“My days are pretty open. I can be flexible.”
That was me, responding to ... wait for it ... my personal trainer. It’s amazing what quitting a job can do for a day.
While there’s bound to be more to come on the personal trainer, she’s not really the news. It’s the being flexible, as in “my days are pretty open” part that’s the story. I’m used to working “outside the home.” Not every day, but more days than not.
I’ll admit, I’m a little off-kilter. I am having more than a little trouble figuring out the division of labor within what is now my regular day. To be honest, I crave structure. I like the idea of having set times to accomplish set tasks. I like a schedule. I’m not entirely opposed to ruts.
For example, I’ve been fairly religious about reading the paper with a bite of breakfast in the morning, and reading a book in my bed at night. But, unless I was on an airplane, by a pool, or in a doctor’s waiting room, I rarely ever allowed myself to sit and read during the day. Yet lately, I’ve found myself curled up on the couch in the very middle of the day with my nose solidly in a book. I have three different books going right now. And because I’ve always longed to be the kind of woman who reads the Sunday New York Times, I’ve started buying it. Okay, I bought it twice, and have subsequently started hauling bits and pieces of that paper to bed with me at night, leaving my books piled up by the couch. I know … it’s like I’m living someone else’s life.
In truth, I’m practicing what I’ve always known: good writers are voracious readers. That’s where we learn words like voracious. Day reading for me is like working. Practically commendable. It’s not like I’m signing on for daytime TV. I am vehemently opposed to daytime TV. Unless I’m on a treadmill. I love myself some Oprah on the treadmill. I prefer closed-captioned with my iPod playlist pounding in my ears. I need the beat to keep me moving at full throttle, and I can’t bear to hear those daytime commercials over and over again. Which is really bad of me to say, since my very talented husband makes a good living voicing commercials. But in the topsy-turvy world I’m living in, I’m saying it just the same.
At least I haven’t started day drinking. Which I can tell you, has been a temptation. But at this point, I’m still trying to get a handle on my new day eating schedule. Again, I like a schedule.
When I was working outside the home, I had day eating pretty much down. Most days, I took my lunch. That was good. That provided me a reasonably measured amount of food to put in my mouth throughout the day. I ate various amounts at varied times, but that was pretty much all I came in contact with. At home, it gets a bit dicey. Those snicky-snacks can sneak up on you. Which may be why I’m living in stretchy waist pants. I noticed it when I was folding laundry the other day. My basket contained no real clothes.
It makes sense. I’m not one of those ladies who lunch, at least not yet. When I leave the house during the day, it’s usually to run to the grocery store or to the gym. Both acceptable locations for stretchy pants, sweatshirts and exercise bras. And if I’m writing at home, the bra is negotiable. It’s a little unnerving.
I do wonder what will become of me. Ginny, my therapist, said, “I wish that you could know that you are going to be okay.” Maybe she even said good. That I’m going to be good.
