I am apparently in some sort of competition with myself this week to see how much weight I can gain in seven days or less. SO FAR I AM WINNING. Slash losing. Slash gaining. Slash… I should save myself the time and just implant Dixie Crystals directly into my thighs.
In other news, this past week has been batshit bonkers. I have been emotionally blindsided no less than four separate times, and from the unlikeliest of sources. I have witnessed no less than three all-out bar brawls on the bus. I have felt completely at sea and disconnected and not-myself and did I mention that I have, in the past three days, outgrown both my fat jeans and my fat fat jeans? I am now wearing mumus and eating ice cream directly from the carton. It’s cool, I didn’t want to fit through that door anyway.
But tonight was tears and martinis, hugs and belly laughs; pointy boots and a bright yellow necklace. Sauce sloshed on the counter. Tipping points. Love, love, love, and more light than a blind man needs.
I’m making elaborate plans, and I’m making simple plans, too. I’m moving up and I’m moving on; I’m starting over and I’m breathing in. I’m holding steady. And every day I wake up and I give myself permission to be strong, starting now.