Rugs

So I’ve eaten well (translation: healthy) for more than a week, I did my first pre-work workout since before Christmas (I was sick all last week), and I’m wearing ridiculously high (and quite fabulous, if I do say so myself) heels, one of my New Year’s resolutions being to wear more of my shoes more often (I like to keep my resolutions lofty, ahem). And I have no plans tonight in preparation for another New Year’s resolution (work on non-job-related, non-blog writing project on Monday nights). I’m feeling pretty good.

I struggle with these blog posts – thinking I ought not post unless I have something coherent to say. But some days (and weeks, really) I just don’t have that – only a bunch of small thoughts I want to record. So:

It’s a little scary how fast the fitness can begin to fade. At Power Plate this morning, I could feel and see real differences in my strength after three weeks off (Christmas, New Year, then sick), and I struggled a bit with my usual run to the studio and back (maybe still recovering from being sick). But I’m back, and that’s the important thing.

I’ve spent much of the week being incredibly grateful that Los Angeles didn’t work out. Britney would be my life (as opposed to the small but manageable bit of the story I’ve got to handle from here) and all those awards shows I was going to attend/cover? Um, not so much.

Friday I went out with Captain Australia. He’s entirely too pleased with his own rear view (seriously – and no, I haven’t checked it out myself, probably out of defiance), he’s cheap, and his laugh annoys the crap out of me (the death knell – and you know how much I hate cheap). I felt guilty that he’d schlepped into London to see a film and then I pretty much turned into a pumpkin the minute the lights went up (I’d warned him earlier in the week that I was still getting over being sick and asked if he wanted to reschedule), but how was I supposed to know the Assassination of Jesse James was three freakin’ hours?

Saturday I went out with Bachelor No. 2. I could see the scarring from the Fig – panic and fury set in about 7 p.m. when I hadn’t heard from him, but it turns out we’d gotten our signals crossed about times and who was calling whom and when. “You know, we should have just set a time,” BN2 said easily, as we walked to dinner. I sometimes feel ridiculously young around BN2 – it’s not so much that he’s five years older than me but rather the 10-year marriage and, of course, the child – but just as often I have to appreciate that he is, erm, an adult.

We had a “perfect” evening (his words, via text, not mine – but yes, it was rather excellent), but now I don’t know when I’m going to see him again, which sets off my control freakery. (Note to self: You cannot know what is going to happen.) I think I could handle this better had we not had the conversation about how he might want to run around with his best friend, shagging pretty airheads (of which he thought, when he met me, that I was one -- which sort of amuses me, actually). I don’t like the feeling that the rug could be pulled out from under me at any moment.

And yes, there is the makings of a rug there -- not necessarily silk and intricately woven, but at least a small frayed hand towel hiding the holes in the floor underneath. BN2 made a handful of comments Saturday about things we should do in the future, both ways we should handle certain situations and places we should go. If I were being a cynic here’s where I’d point out that on the very last night I ever saw him, the Fig talked about how we should rent a car and go out to his father’s place in the country. But BN2 is not the Fig.