Spring Break Down South? (Richmond, VA)

Next week is the start of my week-long Spring break, which I feel I am approaching in the same manner in which a parched man, marooned in the desert, would inch towards an oasis -- tongue hanging out, arms clawing forward, eyes dry, yet full of hope, mind bent on only one thing: salvation. The same way a woman, alone on a desert isle, would frantically signal a ship that she was there (can't you see her arms wildly waving?) --Come get me!!!! -- needing to escape her environs, to change her diet, to rest her bleary eyes on a different horizon, to converse with others -- not about sand and palm trees and bloated and beached marine life, not about the bleached out, frayed "fashion" she currently sports, not about the same-old same-old that the blazing sun and punishing waves have brought her (seaweed, mostly, but perhaps an occasional treasure, as well?), not even about her ability to survive in the harsh environment -- which has made her proud of her creativity and strength, yet leaves her feeling dried out and depleted. That's exactly how I feel. Well, more or less.

I'd been playing with the idea of heading north, but because the main reason for doing so would be to see my son and because he would rather study for a huge exam (go ahead, R! Don't feel guilty, you big little heartbreaker, you!) than see his mother (and rightly so, except that I'm hugely disappointed), I don't have the energy to plan an escape. Even though I could still see my brother and his family and my sister-in-law and her family and love them to death and really want to see them, somehow I don't think I can will my way forward.

So, if I stay here, down here in the Capitol of the Confederacy, will I sit and stew? Will I catch up with life outside of work? Dance more? Sleep more? Meet up with friends? Make my reservations for Mexico? Or take to the road (or to the skies) on the spur of the moment?

Stay tuned....

What Happens When I Don't Make the Cut (Richmond, VA)

Do not -- I repeat -- DO NOT ever leave me alone in my kitchen. If I am happy, angry, anxious, sad, bored, or even just slightly awake, I will eat anything and everything I find.

In no particular order and without feeling the least bit hungry, I have just consumed the following: a few rings of dried apple, a handful of cashews, almonds, walnuts and pumpkin seeds, several purple cabbage leaves and more salad dressing than they deserved, half a cup of defrosted blueberries, two cups of green tea, half a canister of whipped cream, too many purple corn chips, and an impressive chunk of Morbier (that lovely cheese with a great ash). I think I've probably also wolfed down some other stuff that I've already forgotten but which my hips and thighs will recall for months to come. This is not a recipe for success in my race to becoming the best possible me.

Had I only been able to convince my stylist to return to her salon and cut my hair, I would've taken a shower and a nap instead of cleaning out the pantry, fridge, and cabinets and filling up my cheeks as if I were a starving squirrel. I am in desperate need of a trim, but was unable to stop by the shop until I, serendipitously or un-, exited a meeting on time and close by. Alas, Donna is training to become a personal trainer, and because business was slow today, she decided to go home to study -- which sent me home to nosh.

Perhaps I can talk her into personally training me in order to help her practice and pass her exams. She'll cut off an inch or two of my locks on Saturday at nine a.m. and maybe knock off an inch from my abdomen, butt, and/or chins over the next month or two.

I might have to resort to agreeing to get my hair cut more -- and more often. Not a bad idea. If I can't win my fitness challenge by losing 20 pounds of ugly fat, maybe hair loss will give me the edge. Sure, I might end up looking (as I do when the cut is too short) like a baby dinosaur emerging from its shell, but I might emerge stronger.