The anticlimactic visit back home
I’ve been feeling pretty lousy as of late. My weight is driving me insane. I finally bucked up and invested in a personal trainer — he’s amazing. Amazingly hot that is — and working out with him is always a pick-me up, though I’m terrified that one day I’m just going to fart when he makes me do all these leg lifts and squats and presses — that would be absolutely mortifying.
But the days in between eek by achingly. And so I eat away my misery. The weekends are the worst — it’s when all the temptations come together and beckon — I tend to give in to a terrible case of the “fuck-its”, eat the universe and hate myself come Monday morning.
I was really good this weekend and super proud of myself. But still feeling lousy about my trudging career prospects in the fuck hole called Silicon Valley. No place for a screenwriter — no place for a romantic dreamer — and absolutely no place for the aching soul. I was supposed to go to a wedding in Ann Arbor and I decided what the hell, I’m just going to take the VIA Rail back to Toronto. The euphoria of returning home hit me in waves of elation and I started eating, and cooking, and relishing and eating.
I called my best friend to tell her I was coming. She was excited but explained that her condo was just being renovated so she was going to be busy. I texted another friend who had been calling me almost every day this summer as she was going through a rough break-up and I told her I really wanted a study buddy as I need to finish this book proposal that has been looming over my head. She was happy I would be coming but explained her classes are starting up and her new apartment is in no shape to entertain. My other friend just got a new job — her high powered corporate career is finally getting the steam it deserves but this means she will be snowed in with work as well. My youngest brother who I love to bits and pieces is going back to college and my middle brother is just starting his new job this September. So I won’t be seeing much of them either. Then I weighed myself and I’m right back up to 147lbs. FML. My aunt who is the most negative person on the planet called me a beached whale last time I saw her. I’m not looking forward to her shitty side commentary.
All in all, the joy of going back home is fading quickly. But it isn’t as though my life here is scintillating either. The idea of a vacation doesn’t interest me even mildly because it’s a temporary escape with an eventual return, not to mention the cobwebs forming in my hollow savings account. I’m supposed to be drafting out that fucking book proposal to send it to my agent before fall. If I can churn this out then perhaps I can feel this entire summer served some purpose. But the sense of dejection weighs heavy and I drag myself along while time whips by as my spirit grows wearier by the day. I really want to give in and just eat an entire pizza pie and forget my woes while watching the new season of The Great British Bake Off…or maybe I’ll bake some banana bread and sit down to consume all of Anne of Green Gables so I can feel excited about returning to Canada (not at all amused by Netflix doing a remake). But I’ve got to stop thinking food will hug me back. It’s a long lonely road and I’m not seeing the bend up ahead, although I keep hoping it’ll be there when I least expect it. At least there’s still blind hope for a change somewhere along the horizon.
3 hours later
I baked a banana fig loaf. It’s warmth and aroma is filling up the entire house. I’m in slightly better moods, just having had the cathartic experience of pottering about in my kitchen — while streaming The Great British Bake Off.