the beached whale and other foibles

Some humour from this interesting time of life.

I'm more like a turtle on it's back, really. But this condition goes back a ways. In high school one time, a friend and I compared the relative difference in our body shapes. We both laid on the floor on our backs, and I could easily raise and lower my legs but had difficulty sitting my torso straight up, while her torso would almost automatically raise when she tried to lift her legs. Interesting.
I'm still like that, it's just worse. I can get out of bed on my own, but Chris' assistance is much appreciated. I'm sure the upswing heave-ho action of my legs trying to create some counterforce and get that ol' torso vertical must be humourous to watch. But I have no audience generally. Lucky for me.

Then I would like to compose a wee letter of thanks to whomever is responsible (or not responsible, as the case may be) for maintaining things in the women's washroom at my church.

The locks don't work, on any of the doors, as far as I know. Now, combine the following conditions and it just isn't pretty.
1) I am quite short. Thus, so are my legs.
2) The stall doors to not lock.
3) Whatever unbalanced angle the doors are hanging at, causes them to naturally swing open inwards.

So this leaves me, who frequents washrooms with some, well, frequency these days, stretching my little leg, pointing my little toes as far as they will go (while trying to remain in appropriate proximity to the loo itself) to hold the door at least mostly closed while I occupy the space. What can I say, but that it is nearly impossible, and at the very least, far from comfortable. But hey.

Then there were two sitcom-ready moments of maternity shame that I will here bare in my seeming disregard for my own self-image or dignity.

The first was a month-ish ago, after church. I was driving home alone, and had stopped to pick up a couple groceries. Well, there was a box of glazed donuts on the clearance rack of the bakery, which I snatched right up, for Chris, of course. Well, the salivation began shortly thereafter as "visions of sugar plums (and donuts) danced in my head, " while I was walking around the other aisles of the store.

What a horrid display I made of myself, loading the bags of groceries into the trunk, and tearing savagely into the box of donuts, and inhaling one while standing in the parking lot just outside the open trunk of my car. Had I not eaten in a week? I mean really.

I licked my fingers as clean as I could as I delivered the cart to the little cart corrall and walked back to my car pretending that there was no one sitting in their cars waiting for anyone inside to return and watching my little show. Lovely. Not to mention, impressive.

Then there was the other day... *sigh* this was truly shameful as well. I was like an alcoholic. But with sugar. I made these cookie/bark/brittle things that are truly sinful and delicious, very rich and pure cryptonite for me. I hid from Anna, because of course, that much sugar is no good for her!!! And I ate and I ate and I ate as gluttonously as I can actually EVER recall eating, literally, until I made myself sick. I don't know what came over me. I didn't lose anyting, but boy, was my stomach ever upset. Yowzers. And I felt drained and heavy and nauseous the whole rest of the day. Absolutely pitiful.

The bright side is that I have had basically NO desire for sugar since then. At all. I'll just eat some plain cauliflower, ok? Thanks. And water. LOTS of water. Please.