Guys, I'm happy to report that I've actually made some good choices over the last couple of weeks. And shockingly for me, it wasn't the result of buying a new book, ditching everything in my refrigerator, or starting a cleanse. I made a little tiny baby step, and the domino affect has been pretty exciting.
I'll begin by explaining that I've been having a slew of first world problems that have really been bogging me down lately. First, I got the two worst haircuts of all time. TWO. Back to back. My mom, who has always cut my hair, briefly lost her mind (love you, Mom) and chopped an entire foot off my hair and gave me the equivalent of the infamous (and terrible) Rachel haircut from 1994. It's one of those haircuts that people can't even TRY to make you feel better about. Even my mom. All she could say was: Oh my God. I don't know what happened. I'm so sorry. YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED?? You don't. know. what. happened? Were you briefly kidnapped by aliens?? Do we need to do an exorcism of Emily Rose?? What do you mean you don't know what happened? How about that whole time when I was saying: Um, Mom. Mom. You're cutting a lot. Mom. I don't really want a ton of layers in the front like that. Mom. MOM, I don't want bangs! And you kept telling me to pipe down and that you were 'blending?' What about then?? No? Can't recall? Sweet.
This took place an hour before my flight back to Philly, where I quietly and completely ridiculously, sniffled back the streaming tears of a person who rationally knows that this not the worst thing that could befall a person, but just can't help it. Upon my return, instead of struggling with an awful 'do for months while waiting for it to grow out, I decided to try and get it fixed. Someone could do SOMETHING right?? Nope. I left the shop with a shorter, more shrunken version of the same exact haircut. Basically, I'm the man at the end of Beetlejuice with a shrunken head. I'm shrunken-head haircut woman. So now, I can barely put my hair up in a ponytail to hide its hideous-ness, and I hate the world. (Not you mom, except for maybe a little bit the first few minutes in the morning when I look in the mirror.)
Then. THEN. I leave the salon to go pick up my scooter which has been in the shop for 4 months. My beloved scooter, which is my only freedom from SEPTA in this world, trapped in a garage for the entire riding season. I think: Okay, I may look my absolute worst in the head area for a while, but at least I can finally take my scooter home. Hoorah! Except that a few short blocks into my glorious and much awaited ride, it DIES on me at Second and Girard. Trolley tracks everywhere. Cars honking. My layers flying in the wind and in my face. And me. With my dead scooter and horrible haircut sitting like a half-plucked duck in the middle of traffic for all to see and hate!
Does it end there? Oh no, my friends. I finally get home after this horrible ordeal in 35 degree weather, to plop down on the couch and have my favorite pants rip. That's right. Rip. Right along the seam in the back of the thigh. Why? Because I've been eating pizza and chips and hoagies and extra cheese, and not going to Lithe. And my pants, which have been hanging on for dear life throughout all this abuse, finally just told me to go F myself.
So I sat there, and had a good cry and basically re-enacted the scene in Overboard where Goldie Hawn freaks out and turns into a zombie and just keeps muttering buh buh buh buh buh over and over again. Once I got it together enough to call my husband, I did. He talked me off my ridiculous cliff, as he is so expertly does probably a little too often.
After this ordeal, I was done feeling sorry for myself and decided to stop being a total mess in life – haircut notwithstanding. So, I went to the grocery store...without a plan. I didn't sit and toil over food blogs and recipe websites trying to plan a menu, as I'm wont to do, for hours. I didn't walk around agonizing over what to buy and not to buy. I bought a few fresh veggies. Some fresh fish. And called it a day. I went home, threw something together and sat by myself and had a home-cooked, healthy meal.
And it changed everything.
I took the leftovers to work for a clean lunch. And felt lighter and happier throughout the work day. I filled up my water bottle four times that day in an effort to increase my water intake and get some much-needed hydration. On the way home, I stopped by the Reading Terminal, and picked up a few more things to make another healthy meal. Over a week later, and I'm still on a roll. Turning down cookies and folding laundry and just feeling more in control.
My quick and delicious salmon meal (recipe next week) made me realize that when I'm in a rut, I don't have to get drastic to start seeing real change, real quick. My whole entire week doesn't have to be a wash if I can't plan a week's worth of meals and shop and prepare for them on Sunday. I don't have to be so hard on myself to do it all, all at once. One meal. One fresh, home-cooked meal. That's it. And during this upcoming time of parties and excess, it's something I'll be reminding myself of over and over again. I don't have to wait until January 1st to feel better about my choices – even though it'll probably be at least that long before I feel better about my hair. I can always just cook myself one good meal. It can be that simple.
See you in class!