I've been in a garbage mood for the past couple of days. I had a physical on Monday, and being the inquisitive soul that I am, I checked the BMI chart. I was just inside the healthy range with a few pounds to spare. Not bad, I thought. Then the nurse measured me, and I discovered that I'm an inch shorter than I thought I was. There goes my margin.
It was the same thing that happened a few years ago when I joined the public gym. The real problem is that apparently I've been at an unhealthy weight for a decade; you'd think one of the health providers I've seen in that time would have mentioned it to me. This changes my entire self-image; it's one thing to have body-image issues, it's another to realize that I've been unhealthy for almost all of my adult life.
I checked my BMI online today and found that in actual fact I am still in the healthy range by a half-pound. I still need to up my exercise, though. That part isn't negotiable; I've always known that I was too sedentary for my own good. Now I just have to find a way to exercise that doesn't make me feel guilty for abandoning my child during the already-few hours we spend together. Maybe jumping jacks in the living room while he pretends to be a spaceship?
The Boy's job has changed descriptions in the last few days, and has been shortened as well. Now he's looking at slightly less than 4 months of work. But they like him there so he'll probably get a job in September. I'm glad that he has a job, a purpose, a school to influence and a salary, but I'm a little sad that I still can't come up with a definite moving out date. Sometimes I feel like I'm in some strange existentialist psychological experiment, or in one of the Beckett plays that I never liked during my undergrad.
Four characters and a Sisyphean situation. I'd much rather have two turntables and a microphone.
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Don't make me send out the Blake. He doesn't listen to *anyone.*