Why I hate exercising and eating right

I hate it when my sister is right. I called her for a perfectly legitimite bitch and moan session and she listened politely, and essentially told me to get off my butt and exercise. She said it much more nicely than that, of course. And she was right. Grrr. Argh.

So why does it always feel so impossible? Why do I get the urge to eat an entire box of Koffee Kup glazed donuts?--6 of them. Count them. 6. And no, they weren't mini donuts. And why, when I have an exercise machine (I confess, it's The Gazelle) that I enjoy using since I can then justify watching at least one episode of Gilmore Girls, Smallville, or Desperate Housewives (I'm alternating according to mood, which doesn't actually work since I'm netflixing), why oh why is it so hard to just do it (sorry, too lazy to avoid the cliche.)

Of course, I have to move the Gazelle about 3 feet, put on running shoes and workout clothes, and insert the DVD. And my daughter does sleep in the same room as I do, which is also the only room the gazelle fits in, so exercising while she's asleep is not really an option.

I know I'll feel better if I exercise, just like I know I'll feel like crap after the donut pig-out. Why aren't I exercising every day? Of course, my therapist would probably say that I should see it in a different way. We had a great talk yesterday about negative attitudes. She was totally right, of course. And hey, my sister brought up something similar in our talk.

But it's hard not to be negative when your life sucks!!!!

Just kidding (kinda).

I suppose I could think instead that I am exercising every day, since I exercised tonight and there is no reason that I won't wake up and exercise tomorrow.

Then again, Dunkin Donuts is only a couple blocks away . . .

I miss my old life. That's the real problem. And I can never go back.

My daughter called me tonight, after having a wonderful time at Pizza Putt and an anarchist meeting with both her father and her grandmother (my mother-in-law.) She was exhausted to the point of tears and said she wanted me. It broke my heart.

I told her how much fun she would have tomorrow with her dad and grandma, and that I would see her the day after that, on Friday. I told her Pablo and Baby Sarah were there with her too (2 of her stuffed toys.) I sang her a lullabye, told her I loved her and that it was no fun here at the house because I was working.

It's getting harder to tell her everything is fine. It's hard to be excited about her excursions with her father, since a part of me has lost a ton of respect for him. Not that I'd ever tell her that (and believe me, when she starts reading and surfing the net (like, tomorrow, at the rate she's going the little smarty-pants) all traces of this blog entry will be gone. I'll leave her the funny ones, the light-hearted ones, since she deserves to know that this was hard for me too. But the critical ones will have to go. Some days I know that's the right thing to do. And some days that makes me sick to my stomach.

How does anyone do this? Are they really eating all that well and exercising? Is that the secret to surviving divorce?

Ok. Pity party officially coming to a close. But if you know anyone who knows anyone who exercises daily, can you send them my way? I'd really love to know their secret. Especially if they can also cook.

Goodnight Nobody. Goodnight mush.

The Great Bicycle Incident

One Saturday morning I went to an amazing local coffee shop, Viva Espresso, (http://vivaespresso.blogspot. com/) intending to write like a crazy woman. Later that day, I planned to finish painting the living room, work on this website, clean the house, and generally excel in the role of Domestic Goddess. I was feeling a little down what with the separation and all, but all in all the day held promise.

Then I eavesdropped on a conversation between my friend and Viva owner Megan and a guy who looked vaguely familiar, only to find that this guy owns a local farm and is selling CSA's (don't ask me what that stands for, or if I even spelled it right--it just means an awesome weekly delivery of fresh local produce each week. Nuff said.)

Now, I've been wanting to get hooked up with a CSA since last season. I had even researched them in my post-separation-announcement-distraction-activity-frenzy. But I was just too lazy to make the call. But there, right in front of me, was salvation. My CSA had come to me.

I accosted the man and his lovely wife (really, here they were trying to have a quiet cup of coffee when some psycho girl insists that she wants to buy a share now. Not fill out an application and mail it in, but do it now. Yeah, some days I make a GREAT first impression.)

In my zest and zeal at finding an easier way than phoning to get my CSA share, I told the farm owners to stay put and that I'd be back ASAP. Now, to clarify, I live within biking distance of the cafe. And of course, this morning, I had spaced on my bike helmet. Anyway, I leapt onto my bike and sailed down the street at a much faster rate than I ever bicylce. I couldn't believe my luck! I had stumbled onto my CSA. I had met nice people in the cafe. My friend Megan was being really supportive of me. My life, in short, was good.

In fact, it was better than good. Dare I say . . . it was nearly perfect. I was in the right place at the right time. I could do this. I could survive on my own. I was excited and fine and . . . oh, better stop biking on the sidewalk. There's a car coming. Better get out on the street before they get here . . .

I swerved. I hit a rut. I crashed. The car turned off long before it got to me, and I was left lying shaking in the street, alone. I'd broken my glasses when the handlebars smahed me in the face. My fun and funky rhinestoned glasses. My hands were scraped up. My elbow was skinned. And my shoulder hurt like hell. I sat for a minute. Someone walked by and didn't ask if I was ok.

Then it occurred to me. I will be alone for the rest of my life. If I'm sick, doesn't matter. I still have to be Supermom and support my daughter. If I'd broken my arm, I would be driving myself to the ER.

I picked up my bike and walked it home, sobbing all the way.

When I got home, I surveyed the empty, messy house--my daughter was at her Dad's. And I decided I might as well go back to the Cafe. Even if I bled to death internally on the way back, at least I could guarantee fresh veggies this summer for my daughter. And the likelihood of someone finding my prone and rotting corpse increased if I kicked it on the sidewalk. Besides, if I died at home my three dogs would probably eventually take advantage of it and have themselves a little snackie.

I walked back to Viva and handed over my check to a minimum of strange glances, given my tear-stained face and general shakiness. Then Megan took over. She sent me to the back of the cafe to clean up and cry. She gave me band-aids and neosporin and free coffee and a kiss on the forehead.

I told her my theory of aloneness, my image of the shattered armbone jutting out of my skin and bumping against the car door everytime I made a right turn on my way to the ER. And Megan said, "No, dear. That's why we have community."

I stayed a little longer, until Megan's physician hubby showed up with the kids and pronounced an ER visit unnecessary (ok. jutting out bones may have been a slight exaggeration.) Then I trudged back home.

I sat on the couch, and watched Gilmore Girls with one dog draped across my legs, one on my lap, and one on the floor at my feet. I felt loved. And a little better. Although, that could've been the massive amounts of Tylenol I downed.

Later, when I picked up my daughter, she delighted in being the mommy and taking care of me, insiting we put a bandaid on the unbroken skin of my shoulder, since it hurt. She also bandaged my hand and elbow, and gave me a lot of kisses. She also behaved impeccably.

All in all, I learned a lesson. While I could've taken away the message of "Once you start to feel good the universe is going to mess with you" (ok, that's exactly how I felt for the first few hours) I instead realized just how strong I was. And that I do have a community. Even if I'm just getting to know them. And that Damn! Megan is an amazing, caring person. And there are more people out there like her than I could ever imagine.

Oh. And always wear your helmet.

With big warm community hugs and kisses, and many promises to blog more often,

kat