I'm just your average, everyday, divorced 38 year old girl -- overweight, tragically unhip,
and trying to make a life for myself. I live with two furry beasts, Dave and Abby, whose
feline mission in life is to choke me with their fur. Nothing special.
Wednesday afternoon. This link was sent to me today and I thought I'd share with both of my readers. I'm notorious for eating every meal out (unless I remember to order my healthy meals) and I think it's great to have a few healthy choices when I do so. Not that I'll always pick them, but just knowing what they are gives me that choice, and it's all about choice. Check it out and consider printing the pages for your favorite haunts - can't hurt, right?
Oh, and I just finished walking for 15 minutes (plus five minutes each warm-up and cool down). No hoopla and no promises. Oh, and Danelle? That was for Tony.
Not much to say and all of this blank space to say it in
Wednesday afternoon. I believe I've driven into an unfamiliar neighborhood: Writers Block. Ugh. I can't think of anything interesting or clever to say. I went to my conference last weekend. The delegation chose a bill that I am passionate about for possible sponsorship by the State Public Affairs Committee of the Junior Leagues of California. This is a big deal. This could possibly make the difference and allow Alcott and his siblings (and every other foster kid in California) to stay in the system and get the support they need until age 21 instead of the current 18. And yet I'm not hopping up and down nor can I find the words to get anyone else fired up about it, either.
I'm tired. I think I'm coming to the end of my ability to deal with the fact that my job is sucking the life out of me and gives me no joy. I'm terrified. I'm not the sort of girl who can make do with minimum wage. I'm not good with being frugal. But what if there's a job out there that would make my heart sing again? And, alternatively, what if I'm not good enough to get that job? What if this is all that I can do, all that I am? This is crazy-making stuff.
Still sitting on my New Orleans post. Perhaps I'll finish it up after this one. (Perhaps not, who knows.)
I haven't seen TCB since we got back from New Orleans and I miss him so much that my toe nails hurt. I wish he was a cuddler, but I still miss him. And I worry that if we spend too much time apart that I'll get used to it. And sometimes I think that if we were to get married and move in together that I'd have the support that I need to make a new life and career. And then I remember that using someone in that way is beyond wretched and I'm not that kind of girl.
About the eating and exercise, there's been plenty of the first and none of the second. No, not even 15 minutes of walking, as I'd pledged. I can change that, though. I can do it right now. The treadmill sits right behind me, just waiting.
I'm waiting for the right time to make a career change. Waiting for something to magically let TCB know what I need from him. Waiting for my eating disorder to "go away" so that I can lose weight and be healthy. Waiting until all of these things happen to be start my life. Except that life isn't waiting for any of those things. It's going along, gaining speed with every minute that passes, and I can't go backwards. You don't get a second chance and there are no "do-overs".
My boss told the writer for our corporate newspaper, in reference to my trip to New Orleans, that there are some people who talk about making a difference and never do and some that say nothing and just go out and make it happen. He then said that I was in the latter category. I can make a difference for those in need but I can't seem to do anything for myself - why?
