Still haven't got my old blogging moves back yet. March has been a tough month. Four funerals. Count 'em. Four. That might even be a record of sorts. I'm calling Guinness tomorrow.
I think there might even be a movie in there somewhere. Four Funerals And A Wedding.
And what with my mother passing away, it's thrown me for more of a loop than I was expecting. Let me correct that. I didn't know what to expect, and so now all these feelings keep popping up, and all these memories, and thoughts, and I often feel like I'm drowning in a vat of mac and cheese. And if you're wondering, it's not a good feeling. And it's very fattening.
I spent the majority of the day yesterday either on the phone or on the toilet. Neither one was very productive.
In-between phone calls and toilet runs, I had what I think may have been an anxiety attack. My whole body trembled, I felt like I was going to explode, and I had to knead the couch cushions because otherwise I would have thrown the television remote through the window. What is wrong with me? This is the second time this week that this has happened. I hope it doesn't happen again. I'd rather have major hot flashes and scabies. At the same time.
It was awful, really. Totally uncontrollable irritability. Please tell me I'm not going whacko.
And then, obviously I'd had such a stressful and energy-draining day from eating Cheetos and Coffee Crisps, answering the phone and sitting on the toilet that once the kids got home from school, I went to bed for a two-hour nap. A two-hour nap! Bury me now because I'm obviously barely alive as it is.
And then Mr. Handsome comes home from work. Poor thing. The clouds opened up about three minutes into his bike ride home, and the rain came down in droves and poured on his little body all the way home. Pelting, cold, icy rain. He came in the door looking like the Iceman, and I didn't even know it was raining out. Why? Because I had been snuggled up under my duvet in the bedroom, dreaming wild and crazy dreams about circuses and old men in big houses, and drinking ginger ale and falling asleep and spilling said ginger ale all over my lap. No, I didn't pee the bed.
I was also supposed to go to the gym with my friend Slut yesterday evening, who goes to the gym primarily to show off her slutty body to everyone there, although if you asked her, she would say she was there to get in shape. Yeah. Whatev. I even have shoes now for the gym, so I was sure there was no excuse.
Alas, I was wrong. So wrong. Because there's always more to the story in my small, miniscule world of pain and misery. So, I didn't go to the gym, and now Slut will be angry with me, and she will spray her wrath all over kingdom come, and I will have to listen to her whine and go on and on and on about Responsibility, and Health, and Commitment. And I know I've let her down yet again, but really, I think I had a really good excuse.
You have to understand. I couldn't go. I just couldn't. I'm so tired. And I haven't yet prepared myself mentally to enter the hallowed gym once again and use its many contraptions and look in its many mirrors and watch my hanging ass fat flap over my sweats.
And Mr. Handsome hadn't yet made dinner. So, I was waiting for him to make dinner so that I could eat it and then go to the gym. But he was very very late with dinner, and what was I supposed to do? Because it was his turn to make dinner, and I will not go near the stove when it's Mr. Handsome's turn to make Spaghettios.
And my hair. It wasn't doing so well either.
I'm thinking maybe the weekend might be a better time to tackle the gym with Slut. Maybe by then, I'll have worked through all the images of extra flab and sweaty armpits and groaning body parts and be able to just concentrate on getting those abs back that I had once long, long ago ...