The Rainmaker’s List

Have you ever said, with a determined look on your face, ‘tomorrow, dammit, I hang out laundry’?

Annnnd what happened?

Yeah. Thought so. Same thing as happened to me today, probably, after having confidently declared that ‘weather permitting, tomorrow I walk!’

Yyyyeah, notsomuch, as the rain it raineth every piggin’ day on planned parades.

‘So – you bikin’ then?’ is, I know, the next most logical question on your eager lips. To which the answer is likewise notsomuch – If this counts for anything, I’ve wiped about six or seven things off my To-Do List today – eight if you include ‘Blog,’ which, to be fair, I hadn’t today, but have on many another day. No – having woken up and weighed and found myself back within a quarter-pound of 18 stone (what a difference a day makes, as the song has it), I’ve been focusing on clearing the crap and the clutter out of my List of the many, many things I’ve had to do. While the philosophical funk remains, the more that finally disappears off that list, the lighter my mind feels about the day-to-day doing of things. So…. Yeah – lighter mind, lighter body?

No, I know, no-one’s buying that one, and nor should they, to be fair. But I feel better in any case. Have just a smidgen more time, so may just about manage to cross one more thing off my list before the day’s out. Starbucking tomorrow and Friday, but with chances of walking and biking on both days. Tomorrow’s d’s Hereversary though – 11 years ago tomorrow she landed in the UK for good, and we began the mad (and I do mean mad) run-up of things to still be done before our wedding. It’s jusssst possible there’ll be sumptuous amounts of food involved in celebrating tomorrow. Still – let’s see.

Return of the Master Suit - Tuesday, 18th August

Disappointing – and yet entirely understandable – weigh-in results today – 18st 2 pounds. Am entirely out of practice at the walking now, and my biking this week has been quixotic at best. As I said though – new week, new intent, and on we go. Weather permitting, tomorrow I walk.

Yesterday was a sobering time – as I mentioned, attended the funeral of a good friends of my childhood. Turns out she was 71 when she died a week or so ago. Somewhere along the line, I’ve entirely failed to register that I’m 43, rapidly heading to 44. This doesn’t seem entirely possible, somehow, but it’s a weird calling-card from Death and a note of one’s own mortality. Not that that’s a spur particularly – am in what seems to be a philosophical funk right now, more befitting a teenager determined to paint their bedroom black, slam doors and declare they never asked to be born. Pathetic, of course. One of those situations where the only thing that stops the world from fundamentally changing for the better is the courage to act. Notsomuch one’s own mortality then, more one’s own cowardice. 

I clothed it yesterday in an unexpected pleasure. I haven’t had occasion to wear a suit for a year or more, and while a funeral is never an especially happy occasion, it gave me a reason to try and pull on the Master Suit. The Master Suit, for those just tuning in, is a suit I bought while disappearing the first time – my first off-the-peg suit in the best part of a decade, because I’d previously always had to go to places like High & Mighty – or Big Fat Bastards as we colloquially call it in my family – to get such things. The Master Suit was a hallmark, a landmark moment of original achievement. I had no illusions it would fit me again just yet, thinking it hadn’t been bought till I was in the lower half of the 17s. But while it wasn’t perhaps the most perfect fit – I couldn’t button the jacket just yet – the trousers did at least do up on me without pain and tears, and the jacket fit me without looking too absurd. Still a mark of triumph? Not as much as it was originally, obviously, but yes, a small mark of triumph, to be assured of still fitting into the landmarks of ‘normality’ as defined by the British retailer. A good spur to return to the fray with a determination that’s been hard to locate while under this shroud of philosophical funk and disappointing self-knowledge. So let’s see, shall we, whether the flash of scarlet lining and the sliding on of a suit of clothes can inspire me to carve out time in my days to do what needs to be done. While the funk remains, the Master Suit represents a slice of hope through the greyness. I intend to follow it, and see if it can lead me back to brighter times and courage.

The Mehness Ban

Meh. Meh with knobs on. Meh with knobs on and sprinkles of extra fine Mehness.

S’been that sort of week.

Wellll, I suppose it hasn’t, overall – got a couple of edits done, got some great news from authors, made some real progress editing my own book and that’s all good and groovy, but in terms of an eating regime or an exercise regime…meh.

I’ve had good moments this week – been weighing with the absurd regularity of a teenager, and there have been moments when I’ve thought ‘Yes! Like a boss!’ when I’ve done that. But as I write this, capturing my mood on a Sunday afternoon in Starbucks, with a verboten Strawberries and Cream sliding down like liquid guilt, I’m all about doing the Meh-Dance.

Going to the funeral of a friend of my childhood tomorrow (Monday). So part of me thinks ‘Fuck it, could be dead tomorrow.’ And then the altogether more sane and sensible part of my brain kicks in to say ‘Yyyyeah, but one of the main contributing factors to her early death was rampant alcoholism. So, pretty much unless you want to be dead tomorrow, get your goddamned game on, dickweed.’

The conflict between these two emotive directions appears to result in general humpiness and an overall sense of fundamental Mehness. But – new day, new week, new challenge to not be Meh. Life is what you make it and other assorted Disney bollocks. Let’s not make it Meh, cos that seems to be the crappiest obituary possible.

There you go – Mehness forbidden. Down with Mehness. One way or the other, let’s start the campaign for real emotions right here. Grey may have fifty shades, but let’s face facts – most of them are pointless. Starting Monday, Mehness will be banned.

So there.

The Last-Minute Post

Hello again. Am writing this right now mostly because I've had a demanding message from my pal Sian - she of the Grim Reaper inspirathon - saying 'Blog, will ya, I've got a boring lunchtime coming up!'

It occurs to me I've been meaning to blog since last Tuesday, when, inspired by her example, I found myself weighing in at 17st 13lbs again.
Since then, to be absolutely fair, I've had a bad Disappearing week. Rather too many frapuccinos, rather too much in the way of 'Gods, I'm so busy, I'll get on the bike tomorrow!'
So who knows what the Nazi Scales will say tomorrow? Prrrretty sure they won't say anything as positive as 17st 13, because, after all, why would they? You have to play the game to get the gain (or loss - hell, ya know what I mean), and this week hasn't really been a 'play the game' kind of week.

I will, however, be getting on the damned bike later on today for a proper sweatathon. I will, I will...
And yes, it will, it will mostly be out of a mixture of fear and contrition about what the morning brings.

Made an eye-opening mistake yesterday. Grabbed a formal shirt from the wardrobe because I was in a hurry. Happened to be one of the formal shirts I bought when I was pre-all Disappearing. Holy Hannah. technically, that was only 2.5 stones ago (35 pounds, Americans), but there's no way of making that thing sit right on my body any more. Of course, everything's relative - I got down 3.5 stones further than where I am right now, and I can only dimly remember the clothes I was wearing at that point. Still - a distinct eye-opener and a motivator to go the right way, rather than sliding backward.

On - to posting before lunchtime.