Due to a combination of severe technical and emotional issues, I have reverted to blogging here at Dirty, Naked and Happy. WELL it’s not a true midlife crisis without some completely contradictory and fickle behaviour IS IT?
Tried to go high heels and realised I’m better off in my old trackies, eh?
Let’s all pretend the “new me” moment didn’t happen.
In fact, let’s be honest, whilst pondering on all this nonsense I took a proper look at my blog stats. The reality is that most of you bastards who I *think* I’m talking to when I write aren’t actually reading any of this crap anyway.
That’s quite liberating. I don’t know why I waste so much time justifying myself.
Stealing a paragraph from the new blog, now deceased, (confusing I know):
If there was an appropriate metaphor, it would be fat ol’ me, sweating in a too small too hot changing room, trying to get my hulking carcass out of a too small too hot dress, whimpering quietly at the strain, the zip lacerating my trembling back fat. Crying as I near the point of desperation where I have to ask the stick insect shop assistant to help me, her “professional” face as she baulks at my unshaven armpits, ill-fitting mum pants with rogue pubes trying to escape the sides and my voluminous milky pale marshmallow belly… oh my god.
The blog is not the issue, the me is the issue. I’m trying to huff and hump and haul my fat ass out of me:
I *am* actually having a mid-life crisis.
Whilst being a bit fey and drama and blogging that I’m having a mid-life crisis, but only in an ironic comedy way, I *am* actually having a mid-life crisis.
Also, I have been cheating.
Not on my husband, on my eating. Several weeks of severe abdominal pain and many, many, many hours on the toilet later, I am realising that I cannot keep ignoring that bread (wheat) not only means shitting my pants but shitty thinking.
As with newborn babies, you can look longingly at the soft doughy-ness of it all but you must never, never, never bite it.
So yes, I have been massively overthinking. Bouts of self doubt, criticism, loathing. Embarrassing attempts at new blogs that were just a little too near the mark…
I don’t know if it’s medically provable but as the IBS flares up, the mood definitely plummets down for me.
The “Happy” is not untrue but we’re all fallible…
Brought home by daughter’s repeated watching of The Dumping Ground on cBBC – I think she was getting prepared for moving to a children’s home, I was so absent on the loo – I have made a renewed promise to reduce my bread interactions to sniffing and fondling, à la the amazing Breadface Woman.
I am now back to wheat-free and the fog is clearing…
Got feeling a bit meh, lost, wistful, ate bad bread, went proper mad, slowly realised.
Probably going to do it again several times.
Will try to write less introspective funny stuff in between the mad moments.
…I suppose living all of this freakiness out loud and proud on my blog is the whole point of what I was intending to do anyway… wasn’t it?