I woke up this morning at 8am. Tall Person had just left for work and I was on my own. Having cleared my blearly eyes, I was able to get up and get motivated, I had a lot of things to do and not a lot of things motivating me. That was when I realised it, if this was going to happen, then reluctantly, yes, I really did need rules.
I looked down at myself and thought about the weight loss goals I want to achieve. There is the vacation in less than 3 weeks and dang it, I so didn’t have my holiday body. There was no way now, beached whale it is.
I walked over to my dresser and picked out some clothes for today. I caught my reflection in the mirror and whibbled my wobble.
Damn you, wobble! Always so whibbly! Why do you whibble so much when I wobble you?!
I looked at the cellulite, the orange-peel skin, the acne and the dry hair. I needed to look after me more, way more, but I’m a housewife. What good is looking good if I don’t go anywhere?
I made a mental checklist of all of the things that lead to the whibble. Grief, maybe, probably a contributing factor right now. Stress, stress of PIP, stress of running a home, stress of dealing with an over-friendly, user of a nuisance neighbour. Yep.. stress. What else? Boredom? Not really. Loneliness? Maybe. Factor in some serious on-the-go eating., and no wonder I was whibbly.
Diets and regimes and plans sounds so great and sparkly, they do, but they don’t factor in the complexities of the human existence. I watched Dragon’s Den last night and an entrepreneur had developed some £5 per month app to help you lose weight using calorie intake and some formulation, and that’s great! But the truth is, when we’re stressed, exhausted and hungry, calorie counting and sugar intakes go out of the window, I’ve already had to throw away my Weetabix then tuck into a slice of fruity bara brith when I got home this morning because I didn’t get time for breakfast before my mother turned up twenty minutes ahead of schedule, which consequentially sent an otherwise calm Hugo absolutely batshit crazy. Believe me, I know all about stress!
The truth is, and I don’t care for how much you’ll nag me because I am my own worst enemy, I put myself last on the list. If the lounge needs cleaning, I clean it, if someone needs helping, I help them, if the dog needs feeding, I feed him. Time spend relaxing with my feet in a warm, lavender scented bowl of water is time I could be making my husband’s lunch. Time spent massaging in a deep conditioning hair masque is time I could be ironing his shirts. Yes, my husband could iron his own shirts, but he works 45 hours per week to earn the bulk of our income – he shouldn’t need to work when he comes home, too.
Even still, all of this would change with rules. If I knew he wanted me to exercise more, I would exercise more. If I knew he wanted me to be organised, I would be. If I knew he wanted me to have a nightly pamper hour, I would. The reason I don’t isn’t because I don’t think I deserve it, it simply comes down to me being selfless. I do deserve to relax, but do you realise how hard my husband works? He deserves a cooked dinner and a cup of tea when he comes home!
We are reviewing a lot of things. We are reviewing checklists and rules and dynamics and, it seems, pretty much everything right now. After my Dad’s death, things fell apart completely. Maybe now it’s time to pick it all up, dust it all off and see what we can do with all of the broken pieces.