Saturday, September 26, 2009

The catalyst of the couch

T-minus four days until I move and I'm nursing my anxieties with yogurt-covered almonds, at 220 calories and 15 grams of fat per nine pieces. I've eaten about half the container for breakfast this morning.

We all have our ways of convincing ourselves we're not really getting chubby. I've known of women who claim that since their breasts are large, they're really 10 pounds lighter. When I see my expanding waistline, I think to myself, "Goodness, I'm bloated." What other explanation can there be with all the chocolate I've been eating?

I'm thinking that all this moving is really bad for my health. I can't imagine why I continue to do this to myself. It's a really patient method of masochism. Every year I must cause myself some mental pain, uproot, readjust and try again. My dad constantly moved around. As a kid when I'd go to visit him, every year or two he'd be somewhere else. In contrast, I lived in the same house from practically birth to 16 years old. In this respect, I suppose I'm just as much a vagabond as my father. With my mother's taste in furniture.

The Dude is painting right now. He's insisted I go to a friend's party tonight as I'm too tightly wound to help. He might be right. I had a small panic attack coming home from Sears after being shut down by the Sears guy. All I wanted was a couch that could fit up a narrow stairway. In a neutral colour. Maybe something that could be taken apart. All he'd do was shake his head no at me.

And walking home, my world suddenly consisted only of this absence of a suitable couch and I got home, laid down on my stomach and laughed and cried. If this were a scene in an indie movie, the audience would know it's not just about the couch, but a symptom of a larger psychological working of the mind and the couch and unhelpful Sears man were only the catalyst for this maniacal laughter and tears, which had been held in over other matters, which had been repressed over an indeterminable amount of time.

But it's not an indie movie and the Dude had no idea what to do with me. So he made me spaghetti, put on some Entourage and worked out some kinks in my shoulders. When I was sensible he more or less banned me from painting today.

I could use the break from worrying. And my friend always has cupcakes at his parties.


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