I’m currently moseying around my apartment, shifting from chair to couch, trying to figure out what my place is in this world.
No, that’s not true. It’s because Paul has gone on some testosterone trip that includes seeing airplanes and cans of Red Bull or something? … and I’m like, “Huh. Apartment to myself. This… is… weird…”
So I’ve spent the afternoon thus far by:
- sweating out for 20 minutes to Jillian Michaels. I’m trying to recapture my glory days of 2013, when I lost 10 pounds in one month by eating healthy and exercising up to three times a day. Let me tell you, those days are straight up gone. I’m tired, I’m fat, I feel things jiggle when I move. I totally ate a bagel and I loaded that shit with butter (it was that fake, canola oil blend butter which honestly, at this point, I’m not sure if that’s better or worse). I’m always like, “Hey, we should go for a run. Two miles, if we can!” and then I’m like, “Oh, look at how much running we didn’t do. Maybe tomorrow,” as I lie back on the couch.
- reading Amy Schumer’s The Girl with The Lower Back Tattoo which I find tolerable. I’ve been on a kick lately of reading essay collections by celebrities, and I honestly don’t know why I do it. I think I used to read for pleasure; at least, I have a vague memory of it. But it seems like doing this just makes me anxious, I find typos, I think the books aren’t all that great, I have no energy to devote to writing a better one at this time. I just finished the chapter where Amy’s like, “I was rich, then I was poor, now I’m rich, sometimes I feel philanthropic, dolla dolla bills, y’all,” and then that reminds me that I’m poor, jobless, and quickly running out of money unless things change.
- applying to one job to make myself feel better about my current predicament. That way, if someone asks me if I’m looking, I can say, “Yes. Diligently.” and mean it just enough.
Then, frustrated by my laziness, I started cleaning. I took the opportunity of a solo afternoon to clean the fridge (I just now remembered I need to throw out that pasta sauce on the door. This is my life now; suck it, haters) and start a load of laundry. I was rewarded on this task by getting detergent on my shirt, but fuck if I’m changing it. Now, when I look down at my left boob, I smell like Spring and Renewal with just a touch of Febreze, which is likely better than I smell on any regular day.
This also reminds me, inexplicably, that we are heading into my favorite season, Fall, and that even though I have two pairs of yoga pants and one pair of sweatpants, my only pair of leggings has a hole in them, and I should probably buy another before the hole becomes super noticeable (not to mention the fact that these pants double as my “work pants” because I don’t know what’s appropriate). I used to wear jeans all the time, but I have discovered that black leggings are the way to go. I hate buying clothes, because I don’t know how to tell what fits me, but I especially hate buying clothes while trying to lose weight, which leads to sadness and lethargy and eating bagels dripping in cancer butter.
And then, on top of my coffee table, sits not one but two bridal magazines, which I figured was appropriate because October (assuming the date is open) marks the one-year to our wedding. I’ve bought these magazines before, and they freaked me out, but I thought, “NOW IS THE TIME TO BE OFFICIAL, AMANDA!!!!!” and looked at pictures of bridesmaids dresses that were glossy and plastic-bag-looking, as well as articles about dropping $8000 on detox centers. I even tried to imagine myself in the bridal gowns, but then I sadly closed the book, knowing that my back fat would ruin any attempts of fitting into anything other than a plastic bag held together by duct tape (it’d be a really tasteful plastic bag. I’m not looking to flash anyone).
These magazines are not for me. Someday I will learn my lesson.
And now that I have written this, I can feel slightly assuaged about not writing anything more than a blog post.
MAN, I AM SO PRODUCTIVE!
Have a good day, friends. Be kind to yourselves.