Evalyn's First Haircut!

DORKS

In this job, I am certainly no stranger to criticism and personal attacks. But sometimes along the way there are defined instances where I have to give people creative-slander-props.

It kinda fits, don't you think?

My only complaint is that whoever it was found and used an old picture of me pre-weight loss.

And for detailed coverage of what they're talking about, feel free to visit KDH.

theory about looking like crap

Thursday is the day I look like crap, and I have a theory.

Monday, I want to kick off the week right with a shower, make-up, the whole nine yards. Who wants to go to work on Monday and look like you’re not prepared for the week? Because, I am always prepared for Monday. Always. As a matter of fact, I start getting ready for Monday on Saturday and Sunday. Seriously.

Tuesday, I’m still on the “I wanna look good” high from Monday, and so typically, I do. Except this Tuesday I didn’t shower because I started getting texts about bank robberies and police standoffs, so I forewent the shower to get to work early.

Wednesday is hump day, the middle of the week, the ‘only-two-more-days-to-the-weekend’ day and to celebrate that, I will adorn myself cutely.

Thursday, who freaking cares?

I took my shirt off

Sometimes I wake up and don’t feel like wearing a shirt. Bra, yes. Shirt, no.

Very rarely do I act on this desire except to run from the bathroom to the dryer mostly because I don’t live alone. Plus, even flaunting my cleavage is difficult because when I wear a simple tank top, my friend’s six-year-old son shyly points out he’s seeing more of my boob then he’s obviously comfortable with and suggests that I should cover it. Awkward.

So I try and remain fully clothed at all times.

But.

Yes, there’s always a but.

Over the weekend, the ‘I-don’t-want-to-wear-a-shirt’ feeling was so strong that I felt it only fair to myself and The Girls to oblige them with a few minutes of shirtless freedom.

So I did. And, really, it was as glorious as one would imagine.

Or maybe you haven’t imagined how glorious it feels, and if you haven’t, please do. Then project yourself into my situation Saturday (and, guiltily, Sunday) afternoon.

See?

Glorious.

A few factors played into my ultimate decision to take my shirt off.

1) we live in the country
2) no one from the highway (except drivers in one direction) could see me
3) the only people home were my sister and friend’s young children

I was nervous, as any shirtless-on-a-back-deck virgin would be.

Should I?
What if people see me?
If the two young children peak out the window, will they be scarred for life?
What if our landlord drives up?

It took me approximately three minutes to dissolve any worry in all four cases.

With that, I unbuttoned my cute button-up blue shirt, draped it back over my shoulders to test the waters, and then took it off.

It was as glorious as I had imagined.

The next day I was home alone, so I exercised my new-found pleasure and even walked from the back deck into the house to get a pen, and then back onto the deck. This was a milestone, because walking around shirtless in a house where you never really know who’s going to pop around the corner is different from sitting stationary on the back deck.

As clearly evidenced by my actions, I live on the wild side. And you should too. Maybe it’s not an express desire to take your shirt off, maybe it’s something else.

But I think you should do it.

spoiled on a deck

I took a sick day yesterday, but it was more of a day-to-be-a-non-editor-wear-my-little-sister’s-Victoria’s-Secret-tank-top-and-drink-margaritas-on-the-Riverwalk-with-my-other-sister.

For a few hours, I was living someone else’s life, and felt spoiled.

At a time of day when I’m in the middle of a pulsing newsroom directing stories, staving off hunger with saltines, and asking for rewrites on stories, I was sitting on a veranda in San Antonio eating Mexican food and drinking a frozen strawberry margarita.

While pigeons ran across my feet trying to get to the chips my sister was throwing them, I wondered if this was some strange otherworld people live in. Is this what rich wives do while their rich husbands work? Are women with predictable schedules afforded this luxury? Do people who work downtown eat at Café Ole on their lunch break? And drink a margarita?

Regardless of how or why, I was there on a Wednesday afternoon with my sister and other people who, for whatever their reason, could escape the rigors of Wednesday, and take a tour of the (smaller than I had imagined) Alamo or shop or eat ice cream.

Through the course of yesterday, I decided that mid-week hours of spoiling should be mandatory, that my wisdom teeth are soon to be extracted by a dental school resident, that a molar is also coming out, and that God honored the Texas’ governor declaring some days of prayer for rain.

he winked at me

I get ego boosts at random moments throughout the day. I'm in an editorial meeting, my phone alerts me to an email, I look, and discover "he winked at you!"

Same scenario, only I'm at my computer to see "he emailed you."

That makes me stop.

In the world of online dating, emailing is a big deal. Winking is playground material. But emailing? I mean, when are we getting married?

These methods of communication jolt me back to the reality of the fact that I'm single, and maybe one day I won't be, which leads to the bigger questions: how is that going to happen?

I started online dating three years ago, and I'm terrible at it. It's to the point now where it's a form of entertainment, an ego boost and a downer when one popular site tells me that "0 people were interested in you."

How could you not be interested in me?! I am an interesting person.

I'm terrible at online dating because I'm cheap, and I won't pay the subscription cost. So I bounce from one free communication period to the next in hopes that the random hand of love will fall and in the same 7 days I'm communicating, he (whoever he is) will be too.

I emailed one guy for maybe a week, but that fizzled. Another guy told me he'd never take the smile off my beautiful face. Another guy was not physically attractive.

In one sweep of an index finger, these guys are archived, closed, deleted, 'just not feeling you' and I never have to think about them again. And vice versa.

I think the biggest trapping of online dating for me is curiousity. Now that I know that someone emailed me, I want to know who he is and what he said. Another guy winked at me. He's 23. He might as well be 15.

Another site tells me that my "mother wants what's best for you" and I'm supposed to translate that into spending $20 a month for the next three. That $20 will buy me a few bottles of (cheap) wine that I can enjoy silently on my back deck.

