Dodging the Bullet

I'm about to be shot, and it's all my fault.

I told everyone that if I got to a certain weight, someone needed to shoot me. I thought, "There is no way anyone would let themselves get to that weight if they could help it."

I'm officially two pounds from a bullet to the enormous gut. My great idea of actually hitting my caloric intake everyday was a bad one. In the past few months, I've gained a few pounds instead of lost them. Apparently, I didn't need the amount of calories that everyone said I needed.

So, for fear of being shot, I'm buckling down. And I'm doing it my way.

First off, the gym is too far away and the classes, the only things I go to, are at times that aren't good for me. So I'm going to cancel my gym membership. I'm also willingly letting the house go to seed a little bit. The dust will be there tomorrow, my health might not be.

In order to make a change, I geeked out and bought Shape-Up shoes. I didn't intend to buy them, but I had a coupon so I walked into the store, intent to get a $50.00 pair of sneakers and have something comfortable to work for the weekend.

On a whim, I decided to try on the Shape-Ups, and was shocked to find it actually had a high arch support. My arches are so high that it's almost impossible to find shoes. Somehow, the inserts that I buy never quite work out either. So, usually, my shoes are uncomfortable. I hate shoes.

I know. I might be the only woman on the planet to udder that sentence.

Anyway, the shoes were amazing. And I was mad that they were amazing. Because they look stupid. Stupid and embarrassing, and I'm going to need longer pants to hide the shame.

On the plus side, I have a new Spice Girl name, and will be going on tour in early 2011.

Sky High Expectations

Along the lines of the last post, Lover Boy and I had a disagreement last night. Every once in awhile I begin to feel like a self-imposed martyr.

I feel as if you get up in the morning, and go to work. It doesn't matter if you are sick (to a point), or you didn't get enough sleep the night before, or if you slept wrong and your arm hurts. You go to work, baring not being able to stop throwing up long enough to get to work.

Even throwing up sometimes means you still go into work. I had a job where I was the only one on shift, the store needed to be opened, and the manager refused to answer his phone. So, I left the bathroom opened, and helped customers in between running to the bathroom and throwing up.

You get home, and you start cleaning up after yourself/others. You make dinner, you eat it, you wash the dishes. You go through the mail and pay the bills and clean the bathroom and take out the garbage and do all those little things you put off.

I usually try to get things done before I do something fun like clear out the DVR. I'm not saying that always happens. I have days when I literally can't do it, and I eat a spoonful of peanut butter while watching "The Real World: DC." until about 8pm, when I climb into bed and read until 10 and then go to sleep.

This would be the perfect way to live, if I was living alone. Maybe, if I was living alone, I would actually slack off more. But, I feel I owe it to Lover Boy to keep the place relatively clean. After all, he works 12 hours a day to my 8 1/2, and I have the afternoon to do my things as apposed to his mornings before he has to go to work.

It's still a new house, though. We've lived there since late December, and we still have boxes. We still have things to hang up. Chandeliers that need to be re-placed, and light bulbs.

I guess these are things that I could do on my own, but the 50's housewife in me thinks the "man of the house" should do these things. He SAYS he'll do these things. Then, they don't get done. It was a joke about one of these things that lead to our fight last night.

I harbor all these emotions about how I have to do everything, and how it's SOOOO unfair. But, the truth is, I built these expectations. Just because I can go home and be a powerhouse about my stuff doesn't mean that he will be about his. It doesn't help that I ask him to do something, and then don't see him. We work opposite shifts, and our only day off together is Sunday.

He will do things in his own time, but I don't want to be a fishwife in the meantime. I don't want to have to nag for things to get done within the week. I'm tired of working so hard.

But I'm the only one pushing me.

Depression is NO excuse

I read this blog post this morning and it made me so mad. Mad about people with depression.

From a young age until I was a legal adult, I was depressed. I never sought help, so I don't know if it was clinical, or what. But I thought about suicide all the time, and I tried it without success once. But I was one locked door away from a roof and a jump, and I would've done it.

However, even in my depression haze, I knew I had responsibilities. If someone needed my help, I would be there. If I made a date to meet someone, I would show up and being as happy as I could be. I know I failed on that front. I know I was a horrible person to be around, but it was something that I couldn't see until I had lost all my friends.

It was when I was truly all alone that I could look at why I was depressed, and either shit or get off the pot. It was my way, and even though I'm not every going to be the happy-go-lucky type, I'm not the drag I was.

But when I read Sarah's post, it was the constant irresponsibility that infuriated me. It has always infuriated me that even in my deepest depression, I could never fully let go. I couldn't stop myself from not caring about other people. I couldn't not answer their phone calls or keep them hanging on an evening we were supposed to go out. Call that "not depression" if you will, but I don't think that being an asshole and being depressed are mutually exclusive.

Even if I'm in a bad mood and go to work, I still greet security with a "good morning" and a smile, because it's ME that's having a bad day, not them. If I walk past them without a greeting, then I've just ruined a part of their day. I refuse to drag anyone else down with me, if I can help it.

It seems that some people that are depressed (and some that aren't) think nothing of bringing other people down with them. They cancel plans and sleep in, and don't think about anyone but themselves. I say, if you want to detach from the world, do so. But don't let people down in the process. If someone wants to spend time with you, give a yes or no answer. Don't bring them down with you. Give them a chance to be happy, even if you don't want to be.

*EDIT* Before you comment on this post, which is my most popular post, please read it all.  Then read the comments.  Then think about why you put "depression excuses" into Google that lead you here.  In the end, I'm saying that you can't be a flake and blame it on your depression.  It turns out I do have depression caused by hypothyroidism, so I do know depression.

Dreams aren't always like this

It's not a sob-fest every night. For example, last night I had a dream I was going to some LA gym, and as I walked up I realized I forgot my lock.

I sat down at a table in front of the gym, which was completely made of glass. I could see the people upstairs running on the track, and swimming in the clear pool.

"Are you not going in" someone at the table next to me asked, and I looked over to see Garry Marshall. I am starstruck, but hold it together and tell him I'm "fixing" to go in. We have a laugh, then I look over and see Steven Speilberg talking to a little girl. He called her "Little Eddie" Barrymore, and was trying to make her feel better about a part she got.

I got up the courage to tell Steven that I was glad that he was not only a good filmmaker, but a humanitarian as well, and I was glad to meet him.

I turned around to talk again to Garry Marshall, who I really wanted to speak with, only to find he had left to go inside the gym. I was sad that I missed the chance to talk to my idol, and wasted my time with Steven Speilberg.

And I watched episodes of Lost last night, I have NO idea where that dream came from!