Tourette's of the Spirit

     I'm coming to realize something about me that is probably only a surprise to myself- I am not and probably never did resemble the Beaver. I am Eddie Haskell, through and through. Where I ever got the notion that I was some line-toeing goody-goody escapes me now, though in all fairness I did say things like "golly" and "horsefeathers" until I was about 13. Okay, so I still say "horsefeathers". The point I'm sluggishly establishing is that my character, like that of our own dear nation, has upon close examination always been questionable.
     A timeline for your perusal:
Birth to Three Years Old- I poop with abandon, wherever and whenever it pleases me. I do not clean it up.
Four Years Old- I make out with my aunt Bonnie's dog, Junie.She quickly abandons the new relationship in favor of fresh cat poop. I find a snack in my nose.
Five Years Old- I instigate a hamster massacre by holding my hamster's newborn cubs in appreciation of life's miracles. My hamster eats her young while I scream. Later that year, I disagree with something my grandmother says and slap the glasses off her shocked face.
Six Years Old- My cousin Ashley entreats me to impregnate her through her belly button. We are unsuccessful.
Seven Years Old- I am sentenced to detention and a minor spanking for mooning someone on the playground. All involved struggle to keep a straight face while the sentences are carried out, save me.
     Fast-forward to the present. At a crowded meeting celebrating milestones in sobriety, a woman's shoes catch my eye. They are sneakers with some sort of iridescent holographic pattern all over them. "I love your shoes" I say, to no response. "Miss, those are really kickass shoes" I reitirate as she turns around. "You have anal warts!" I exclaim, gaining the attention of everyone but my target. Doubling over laughing at myself, it hits me.
     I was never the Beaver.

The F Word

     265 lbs. That's... wow, that's really something. That something, boys and girls, is fat. Great fleshy mounds of fat that jiggle uncomfortably when I move. That's 75 lbs in the last year. I'm at a loss to explain how this massive weight gain occurred, other than that when I recommenced eating I apparently didn't stop. I tried the Atkins thing but didn't stick with it, gaining more weight than I started out with. Now I'm doing the vegetarian thing and trying to stick to that, despite some holiday-time miscategorization of what was blatantly ham and not free-range tofurkey. The point of going vegetarian wasn't necessarily weight loss, so I suppose I can't complain that I stay the same weight. But I admit frustration. All the vegetarians I've known have been a healthy weight or underweight. I did think weight loss would be a welcome byproduct.
     All is not mystery, though. When I lived at the park and then the shelter, I walked everywhere, several miles a day. Now, I have a bus pass. Also, most of my snacking is processed grains, empty carbs I'm obviously not using and totally devoid of nutrition. What I need to change if I truly want to change is obvious. More activity, more conscious eating habits. But whether I follow through remains to be seen. That's as close to a resolution as I'll allow myself to get, rededication to a process instead of some far off goal I'll likely abandon. Wish me luck.

I Know What You Did Last Winter

     I have been straining to resist the knee-jerk New Year reflection montage that I assume everybody does this time of year. Not because I have any regrets about the past year- quite the opposite if anything, but because it's a pretty artificial frame of reference. What I mean by that is external markers have far less significance than the guideposts and high-water marks you yourself establish. Were I to succumb to the calendar referencing, I'd be tempted to think myself amazing for the distance I've figuratively traveled and set up camp right here until discomfort forced another shift in my life or consciousness.
     Last year at this time, the house I rented(paid rent to a roommate, anyway, turns out they were squatters) along with six other tweakers was emptied out by the sheriff's department, most of the useless crap we'd hoarded or "created" finally making it's way to the dump. I made my way back to the park I'd lived in previously, a haven for homeless drug addicts, whores, and other human refuse. After my husband got out of jail, I lived in the furnace of a train engine there in the park, shooting up speed and looking for recyclables until the ridiculousness of it all sank in. So yes, sure, I'm a world away from where I was then. I have come far. And yet...
     There is far to go, and no true destination. My natural, instinctual self would be content to say, "I have come so far, it is done." and start in on stagnant mode. But I can't stand still, or anyway I won't. I'm hiding out at my grandfather's senior studio with my husband, sleeping on a broken recliner. We still look forward to some unknown future date when we will have our own place, enabling, hopefully, shared custody or at least visitation of my stepson. So, obviously, much has to change, and change it will. But in it's own time. Anxious foot-tapping won't help, but it's difficult not to hover over this planted hope, worried over when it will bear fruit. I aim to find some middle ground of acceptance of the now while moving forward at as brisk a pace as opportunity allows.
     Happy with what growth I've managed? Certainly. But chomping at the bit to gain further hold on some autonomy.