Other sites want me to participate in personality tests. As if my personality has anything to do with the reason I'm on their site.

Online dating makes a lot of assumptions, the least of which that you're desperate and emotionally disfigured. I am neither. My excuse is probably the all-time classic online dating excuse:

I'm too busy to find someone the traditional way.

But in the very next moment after I get the email notification that "he emailed you!," the nudge of curiousity dissipates with my tasks at hand, and before long I've forgotten that I "caught his attention" until I sit down to blog about it.

And now here we are, nearly full circle.

Bottom line?

Online dating is entertaining. I'm an expert profile-skimmer (I'm doing it now), and I can archive with the best of them. And while I'm doing it, I'm usually texting someone or jotting down notes for my next online dating post.

So email me. Wink at me. Poke me. Message me.

Maybe one of these times I'll give in.

fire ants and Benadryl

Sticking my foot in a fire anthill and overdosing on Benadryl will become a monthly tradition for me. It’s my newly discovered gateway for sleep so assured that my hand slaps myself in the face because I’m on Hour 18 of sleep and I can’t hold it up in my propped up-wrapped-in-a-blanket-dont-even-care-about-the-noise-and-lights-around-me state.

I didn't make this discovery intentionally.

I was feeding the horses Saturday night about 10:30 and felt something stinging my left foot, and then burning. It annoyed me. I kept feeding the horses, kept feeling the stinging and by the time I was walking back to the house, I had chills and my foot was burning.

Fifteen minutes later I was itching all over and 15 minutes after that I thought maybe a shower would help. It didn't, and in the process, I discovered I'd broken out in hives. After my shower I woke Mom up to tell her I was having an allergic reaction. While I was talking to her, my tongue started swelling and she wanted to take me to the hospital.

I opted for two Benadryl and the couch. I promised her if at any point I couldn't breathe, I would notify her immediately.

My tongue continued to swell, hematoma-like hives were on my body, and suddenly I was sleepy. But I didn't want to sleep and lose track of my ability to breathe. 'Twas a quandry.

A qualified friend advised me to take another Benadryl and an hour after that, I took a fourth. Elsie said she was sleeping on the loveseat next to me to check on me and then the sleeping began.

At some point I moved from the couch to my bed, and in the morning Mom let me sleep and stayed home from work to finish the house projects I'd started the day before.

And thus started the Day of Sleep, which was amazingly wonderful and at the same time disrupting. I had things I wanted to accomplish. I did manage to do a couple loads of laundry and scrub out the horses' trough at 7 p.m when I started to perk up a little. I barely stayed awake through Mother's Day dinner and by 9 I was in bed.

My foot is still swollen and my index finger is too (random!) but I woke up this morning feeling well, rested.

Hence my deduction that once a month I should stick my foot in a fire anthill, take 4 Benadryl and call it a day. Or a night. Or 24 hours plus 8 of oblivious sleep.

mysterious life of mine

I always get the feeling there’s an edge of mystery that shrouds my job, and subsequently me as a person.

Recently, I spoke to a news-writing college class and during question-and-answer time, one girl asked what my hobbies are.

Yes, some nights I resign from the office late, and sit on a bed that’s not mine drinking an individual-sized -bottle of wine while reading a 15,000-word essay on the life of Frank Sinatra. I may also chew sunflower seeds.

And then, in the morning, I get up too early, shower in a shower that’s not mine, dress in front of a mirror, wish for a split-second somebody was there to kiss me goodbye, and then I’m off, having already read 10 emails, responded to text messages, and depending on the morning organized photographers to cover breaking news.

By the time I hit the office, I’m running until my self-imposed 30-minute lunch, and then running again until 12 or 14 hours after leaving the bed that’s not mine, I’m collapsing in it again.

But, I do have hobbies.

I like to train my dog, and watch my little brother play baseball. I love to write, and sit on the back porch with a glass of wine. I like to shop for new clothes on the days I don’t feel fat, and on the days I do, I like to sulk. I seek out my sanctuary in the form of lakes, woods, our back yard, the horses. I enjoy being with my family.

All things that are the antithesis to the fabric of my work life, which revolves around stress, editorial decisions, putting out fires between my entity and others, organizing, planning, trying my best to make sure we put our best foot forward every day, especially Sunday.

I guess it is a mystery life, but to me it’s just mine. It’s a whirlwind, it doesn’t stop unless by some force of will I tell it to, and I spend a lot of moments just…tired.

But fulfilled. Happy. Living on the precipitous edge of adrenaline that sends me into news heaven and physically, on the brink of exhaustion and dipping into it sometimes only to recover my second wind that carries me through the next breaking headline and the next and the next.

Until I get home, and I feed my dogs with the same precision I write my column. And my method of organizing family dinners resembles the way I conduct my morning editorial meetings.

And then I walk around as long as possible without my bra on, and I can be silent, or giddy, or bitchy, I can laugh at my own jokes, and first try telling them, I can clean, and do laundry, which is theraputic for me.

And when my colleagues ask me, “What are you doing this weekend?” I mysteriously answer, “I’ll be shampooing carpets.”

skinny state of mind

I convinced myself over the weekend that I gained 15 pounds.
And that the hard work I put into losing 50 is all for naught.
And that before long, like in a matter of days, I will be fat again.
So I ate the bowl of sugary cereal, and indulged in the Oreos.
I told myself I’d exercise later, but I didn’t mean it.
Nothing I wore looked good (even the fun sundress).
I stress-ate. Knowingly.
I did not want to weigh this morning, but felt compelled to survey the damages.

Reality?

Half-a-pound gain.

Diets are awesome. My diet was awesome. My ability to keep the physical weight off is great.

But the weekend was a reminder that weight loss is a state of mind.