I care about this alot.

Clarion is around the corner, and my motto is taken from Hyperbole and a Half, because it seems appropriate. I give myself permission to love everyone, to love every second of this time, to flail around in joy, to fail big.

Update on goooooals:
Weight loss: success. Down 7 lbs. since coming back to AZ. That Lose It program has really helped, and I don’t feel like I’m sacrificing or starving myself. It’s a nice feeling.
Exercise: success. Have used the gym membership 17 times since I got it.
Alcohol: fair to middling. Am still drinking, but three or so times a week, and only one drink in an evening. This is a HUGE cutback from the 3-5 drinks a night that were my norm last semester. I am less depressed, less ill, and I feel capable of focus in a way I haven’t in months.
Writing: Middling success. Two revisions I adore (one on a new story–about etiquette and terrifying three-headed angels), two chapters on the novel, and four new drafts to tinker with. And the start of a revision on the girl-Jesus story. And I sent out one of the revisions a few weeks ago and still have not heard…will update when the reply arrives.
Food: success. Have been eating MUCH healthier. That could all disappear if the Clarion cafeteria food is as terrifying as rumored, though. I’m hoping the Trader Joe’s (walking distance of campus) can get me by if the “free” food is too unhealthy.

I don’t think I could be any more prepared, all things considered. I have a daily writing habit, a daily exercise habit, a packed suitcase, and an open brain. What else am I missing?

Wisdom teeth: the diet plan.

Ugh.  I feel bad even talking about this, given that I have a friend in EDA.  But it’s weighing on my mind (oh gawd accidental pun) and so I wanted to blather some about summer’s weight loss and exercise plan, derailed then salvaged in the worst way possible.  Please be forewarned.

An old improv friend/student of mine just got married.  She studied nutrition in undergrad, and her hubby runs a fitness blog.  Their wedding pictures were stunning–nay, chiseled–and I felt the great and terrible envy of “I want to look like that.”  I’d also signed up for my hometown gym for the summer, and I’d just started getting into a good groove of classes and workouts when the first round of teeth stuff hit (the month of abcess leading up to the root canal).  I gained a bunch of weight on the antibiotics, as I had to take them with food, which meant force-feeding myself an extra meal a day I did not want.  I stopped going to the gym entirely, partly due to the mouth pain, and partly to let my body heal.

Then the wisdom teeth came out, and I was on a liquid diet for two weeks.  Yo-yoed a bit in the third week, but then had a chipmunk relapse.  Woke up with a swollen face and ended up back at the doctor’s office yesterday getting a pus-filled socket popped.  Now I’m back off alcohol, caffeine and solid foods, in the hope of giving my mouth a leg up on healing.

The upshot?  I’m down to 112, from a high of 128.  And I really want to keep that number on the scale, even though I know numbers on the scale don’t matter, even though I lost weight in the least healthy way possible–by enforced starvation. It was a genuinely miserable few weeks.  I don’t LIKE not eating.

The question becomes, how important is this to me, really?  I’m going to start back up at the gym in IL (barring future health issues…if the infected pocket doesn’t heal, I may need another surgery).  I’d like to start eating healthily instead of meagerly.  I’m about to be back in Chi-town with a gorgeous boy eager to go on shishi dates, a gorgeous boy who actually eats and has found my whole prolonged illness gastronomically trying. And he wants to cook for me and with me, so it’s an opportunity to change both our habits for the better.

We’ll see.  I know weight shouldn’t matter, but I do want to be healthy, inasmuch as that’s possible within the constraints of my sedentary desk life.  I keep entertaining veganism and dietary supplements, and I have friends who swear by them (including the aforementioned newlywed), but I also like my parents’ more low-key pescatarianism.  So many paths, and I have no idea where to begin, especially given that I’m a picky eater on a shoestring budget with miserable health patterns.

Moral: Feeding self is hard, I say.  And weight is fraught.

Aftermath.

