My clothes are getting tight again. I’m a comfort eater. Always have been. It was never a problem until my twenties when I ended up less active due to my lifestyle: desk-bound and lazy. Since then it comes in cycles. Eating until I feel bad enough about myself to do something to address it. Hitting the gym hard to sort it out. Rinse and repeat. Just another example of patterns of poor behaviour. I’ve been in the face-stuffing part of the cycle for a month or more, and now it’s manifesting physically, and I’m uncomfortable and avoid mirrors. Disgusting.
Standing in the rain last night, I waited for her to call back . At the time it made me smile, how romantic it felt. Of course, it’s only romantic if the guy gets the girl. Otherwise it’s just a gurning moron getting soaked in the rain.
The call did not come. I feel fairly moronic this morning.
Five months, what is that? A footnote in a life. Yet five months with her has given me a glimpse of what the rest of my life could be. Should be. Now I must put that aside, act like it never happened. Shove it down, way down, and ignore it. Easy peasy. I’ve been suppressing my needs and desires my entire life. I’ll just add her to the rest.
I can at least appreciate being hoist by my own petard, the words in these pages being our eventual undoing. And there’s a certain symmetry that it ended where it started.
Truthfully I know there’s much more to it than that, that the adage of setting someone free if you love them was never more apposite than it is in our circumstances. Today though, I just want to curl up and block out the world. And of course, eat.