You deserve to be warned: I’m going to do some pathetic whining, so look away while you still can.

I’m realizing I’m in a depression. My symptoms? Anger beyond all reasonable bounds.

Anger and loneliness.

This is legitimate. In the last three years, I’ve lost my cat, my husband, my mother, and my dog. My son came home from college for a very long, very enjoyable Covidcation and is now gone back, happy and safe in the largely-Covid-free land of Vermont. People are locked up to stay safe and keep others safe, and I take that self-isolation seriously.

And my futhermucking cholesterol was 270 back in August. This makes me SO ANGRY. I’ve been working out so diligently for months now. It’s not FAIIIIIRRRRR.

But I’ve also been eating a lot of ice cream. So okay, it’s faiiiiirrrr.

So in August, I gave up ice cream. I gave up all sugar, actually. Well, except in the form of the occasional piece of pita bread, or some Stone Wheat crackers when I have tuna fish. I went back to diligently drinking 100 ounces of water a day. I’m living on salads with chicken, tuna, or salmon. I’m eating OATMEAL, which is quite a sacrifice for me. The result?


I dropped four pounds almost immediately and then have stayed the same. Unmoving. For six long weeks at the heartlessly depressing number of 238 pounds. I know I’m not supposed to weigh myself, but I needed some feedback. And the feedback that I’m getting is – why bother?

I can’t get the doctor to give me another cholesterol test for four more months, so NO feedback from the bloodwork, positive or negative. But my weight hasn’t changed, my clothes feel no different, and I’m grumpy as hell.

Today a woman I know posted, secretly and modestly in a work-out group I’m in, that she gave up sugar and all other toxins eight weeks ago and has already lost 20 pounds as a result. I’m SO HAPPY for her. And SO ANGRY for me.

More importantly, I’m entering new worlds in publishing my romantic comedy (now two rom-coms, with a third in the works to make up the trilogy). I’m like a fearful explorer in an untamed world, attempting to make the best decisions I can. And when I make a decision—when I approach a milestone—when something happens…

…then I whirl around in my desk chair, excited to share or bitch or hope or worry…

…and the last remaining cat is blinking at me.

Where is everyone?? Why am I all alone?

I hate meals the most. I feel my solitude the most at dinner. Where am I getting dinner tonight? What shall I have? I don’t know—what do I feel like? I’m not sure—what do I feel like? And whatever it is, it’s going to be a salad with chicken or salmon or tuna, curbside pick-up with a mask on. And no dessert, definitely. So don’t get too excited.

And there aren’t enough pillows in the bed to make up for the lack of the rom-com I’m supposed to be living.

Tomorrow I’m going to (A) apologize to the amazing Barbara for blaming her for an exercise, as detailed in the last blog post and about which I nursed unreasoning anger for far too long and (B) have a Zoom session with Regina, the amazing BDI counselor. She will give me tools and wisdom and perspective and advice… and I will be damned glad of it.

Because feeling this weak? It doesn’t feel right.

NOT Okay!!


Yesterday I wrote about a torturous exercise that Chip thought would be “fun.”

(Fitness experts have a VERY different definition of fun, I’ve found. These exercises VERY rarely include trivia contests or tiddlywinks or hootenanny sing-alongs.)

I was supposed to stand on one leg, bend down to get my hands on the floor, walk out into a plank, walk back in, and then stand up…all on that one leg.

This is an earth-shaking exercise, leaving me panting and desperate; perhaps (I thought) if I quietly wiped out all the internet on the Eastern seaboard, I wouldn’t ever have to do it again.

I wrote the “Okay” blog post about it, and my OTHER trainer Barbara read the blog. I know she did because she left me a “thumbs up” on Facebook. I like it when she reads the blog; it explains to her the things I can’t tell her during our sessions for lack of oxygen.

Today, I attended Barbara’s Balance class by Zoom. And there she was, looking all innocent and pretty and kind. She corrects and encourages and cheers us on. Barbara is awesome…


We were in the last third of class when she said—just as cheerful as could be—“put your weight or water bottle on the ground. Now stand on one leg.”

I began to get nervous.

“Roll down slowly and pick up the weight. Don’t put that foot down.”

What?!? I began hurling invective at my laptop.

“Don’t put your foot down, and don’t let your pelvis tip. Weight in the heel of the standing leg. Got the weight?” (No.) “Now, roll up.”


I have this unhappy adductor that stabs me in the thigh AND groin when I anger it. Barbara has taught me that it’s a weakness in the opposite hip; if I keep the non-stabby-side lifted, no stabbing. Yay.

But if I’m standing on one leg, I can’t lift the damned hip.

Every attempt to pick up the innocent pink little weight was painful AND exhausting. I was cursing with whatever breath I had left, and thinking even worse things.

And all the other attendees of Balance Class were going through this nightmare, too… because BARBARA BETRAYED ME!!

At the end of class, I accused her of stealing the worst possible idea from Chip because she read my blog. “Who? Me?” Her words were innocent; her attitude wickedly pleased with herself.

After I dragged myself back up the basement stairs, crawling from riser to riser and sobbing in my misery (well, sort of), I got an email from Mindy, who was in class and who ALSO read the “Okay” blog from yesterday. She said:

“I will give you a million dollars if your next blog post is about perfecting yoga’s corpse pose. For an hour. Without a break.”


And seriously: You guys think you’re so clever, but my adductor is FURIOUS and I’m walking with a limp. This fills me with righteous victory. I HOPE YOU’RE SATISFIED!

The class flamingos are VERY ANGRY. They’re using the ALL CAPS KEY with malice of forethought!!