I need a vacation.
What a completely annoying, frustrating, pain-in-my-ass week. Unfortunately, there’s not just one thing wrong, so it’s not like I can just fix that one thing and make everything better.
I think what my great aunt said to me last week is finally beginning to sink in. I’m still proud that I haven’t sunk into a major eating binge, but damn. What kind of person blames a 14 year old girl for a decline in health? Maria was a diabetic for years, and never took care of herself—I remember her eating those McDonalds meals right along with me. And the cookies. And cakes. And donuts. And ice cream sundaes.
It’s always hard when someone you love very much falls off the pedestal you put them on. In my case, she not only fell, but shattered into a thousand pieces. As time went on, I began calling her Maria, to separate the negative memories from the good ones. Pre-1997, she was Mimi, my grandma who loved me very much. Post-1997, she was Maria, a woman who became so embittered by living in a town she hated and away from her family that became jaded and lashed out at the people who loved her most. I began to rationalize that the stroke made her sick, unable to function on a normal level.
Mariwade’s letter crushed that realization. Not only because Maria was telling everyone I was to blame, but the rest of the family believed it.
I don’t even pretend to understand people.
Also, I’m tired. I haven’t had a real vacation in over two years. Normally, I don’t think this would be so bad. The difference this week is that my parents decided to book a three night, four day vacation to Virginia Beach. During a time when they knew I wouldn’t be able to go. Did they book the vacation over a weekend, so I could be there for part of the time? Nope. I’m really hurt that they chose to book a ‘family vacation’ with only their son.
I get daily emails, texts and phone calls updating me on what a great time they’re having. (The latest being that their hotel is right above the boardwalk, where the local radio station hosted Carbon Leaf. I tried to get tickets to a Carbon Leaf concert a few years ago and couldn’t.) I’ve started ignoring their phone calls and texts, and giving only short replies to their emails.
I’m not happy they’re having a good time. I’m stressed, I need a vacation, and they know it. Their perky little updates are rubbing it in my face. Unless their vacation includes bad weather, sun burns, roach motel-like conditions, bad customer service and car trouble, I don’t want to hear about it.
On the upside, I got a job at a client site, with normal business hours! No 430 wake up calls for me! On the downside, there is a TON of paperwork I need to do. I don’t have any of the information I need at my fingertips, which means a lot of researching. It’s annoying and not helping my mood.
I’m falling behind in my grad school work. It’s recoverable, in that there’s no actual due date for anything but the final research paper. I just don’t feel like working.
This is an on going habit I’ve noticed. When I’m super stressed and overwhelmed, I don’t want to do ANYTHING. So I usually don’t. This would explain why I have almost no food left (don’t want to go grocery shopping) and my bedroom looks like my closet threw up (don’t want to clean).
Let’s not even address the 1.5lb weight gain this week. I still can not wrap my mind around how that happened. Yeah, yeah, I know. Fluid retention. But I eat really healthy and have completely cut out refined sugar (with the exception of the two Subway cookies I had today. I saw them, I wanted them, so I ate them. It made me feel better and I’m completely unapologetic). I train like I’m going to the 2010 Olympics.
And yes, I know what you’re thinking. “Oh, it’s ok. The numbers aren’t everything.” But think about it…this early in my weight loss battle, they are. I need to see an actual, trackable change to measure my success.
Any body changes that occur are so small they become relative. I don’t see a difference at all when I look in the mirror, because I see myself every day. My friends help a little, but honestly, I don’t want to be talking about my weight loss (or lack thereof) all the time. If I say something, it’s like I’m fishing for a compliment, and I refuse to be That Girl. I can’t rely on my family, either. My mom thinks I lose ten pounds every time I see her, and my grandmother can’t understand why I’m losing weight.
“Men prefer women who are pleasantly plump,” she tells me. Unfortunately she fails to realize that we no longer live in the age of Peter Paul Ruben. And I passed the stage of ‘pleasantly plump’ when I was four.
I almost got hit by a car today. Twice. In the same crosswalk. Within thirty seconds. I didn’t have time to pack my lunch last night or this morning, so I walked across the street to the Subway. I bought a foot long buffalo chicken sub with lots of veggies and one tiny strip of ranch dressing, wrapped separately so I could eat half for lunch and the other half at 3pm-ish.
Coming back, I waited at the crosswalk. I hate waiting at crosswalks. Motorists seem to forget that in Virginia, pedestrians always have the right of way, and when you see one about to enter a crosswalk, or even WAITING to enter a crosswalk, you are, by law, required to stop. Finally, a car stopped going west bound so I could cross. As I stepped out into the cross walk, a Barbie-like blonde in a BMW convertible swerved around me, flicking me off as she went. That was the second time my life has ever flashed before my eyes. I continued on across the street. An east bound delivery truck crossed within three feet of me. Either he saw me and thought he could beat me across or he didn’t see me at all. Anyway you slice it, it didn’t help my day.
Today had started out crappy enough anyway. I woke up hoping that today would be better from my earlier week. Nope.
When I got to work, I saw an online news article that made my heart sink. Scottish authorities decided to release Abdel Baset al-Megrahi, the Lockerbie bomber.
For those of you who are unaware, the Lockerbie bombing dates back to 1988, when Pan Am flight 103, flying from Heathrow to JFK, was blown out of the sky over Lockerbie, Scotland. Today, Scottish officials decided to release the mastermind, convicted to life in prison in 2001, because the poor guy has terminal cancer, with an estimated three months left to live.
Ordinarily I’d be upset over the security implications from this. The man is a known terrorists, who associated with other known terrorists. They’re returning him to Libya, a country known for its terrorist support. Yes, he’s terminal, but that does not render him useless. Osama bin Laden has been dying of kidney failure for ten years, and look what he does.
I feel emotionally tied to this as well. Years ago, I was training to be an opera singer, and I studied under a particular voice teacher. (I’m not going to use his name here, and refrain from giving any other identifying information, as I want to respect his privacy). It’s hard to explain the tie between a student and her teacher. Our friendships usually lie on a different emotional level than our other relationships—I think it’s because music is our soul, which sets us apart from the general population.
I found out some time ago that my voice teacher’s son was on that flight. I never knew him before the accident (I was four at the time, and didn’t meet my teacher until I was 18), but from what I’ve been told, it completely rocked his world, and he’s never been the same since. Completely understandable. He opened up to me once, only a little, after the Libyan government agreed to pay compensation to the survivors. I won’t go into what he said, but my heart aches for what he went through.
This man blew up a plane and forever changed the lives of 270 families and God knows how many friends. Compassion has no place here.
I’m going to bed. It’s almost 4am. I’ve been asleep since 6, but I still feel like I could pass out for a week.
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