The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Big Belly

Trying to fight off the urge to take a nap. I have never had much problem with taking them in the past, but being unemployed, being a mother, and knowing that I've essentially done nothing around the house today allows for guilt whenever I eye the bed longingly. I have gone to my class and I have pulled the wee one's room back together after she 'redecorated' it, but other than this I have been largely useless since waking. It's a twisted kind of luxury.

I am very insecure these days, more than usual I think. Not sure why, could be just the season for it, but I keep looking at myself in the mirror and seeing someone who has passed her prime. I have been studying older photos of myself and comparing them to the clumsy self-portraits I took with my Olympus and I see that there are less than fantastic changes. While I weigh more than I did twenty years ago, my face is not full and fresh as a peach like it used to be. I am rougher, sort of moon-like, and there are crinkles about my eyes. I wonder what M. sees when he studies me, as I'm sure he is given to do when I am sleeping. Then, the mind wanders. Today's theme is infidelity, courtesy of a film I watched a snippet of this morning involving a man who has an affair with his child's babysitter. Then, one of my favourite blogs asked the readers about who among us has ever cheated, and the responses were staggering. I'd say about eighty per cent of the respondents admitted to being unfaithful, and about fifty per cent of that number went on to justify by saying that they were in a "bad place in my life". I started imagining M. taking a walk and crossing paths with a woman who is more adventurous than myself, thinner, a polyglot who laughs warmly and orders the fish while flying in a jumbo jet. Would he betray me? Lose his love for me? Break my trust? I should know the answer to this, but my insecurity muddies the water a bit. I told him the other day that if he dies, it'll undo me. I said that I would have trouble functionning, that I would probably be crippled by it. I don't know why I said it, it was just there. He laughed and responded with the heartfelt 'Well, if you go first, I'm not going to commit suicide.' It was a stupid thing to say, and it felt sharp as it grazed my ribs. I was instantly five inches tall, and I felt foolish for being so open about my feelings, only to have him minimize them with a thoughtless comment. I tensed, visibly, and then he back-pedalled a little by saying that what he meant was that he would have the wee one to consider and that he would simply have to find a way to carry on, and all I kept thinking to myself as he dithered was 'Am I bleeding?'. What's even more ridiculous to me is that he actually thought I'd expect him to stop living if I did. Of course not! What I had been trying to convey, though not very well I suppose, is that he means so much to me that I can't imagine wanting to carry on if he weren't with me anymore. Is this the thinking of a simpering romantic? Is it unreasonable, fantastical, delusional thinking, or, is it love? The whole thing made me feel weepy and reinforced my unconcious decision to keep my feelings to myself.

The job thing: I think it's causing me to lose my grip. My body is hurting, my insides effervescing constantly, my back aching and my head throbbing and I know there's nothing legitimately the matter. I have options, roads to take that might lead somewhere, but the frustration is backbreaking and it keeps me second-guessing. I am in the headspace of thinking I am useless and that I will never be suitable for anything. I want money, I want a purpose, and I want eight hours of sleep a night.

I feel like I'm on the verge of imploding. Not a bud on a tree limb which will burst into a green, rubbery leaf. Not a kernel of corn which pops into a cloud of crispy white. I see the fat robins in my yard, the ones with the swollen reddish orange bellies and I know how they feel, except theirs is more to do with eggs and springtime worm feeding. My belly is fat with futility and hopelessness. Both weigh nothing, but they bloat me so.

Back to M. He always tells me that I am too distant, too undemonstrative when it comes to expressing love, and at this moment I could hit him, I really could. How does one go about opening themselves up in such a way when the threat of being ridiculed or unheard is more than a possibility? Take your criticisms, dearest, and put them back where you got them. I've no use for them today. He tells me that women like to talk, while men prefer action. I prefer action too, sweet. It's not always so clean a cut.

I have not felt a need to journal as much this past week or so, mostly because my situation rarely changes and I can't imagine how much of a bore it is to people who actually care to read me. I have gotten myself hooked on Twitter-junk, and I lurk in the twitters and tweets of strangers with familiar faces. In the process, I have come upon a blog or two that I have come to appreciate.

http://www.notestoself.us/

http://www.dooce.com/

Maybe you already know them, particularly the second one as she is currently on a book tour for her second book, but I love the humour and art in both of their blogs. I suspect you will too. What I've discerned from reading about their lives is that I don't actually know how to write, which fattens up my belly all over again. At least they make me laugh, though. They also make me think.

Lastly, I've just finished week seven or eight of my computer class and in this time, the old man who sits next to me has not changed his pants once. They are very weathered looking black jeans with a thick, black leather belt. He's so nice, so eager to learn, and all I can think whenever he's talking to me about merging cells or Word Art is 'Man, why don't you change those crusty pants?'.

I'm giving in to the craving. Time to lie flat and quiet and let the world carry on without me for a while.