The Blahs: Mid-Winter Edition January 22, 2008

It happens every year around this time. I should be surprised that I am surprised.

Everything - from the sky to, you know, life - starts to take on a grey pallor.

There is much to be excited about: Eli Manning finding himself at just the right moment, visiting Molly in three weeks, nearly-done Save the Dates, receiving mock-ups of invitations very soon, the realization that it is possible to re-fall in love with your fiance, as insane as that sounds.

But, really, all I want to do each and every day is put on my sweatshirt and the sweatpants M hates so much (splattered with bleach, ripped, unflattering, more comfortable than anything I own) and curl up in bed and drink hot chocolate and not have to talk to anyone.

I don’t know what has gotten into me. Things that were once shiny (even you, blogging) are now dull. Unappetizing. Unattractive (to borrow from Sandra Day O’Connor because, why not).

I blame the bone-chilling cold. The kind that makes me shudder when I even think about leaving the office to get lunch. So, I skip it. Or I forage around in a drawer for some cashews, an orange. Anything to stop the hunger.

Oh yeah. About that.

I’ve taken on “healthy” as my new word of choice when it comes to eating (I know! I’m such a pioneer!). I’m trying hard to eat 1200 calories a day and abide by this rule: “eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants” (credit: In Defense of Food). Some days it seems like an insurmountable number, impossible to attain. Other days, it is a drop in the bucket and I feel I could eat 1200 calories before noon.

I’m working out. I’m drinking water (and peeing. Often. So often that it is getting embarrassing because I work in an open-plan office and, yup, the tall girl with the long hair is going again). I’m doing what “they” say to do so that I don’t, you know, either die or binge my way through life.

It’s working. Kind of. I have headaches, which is annoying, and the bitch that lives in the back of my mind is still hanging out, stilettos on, slim legs and arms crossed, look of disdain, all “you are fucking eating too much. Stop it. Stop it now.” I’m learning to drown her out, mostly with some Kanye or Eminem as I commit to a treadmill for forty minutes or more. I picture the endorphins I get from exercising lobbing spit balls at her and it spurs me on.

Oh. And (raining, pouring, etc.), I recently found out that the Almighty New Job with Old Boss that I was supposed to start in two weeks has been put on hold. Except, um, I already quit my current job.

Sometimes this industry makes me want to throw things. Things like daggers, straight at the chests of a few suits in Los Angeles, whose whims we are at the disposal of.

In a word: blah.

I’ll get over it. But right now, I’d really like the sun to come out and play. I’d really like to have a job in a few weeks. I’d really like to have an epiphany about food and eating and be cured. I’d really like Heath Ledger not to be dead (wtf?). And I’d really like my new shoes to arrive so that I can coordinate a “meet Molly” outfit around them.