I am finally on the mend.  Throat still swollen, jaw still achy, but I can actually DO things again.  What am I doing?  Why, moving to Chicago with the Significant Other in a vanishingly small amount of time.  Thirteen days to do what should have been spread out over a month.  The SO’s mum is gifting us with some gorgeous antique furnishings that have been gathering spiderwebs in her garage for a year.  We spent most of the weekend cleaning and polishing, but there’s still plenty to be done there.  Need to repack some boxes (kitchen stuff; dishes and glassware mostly), figure out a safe way to  pack up a mirror, clean up a free office chair my boss gave me, beat some giant rugs to death, pick up my poor broken computer from the shop…the list is endless.  And I’m trying to finish a book for work before I leave; I already have over forty hours this week.  Plus the SO has a million going-away shindigs, and the family would like to see me before I fly away, and we’re still house-sitting until Monday, which has been lovely but I’m ready to not make the drive out to that side of town anymore.  Is insanity.

Also, I am not drinking again, because my immune system needs all the help it can get.  It’ll be two weeks this Friday with no booze…AND no caffeine.  I don’t even recognize myself.

Soon it will all be over.  And then the semester will start, and I’ll be right back in the hamster wheel.  None of this is by way of complaint.  I’m shockingly happy.  Spending too much of the summer down sick makes me appreciate the simple fact that I’m well enough to keep doing things.

Dental hell, part I’ve lost count.

This summer, I had a tooth filled.  The long story involves my childhood dentist versus my new dentist (the one covered by my insurance), an allergic reaction causing my face to swell up, new dentist threatening to pull my tooth entirely (“a wisdom tooth might grow in; you could get lucky”), and over a month now of serious nerve pain.  I’m having dreams of pulling out all my teeth, then leaping around joyfully as a gummy twenty-something.  My mouth aches so badly.

It also feels like a social class slide, moving from los padres’ decent insurance to my own (worse) AZ insurance, and now on to the (epically bad) limited insurance my current university provides.  I’m grateful to have anything at this point, but I do wish I could afford real health care, something better than the dental equivalent of a dude with a rusty pair of pliers.  It’s looking like, after already spending a small fortune on the original filling, even under insurance, I’m going to need to go back and spend a much larger fortune digging out the filling and replacing it with a root canal so that the exposed nerve ending giving me hell with STFU.  And, insult to injury, I’ll probably end up at the same awful dentist who effed up the tooth in the first place.

Whine, whine, owwwww.

On the range.

It’s odd being in Flagstaff.  I’m here but not here.  The social scene hasn’t much changed (although it’s about to, what with Rich, Laura and Matt all taking off), and I fall right back into old patterns, some positive, some negative.  I’m drinking again but I’ve cut way back; no more weekend hangovers (not since I’ve been home, anyway).  Bits of wine here and there, the occasional whiskey with grandma, Matt’s homebrew.  The novel moves painfully slowly, which is infuriating, frustrating and predictable.  I took an excellent workshop with Dinty Moore and produced a Brevity-style 500 word nonfic, and I’m revising up a play for this year’s Playwriting Showcase, so it’s not like I’m not writing.  It’s just not what I thought I’d be writing.

In other news, editing is editing is editing.  The Comma Wars are a go-go, of course, but they’ve been less vicious than usual, which I’m grateful for.  I hope the truce continues.  And I hope I get a book soon, because I’ll get a lot more novel-ing done if my boss will let me go outhouse on the walk-in book.

I scarcely see Sacha at all, which I feel guilty about.  Matt’s moving out of his apartment in a week (to save money for Chicago), so I’ve been completely focused on making that happen, at the expense of the novel, and pretty much everyone else friend-wise.  And Laura leaves in nine days for Kansas City, so I feel an extra-bad friend on all counts.

Blogpost devolve.  But I’m happy and hunkered down, and so long as I can manage to not spend money and keep tapping away at the novel, I’ll be pleased with the summer’s fruits.

Strawberries!