parent-run than I’d come to expect.

So I’ve been focusing on things like kindergarten readiness and dance classes to make up for Kate’s lack of social interaction. Because things like boogers and dancing are important to my youngest child’s development. Right?

boogie

Then there’s that yearly Halloween party… the one that helps me avoid what I’m supposed to be doing by assembling things like this:

kitchen

                        And by making these:

  candy apples

 The worst part? I feel like I’ve lost my funny.  Mostly because I’ve been mired in writing a memoir for two years and it covers some rather un-funny personal history. These days, I find myself over-thinking what used to be silly blog posts.

So instead, I’ve been doing important things, like sitting on a king-sized bed piled high with laundry and watching the Kardashians. Because someone has to commiserate with poor Khloe and her camel toe, right? Gravity sucks, man.

khloe-kardashian-camel-toe hermes bag

I’ve been avoiding things like submitting my work to journals or contacting Word Portland, a local event created by Emily Young, a fellow Stonecoaster, that would allow me to read my work at a really cool public venue.

So this blog post is my official return to silly parenting horrors, random thoughts, and my commitment to writing something. Anything. This is me forcing myself to get off my ass and write.

And it feels good.

Trouble

I have lots of trouble. At least that’s what I told myself this morning as I stood in Target looking at the workout DVDs. I’m not into Zumba. Don’t get all huffy and bent out of shape, I’m not passing judgement on the Zumba cult! Zumba looks like an enormous amount of fun if you’re… I don’t know, coordinated. I am not. Somewhere along the line my coordination vanished.

*POOF*

I took ballet as a kid, jazz, some gymnastics and I was even a cheerleader before I decided that drinking beer and smoking skinny cigarettes under the bleachers was more fun than doing splits in the middle of the gym at half-time. I suspect that  if I were to attend a Zumba class, I’d probably take out an entire row of women with my flailing, graceless gyrations. Why, just yesterday I walked smack into the open dishwasher door and went careening across the kitchen, washing the walls and floor in berry punch flavored Juicy Juice.

In the face of my spastic inability to dance, I like to run. But I don’t.

You see, last year I suffered the mother of all sinus infections and just stopped. In essence, I have done nothing other than sit on my atrophied posterior for the past year. Sure, I occasionally (rarely) ventured downstairs to use the treadmill, but mostly I just sat around writing, napping or reading books and it was lovely. I honestly don’t ever remember being so still. If I were a dog I’d most definitely be one of those shaky little terriers that never stops moving, snarling, playing and barking. Like Stella. Stella is the dog version of Kelli. Yet, over the past 12 months I’ve become the equivalent of a big old lazy Bassett Hound. No, that’s not right… I’m an aging, overweight Shar Pei. Yes, I’m thin but I’m developing weird jiggles and wrinkles in places that never jiggled or wrinkled before. For example, when I run up the stairs now, my ass continues moving for a half second after I’ve stopped. There’s also that thing where my outer thighs have begun pooching out with a layer of fat I’ve never seen before. It pains me to say it but, I have fat, flab and an ass that’s threatening to climb up my back and park somewhere that I never imagined my ass could go.

My Canine Soul Sister

I’ve noticed all of these new things over the past week or so. Like last week when I put on a pair of shorts that, two years ago looked perfectly lovely and cute. This year, I caught my reflection in the glass door on our porch and nearly fell over. Do those saddle bags belong to me? Then, just to punish myself, I put on my skimpiest bikini. Yup, I did.  The one I used to wear at Orient Beach in St. Martin where clothing is optional. By the way, have you ever noticed that the only people who actually choose to go nude are chubby seniors?

Anywho, I took that bikini off so quickly you’d have thought it was made of battery acid.

Yesterday I squeaked out a mile and half on the treadmill. I used to run 5.

This morning, at Target, I rolled the girls around filling the cart with diapers, laundry detergent and other equally unexciting items and thought about the load of trouble I’ve gotten myself into. I realized that after years of stringent excercise and healthy food consumption, I finally opened the door and invited the flab to come on in. It’s like a vampire, right? Once you invite it in, you’re doomed. Unless of course you’re a painfully bland teenager who recently moved to Forks. In that case, you’re good. Carry on.

As I rolled around Target pondering my big ass, er…trouble, something magically caught my eye. There, on the top shelf, awash in a beam of light from heaven was a DVD called No More Trouble Zones from Jillian Michaels. Last year I did P90X, but somewhere near the second week, I wanted to punch Tony Horton in the face. I can’t stomach Tony Horton’s incessant babble again. So Jillian Michaels, bring it on. Yell at me. Tell me I’m loser. Go right ahead and call me a lazy bitch because nothing, and I mean nothing, gives me more incentive than a fellow bitchy woman. If I could hire another chick to come to my house and run on a treadmill next to mine, all the while looking over at my time and speed, increasing her own to match, I’d be a fit and skinny in no time. That’s why I used to love the Oak Square YMCA. I’d pick a treadmill right smack in the middle of a bunch of girls and run like the wind. I nearly always won the race.

I smell a lawsuit!

Jillian claims her workout will “Eliminate Love Handles, Muffin Tops and Wobbly Arms for Good!” Let’s hope she threw a little something in there for saddle bags, wine guts and double chins because once I’m flabless again, I’m going to run like the wind!

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