Violet Mistress

I have decided thigh chafing feels better than dating.

After another disappointing week in the world of love it is crystal clear to me that men are like horses - okay to take out for a ride every now and then but nowhere near mannerly enough to have dinner with every night. Plus...there's that whole Godfather scene with the horse's head in the bed that is just far too symbolic to even talk about.

I don't understand why every time I meet someone who at first sniff appears to be cute, articulate and funny they very quickly morph into an arrogant piss head with a live-in girlfriend and a propensity for ending sentences in prepositions. Want to really weed out the losers? Ask for a home address on the first date and have them write a simple paragraph explaining the difference between that and which.

Sigh.

And the thing is, I always walk away from these encounters somehow feeling like I'M the weirdo. I drink wine, I like to read, I don't wrestle naked with my girlfriends in pools of mud, and I do not scratch my crotch...in public. And somehow, this makes me a freak. The truly unfortunate thing is that yet another chance for copious amounts of sex just walked right out of my life. I'm ashamed to admit that's the worst part at this stage. And he was funny. Tall, attractive and funny. And even though the writing was atrocious, the dirty little emails were very effective. I should lower my standards. That's the key here. I'm just so friggin' disappointed.

Another three miles and my hips are still feeling okay. I have an MRI monday and hopefully it will help my doc figure out what's going on with my joints and back. I was really trying to channel my long run today but I decided to resist until the result of the MRI is back.

Another Saturday night alone with a bottle of red. I'm very quickly turning into the crazy cat lady who screams at neighbourhood children and throws things at the mailman. A wedding party stopped in front of my three story victorian this afternoon...evidently my home is suitably quaint to have permanently etched in one's wedding album. I found myself on the second floor hiding behind the curtains whispering out the window..."donnnnnn't dooooooo it.......donnnn'ttttt dooooo ittttttttt". They couldn't hear me above all of the photographic raucous and saccharine happiness. Ten bucks says my house is still standing many years after the marriage is dead and gone.

Sigh...

Kisses
V.

I drank a bottle of red wine, ran three miles, ate take-away curry and listened to the rain on my roof. There's been no gardening in weeks. The rain keeps coming...though the tulips and lilac trees seem to appreciate it.The wine was a huge mistake - my head may explode any minute.

So now I drown my sorrows in green tea and a decent hockey game. Today was a kinda sad day and the weather seems to want to mimic my mood. But I ran - in spite of an ultrasound on my feet and hips that said I probably should take it easy.

That's all I got.

V.

I happen to believe...

that it it is not normal for one's thighs to rub together with such force while running that third degree burns emerge from out of nowhere....causing blisters and bloodiness and instantly alerting your loins that your girlie parts and inner legs are in fact, still on fire.

Sigh...turns out this phenomenon is quite acceptable in the running world. In fact, normal it so is, that 'they' make a full range of products (most of them made out of various recipes of animal lard) to combat the evil skin chafing. Whew, I thought it was happening just because I got fat. Thighs are supposed to overlap each other no? Not like chins? Hmm.

Regardless. I have found the most amazing product and I plan to purchase it immediately. It is known as a running thigh shield. To shield the thighs...presumably from themselves. And I think it's brilliant. Kinda like a jock strap for runners. And tell me, what makes a gal feel more like a supper running hero than a product that resembles a jock? Which by the way is the universal symbol for hard core athlete.

So say I, let the chafing begin!

V

I confess I used to blog. A lot.

Of course I also used to bake, make chocolates, sew, do yoga, run, play video games, smoke, drink, and write. I used to do a lot of things. Some healthy, some not so much. I am a habitual hobbyist...a disordered and distracted personality. I switch vices like a hooker on commission.

Recently however, I have discovered several of these vices tend drift back into my world more readily and consistently than others. I run, I write and I love to play in my quaint little inner-city garden. I'm not particularly gifted at any of these activities. But they keep me sane mostly.

I'm not a naturally happy person. I'm mostly disenchanted with the world and few things bring me joy. I have been known from time-to-time to laugh at people when they fall down and to eat small children for breakfast. I am a suffering miserablist.

I stopped running a while ago. Life got busy and I gained thirty pounds. I had never gained weight before. I didn't recognize my body and genuinely believed I was being chased, on a regular basis, by someone else's ass. Seriously, I would often see it creeping up behind me out of my periphery and I would  jump as if being stalked by a shapeless beach ball. We won't even discuss the boobs - though  I will say if you're looking for them they can be found hiding in my arm pits.

So it's back to running. And geepers, I had forgotten how hard those first few weeks and initial steps are. Running freaking sucks donkey balls. At least in the beginning.

I know in time I will get my groove back and find my dull and sort of happy running place - that place where the sweaty skin feels like a thousand faeries had a giant orgasm all over you, that place where the lungs feel big and full and healthy, that place where the posture is straight and there's a natural bounce in the feet and legs.

When I stopped running two years ago I had injured my right hip. A stress fracture and a royally messed up IT band combined with lower back stiffness and weak core muscles put me out of commission for a long time. Physiotherapy and yoga helped. But a crap load of negative self talk and a plummeting self image took hold. I stopped running, I stopped reading and writing. I stopped playing in the garden. And then I met Himself. Himself and I descended quickly into a very explosive routine. Adventure, heat, extreme cold, and lots of bad food and wine led to the weight gain and sedentary sadness. Unhealthiness abound.

Turns out, extracting oneself from a toxic relationship shares a lot in common with extracting oneself from sloth.

Recently I've been writing again, and reading. Both have helped me clear my mind - and instead of deeply threatening sadness and shame I have found my familiar state of melancholy and cynicism. That's MY happy place.

Spring is here, and I'm back in my quaint inner-city garden. I like to grow things. I'm not always good at it. But I enjoy the process. It's kind of like running - it's a slow sometimes unpredictable grind that takes some attention and perspective. It is undeniable, even as a miserablist, that both have a tremendous impact on my mental health. And soon, once a few other things are back to normal, It's back to yoga and core training. But I'm going slow. I figure if my roses can take all spring, summer and fall to bloom...so can I.

And...I'm going to write about it. All of it. And not in any particular order. Chances are I'll never be skinny again and I will never be an award winning gardener. But I miss feeling healthy and putting my hands in the dirt - metaphorically and literally. I want a thousand faeries to spray sweat all over my flabby body and I want roses by October. I don't think I'm expecting too much.

V