Sunday, September 3, 2000

 

11:06 p.m. I'm sure I'm not unique when I say that most days I'd really rather stay home, sit on my own front stoop, and watch the world go buy. Often, the world, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, comes right up to my own front door anyway.

But some days I have to stop what I'm doing and drag myself into the shower and dry my hair with the hot blower and curl it with the incredibly scalding hot rollers and find nice clothing to wear and make sure said clothing is clean and presentable and most important, that it makes me look as thin as possible.

Then we have to drive for a stretch with the windows closed so my hair doesn't blow all over the place, into the parts of the city where parking is nearly always iffy. Of course, I'm cradling our little gift in my lap the whole time, sitting carefully so that it doesn't break or spill or fly apart or get crushed.

We usually don't talk all that much on the way to the party or the opening or the fiesta or the cookout, mostly because we're both busy cauterizing the wounds left from too rapidly pulling away from the computer, the fax machine, the multiple phone lines, and the modems.

Often, there are maps to consult and last-minute calls to make and gas to be gotten before we finally get there, usually late.

Today was one of those days. I particularly didn't want to leave the machine today because I had screwed up my courage this morning and I'd tried and succeeded at my first actions in Photoshop. If you use the program, you know what I mean, and you can probably remember the thrill the first time you pressed a designated function key and the darn thing worked.

I could have stayed happily transfixed and productive all day today, but we had to be out of the house around 3:30, so. And of course I had a good time once I got there and of course we were in no hurry to leave once we got settled in and now I have fond memories of talking to real people instead of having nothing but two aching wrists from working with unreal dimensions and invisible files all day.

I used to notice that the more I didn't want to go to something, the better time I ended up having. I've also noticed the reverse -- when I'm really looking forward to something, when I think it's going to be soooo much fun -- it's not.

I've also trained myself to worry as much as I have to about what I'm going to wear up to and until we lock the door closed behind us. Then, I take a deep breath and I stop looking down at myself and I start to look outward. I never look down again, until I'm home and peeling off the layers and the jewelry.

Which reminds me. The party today was at the same place as the party I went to on the 4th of July. I found myself in the same bathroom, staring at the same despicable scale that I was staring at nearly two months ago.

The shock of that moment is what started me on this diet, of which today is day 60. There was a proper feast downstairs on the big groaning table and there was pasta and barbecue and brownies and blintzes and even homemade creme brule. I had a little bit. Just a very little bit. I've learned my lesson.

And I didn't get on the scale to see how well I've done, either. I can fit into my clothing better, and that's all that matters. Numbers aren't that important to me. Besides, once I'm in party clothing, I never look down.