It is Friday night. Spent it at home, as usual. Reading.
There was a bit more excitement today than usual, since self kept at least one of her appointments (for acupuncture) and felt the delicious pain of needles in the webbed skin between her fingers. She keeps telling the acupuncturist that she has insomnia, but the acupuncturist looks increasingly skeptical. And self can’t bring herself to say outright that shortly after the treatment begins, she just wants to maybe pass out from sheer relaxation. Starts snoring. Almost rolls over, even with needles sticking out of her shoulders and hands.
After that, it was — oh woe is me! Does she or does she not stick to her Beginning Yoga class?
Last week was fine, but the people taking the class were definitely not beginners. The instructor came over to talk to self, and self told her, “I don’t even know what legs are. Seriously.” The instructor asked self if she had ever taken yoga before, and self said, “Yes. When my son was about five. And I haven’t had any regular exercise since then. Unless you count gardening.” The instructor was very encouraging, but self kept protesting that she was really, really hopeless — “What? Me? Don’t be fooled by externals. I’m a wilting flower.” Just the thought of taking another class was giving her hives, practically. So she walked into the yoga place and told the woman there that she’d do a make-up class on Saturday. And the woman handed self a schedule of classes, and the woman said she’d recommend the Vinyasa Flow class. Hmmm, self thought. Vinyasa Flow sounds infinitely better than Beginning Yoga. She told the woman yes, she’d try Vinyasa Flow. And as soon as The Man came home and self was assured she had a listener (albeit unwilling), she tried saying Vinyasa Flow. And kept repeating it, all through the evening. Vinyasa Flow. Vinyasa Flow. And was so satisfied with her pronunciation and everything. Felt like an expert. Vinyasa Flow.
Then she unfortunately stumbled into Crouching Tiger to order take-out, and even though there was no one else there, they told her it would be 20 minutes before her order was ready. And Pickled, the women’s clothing boutique, is right next to Crouching Tiger.
Self picked out a couple of things from the Sale racks. Another customer was getting extreme attention. Self glanced at her. Blonde. Jeans. Nothing great. Cool.
Self tried on tops. Hoooly Cow! Looks like it wasn’t such a good idea to flake out on Yoga Class! The muffin belly was clearly in evidence. Honestly, it’s been almost six months since self entered a fitting room, six months, it turns out, of complete and total denial.
But — too late now! Armed with a feeling of rebellion, self emerged and told the woman what she would really love to try on were jeans. Quick as a wink, the woman returned with two pairs of skinny jeans.
Skinny jeans? How could anyone look at self and think she would look good in skinny jeans?
Besides, isn’t self a tad old to be wearing skinny jeans?
Nevertheless, self was bold. She tried on the first pair. Ooooh, these jeans were stretchy. Looked at herself in the mirror. For some reason, she looked less fat. Or was that just a result of her writerly imagination, always ready to put a positive spin on the narrative script? This is why self should stick to speculative fiction.
Anyhoo, the skinny jeans were soooo slimming. She felt — no, actually looked like Rod Stewart in his heyday. Or mebbe like Jagger. This was the era of the late 70s. Maybe early 80s.
Wearing skinny jeans almost made self feel like prancing. Actually, prancing.
It is really, really hard to be serious when one is wearing skinny jeans. Self, straight to disco! Karaoke bar, hello!
And maybe that’s what self really needs: something to take her away from the Pain! Pain as in — after endlessly reading and re-reading The Hunger Games books (instead of plowing ahead with Divergent, which she first cracked open two weeks ago), self has decided that the best is still the first. It’s the best because Peeta is so wonderful. In Catching Fire, the second book, the Peeta of Book 1 is replaced by an infinitely less interesting Passive Aggressive Peeta. And Katniss is so Not-Herself. She’s not making any hard decisions, or even any decisions, just dithering around, feeling mostly empty and unfulfilled.
It needed a kidnapping by the Capitol to make possible yet another Peeta Transformation. This 3rd Peeta is an improvement over the second Peeta, but still in no way close to the First Peeta, the one who got stuck with Katniss in a cave, and instead of dying became — ascendant! Like the Phoenix! If only he’d stayed that way instead of becoming the Wounded Bird of book 2!
Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.