Candlelight

“There are two ways of spreading light: to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it.” – Edith Wharton (source: http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/e/edithwhart100511.html?src=t_inspirational).

I want to be that candle. Now to get my body to agree with me. I’m trying to be upbeat. It’s not working. I’m having a bad day.

I joined our biggest loser thing here at my office. I lost a few pounds. I went to get weighed this morning and discovered I’d gained them back. I’m discouraged. I’m disgusted. I feel like crying. I’m in pain from my two walks yesterday. I feel like all I do is complain or make excuses. I’m also told I’m too hard on myself, but personally, I think I’m not hard enough.

I look in the mirror with disgust. Yes, I really do hate my body. I guess you could say I’m a thin, fit woman on the inside. That fit woman is begging to get out. She hates what she feels and doesn’t know – no – has forgotten how to attain her goals.

Baby steps. I need to remember that all good, positive change happens in baby steps. I do have health problems – I can’t just lunge into things and expect immediate change.

I’m the mirror watching the candle burn at both ends. I want to be the candle, breathing in the air around me, using it to fuel my transformation. Glow strong and bright.

The rain outside, though cleansing, isn’t helping my mood. The dampness has settled into my lungs and I am once again wheezing…and I can’t find my inhaler. *facepalm* Sometimes I wonder how I have made it this far. I won’t melt in the rain, sometimes I even love to dance in it, but I prefer to be shielded by an umbrella.

Rihanna – Umbrella:

Spring Cleaning…cough, cough…

As an asthmatic, Spring cleaning can be treacherous…especially when you just finished taking a round of prednisone for a lung infection. Fuck me, right? I spent the better part of today dusting our library/computer room, moving books, organizing said books, dusting off said books, dusting off bookshelves, etc. Did I mention DUST? Lots of it. All over every freaking surface and nook and cranny.

Did I mention I’m asthmatic and allergic to dust and dust mites? Oh Joy! Let the coughing begin **cough**cough**BARK BARK** Shoot me now. I’m hoping that I didn’t irritate my lungs to the point of causing another lung infection. That would really suck. I’m also really wonky still – got super weak and weird this morning after not eating enough. I think it may be time to talk to my doctor. Could be my MS, could be nothing. Could be that I’m fat and just need to lose weight (that’s not a joke, I really am overweight by many pounds).

At least the baby is happy (sleeping too!), the younger teen is off to a friend’s over night and the older teen is cursing the ground I walk on as I make her actually clean her room. Queue scary music. I think she hates me right now, that’s ok, I’m her MOM not her bff. I love to tell her how much I love her when she is in that mood…it makes me giggle because I know all too well how it feels because I was that kid. The really messy one whose room you couldn’t even walk into for the amount of crap all over. I was clean about it though – no food in my room, no crap, just clothes and such.

My brain is so random today – I wasn’t even going to blog, but the more I do it, the more I get into it. It’s like a diary without the effort of handwriting…yes, handwriting does indeed take effort when you have carpal tunnel and some as of yet unnamed issue with pain in your hands. My fingers get weak and achy when I write now.

It’s hard because I used to hand write everything. I remember writing ten page essays and then typing them up on my electronic typewriter (I felt so special having and electric one). Computer labs were just becoming a thing. We had one at home, but I hated it unless I was playing a game. By game I mean a small yellow and black screen with a blob that you moved in various ways to attack or find something or escape from stuff. It was fun, really.

Anyways, I was the Luddite of the house. I hated it. I was devoted to my typewriter and my hand written works. Now, I couldn’t imagine writing more than a sick note for my kids. What a lost art that is.

Weird Al – Word Crimes