silver lining

In the last year or so, I have managed to gain a somewhat substantial amount of weight. This is due in part to a variety of factors, including, but not limited to the following: my own negligence (going to the gym is not something I look forward to by any means), my slowing metabolism, genetics, a work schedule that does not lend itself well to meals prepared by myself and eaten at regular intervals, a penchant for mochas (I've learned to order them with skim milk recently, and honestly, I enjoy them more that way) and a nearby Qdoba and White Castle. I can't help it. I love food. In part, I blame both sides of my extended family. Holidays were just as much about gluttony as they were spending time with each other. Who am I kidding? I loved it, and I still do. Thanksgiving is not Thanksgiving without Grandma Agnes' mashed potatoes and my aunt Cindy's vegetable pizza (as an "appetizer"), and Christmas isn't the same without Grammie's homemade caramels, my aunt Dorothy's brandy slush, and a host of savory dishes. We Gaffaneys and Grundmans really know how to put it away. To this day, I associate feelings of being overly full with family gatherings. It's just... what we do.

Every day I plan to go to the gym. I have my bag of gym attire in my car should I feel a strong urge to swing by there before work, after work, or on the way home from any other plethora of engagement or errand. I have been planning to go since January. My bag is still untouched.

I lie. The bag has not gone untouched. I had arbitrarily thrown some nail polish and a book I had been reading into it, thinking that I'd read whilst on the elliptical machine to trick myself into thinking that time was passing more quickly than it actually was, and after about a week of being unable to locate said book, remembered that it was in the bag. I went out to my car to get it. If I had time to read, I had time to go to the gym...

The best laid schemes of mice and men go oft awry. (Thanks, John Steinbeck, you really hit the nail on the head with that statement.)

There is, however, a bright side to this.

My hair is the best it has ever looked. In my life. No, seriously. It is. The color could use some work (this is also due to my own negligence), but the cut is superb. My stylist, a young woman who I happen to have known since elementary school, has set up shop with her mom in my tiny hometown. K has managed to cut my hair in such a way that I am able to style it up, down, straight, curly, sophisticated, artsy, and everything in between. So, you see, there is a silver lining to every sad story.


Now, be a friend and click on the ad(s) on my blog, so I can continue to afford going to see K, and thereby continue having several great hair days per week. Unprecedented, to say the least.