Needs a new coat. Preferably something in a nice shade of mustard.

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So my winter jacket is too small for me, now. Read that: my WINTER JACKET. How is a winter jacket too small? And, moreover, how is a winter jacket too small FOR ME?

I’ve always been tiny. Always been short, skinny, petite. During the high days of my eating disorder, one might have added frail, bony, and skeletal to the list, but those times are long gone. All in all, I was always on the slighter side of normal. Now, I might be plump. And, you know, that’s cool. A sign of healthy eating, or, at the very least, EATING, which I didn’t really do for awhile. So we take that as a positive, I suppose, in our moments of darkness.

But the question, really: as a person who was once so eating disordered, how am I not constantly tortured by this weight? I mean, we’re not talking a month or two of overzealous dieting here, we are talking, like, sixteen YEARS of bloated nightmares come to reality in one solid flesh. The answer came to me last night, merging onto rte 16 at dusk, having just purchased a wardrobe’s worth of size-medium shirts from the local Target.

I’m just happier now.

Before, my weight, whatever it was, was a bone of contention. Another way I had failed, or, conversely, a measure of how I’d achieved superiority. I could be 98 pounds, I could be 118, but, depressed, neither was acceptable. Neither was attained by conventional means, so my weight, my body, became a symbol of my illness. Now, with the depression more (or less) under control, I can begin to be OK with who and how I am otherwise. I’m not saying I don’t wish it weren’t so – some mornings I think I’d take a week of misery for a day out in my size-24 skinny jeans – but I’m not compelled to make drastic changes to my eating patterns as a result.

Unless “drastic changes” means “more apple crisp”, in which case I’m totally game.


Money doesn’t talk, it whispers.

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The button on my favorite jeans broke today. My only comfortable jeans. The only ones that don’t make me feel fat. And my first instinct was to go out and buy another pair. I mean, they’re just Lucky Brand, not like, Paige Denim or something, so we’re talking about a relatively small investment. Just $99 plus tax for all the glory that comes with a new, well-fitting pair of jeans.

My instinct, as I said, was to just drive down to Newbury Street and grab a pair. We got some new bookings at ECA Productions, and I mean, what am I going to do otherwise? Jeans are a necessity. Right?

I was living pretty high on the hog with Katsumi. We both made good money, so we both pretty much did what we wanted. No groceries but the groceries from Whole Foods, no cat food but the very best. I bought new clothes without a second thought, and, though I love to cook, we dined out more than we dined in. Once, during restaurant week, we went out to Pigalle and spent the equivalent of a month’s car payment on dinner and drinks for two. It was no big deal. Coming from this angle, yes, I mean, of course, just go get the jeans. You need them. Obviously.

So this morning I slung my purse over my shoulder, grabbed my wallet and my shiny new Discover card and headed out the door. But instead of going into the city and hitting the Lucky store, I went to a Goodwill in Somerville and unloaded five boxes of crap from the old apartment. Those days of decadence are long gone, the days of five-course dinners and designer shoes, and even though once upon a time replacement denim may have taken precedent, these days I’m more worried about paying our rent. Like, actually worried.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m not complaining. I still sustain some very expensive habits, and it’s hard to rally a pity party around a camp that’s basically burning cash. I live a nice life, I drive a nice car, and, really, I wouldn’t want to change a thing. It’s interesting to see how “needs” turn into “wants”, and how “wants” turn into “luxuries”, and how easily we can slip from one way of being to the next, when we’re given no choice but to do so. I like that I seem to be resilient, in light of things.


Then and now

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Things I could handle just fine in January 2010:

– being unemployed

– asking my husband for a divorce

– moving in with my parents

– giving up my kitchen

– getting dressed

 

Things I could not handle just fine in January 2011:

– working

– a friendly phone call from said husband

– my apartment

– cooking chicken

– getting dressed

Thank God my shrink OK’ed the restart of Abilify, otherwise I’d probably be cowering half-naked under the bedsheets, spatula in one hand and a cookbook in the other, trying to figure out what to do with that pound and a half of chicken breast in the fridge.

OK, maybe I still don’t know what to do with that pound and a half of chicken breast, but at least I’m not weeping about it.


I think they call it “chilling out”.

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I have done nothing all weekend. I didn’t do anything at night, I didn’t do anything during the day, I’ve done absolutely nothing. I was sick on Friday, so I spent most of the afternoon on the daybed-futon, propped up by pillows and quilted in with blankets. By Saturday I fully expected to be worse, so I added all episodes of “Say Yes to the Dress” to my Netflix queue and had B! stock up on Kleenex.

But on Saturday I felt… fine. No more sneezing, no more watery nose – I was just OK! But I’d really gamed myself into a trash-TV marathon, so I went ahead and watched 9 episodes anyway. Around 4, I mustered the motivation to do a little real-life Christmas shopping, so that was kind of a coup, but when B! and I thought about our evening, staying home seemed like the only realistic option. I was in bed by midnight. Say what?

I’ve barely managed to read a single article in the Sunday Times, my sloth has grown so vast. I just now changed out of sweatpants, there’s no way I’m taking a shower, and I made bacon for breakfast so the whole apartment feels like an oil slick. But hey, I’m not complaining. I haven’t had a weekend like this in forever. It’s kind of awesome.


Someday is now.

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When I was about 25 or so, my then-28-year-old friend told me:

“Someday, you’re just going to want to stay in on Friday nights.”

I didn’t believe him. Friday night was the PARTY night, the night to HIT THE TOWN. Friday night was for dancing, Friday night was for champagne. Friday night was definitely NOT for sitting in, relaxing, and hitting the sack early.

Tonight’s Friday, right? So far, I’ve spent two hours buried in Excel and another lost in Final Cut Pro. Thinking about maybe watching a movie. You know, or going to bed.

This same friend also told me Saturday was for errands. I’m still waiting for that wall of reality to come crashing down.


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