The Empty Spot on the Couch

Sunday Night is a bit sacred to me. It's always been my night for me, my television and ironing night, the night I use to regroup and recharge for the week ahead. Normally the weekend is a busy time for me, doing everything from meditation to massage, running, cleaning , going out with friends. Some weekends are frantic, this one has been mellow.

This evening , my tummy is replete, my toes and fingers pretty after a lovely girlie afternoon with a friend and my paid writing job is one piece closer to being finished - four pages to go.

It's also good television night here. I admit to being a complete luddite on a few things. Tacky telly and tomato sauce are my two major crimes against sophisticated civilisation.

So tonight, this year's Biggest Loser started. I sit and watch a group of people, very overweight, all with their own stories, running a four kilometre race. Suddenly, I feel very, very proud of myself. I was there two years ago. I'm not now.

There is a hole in the evening, however. The Biggest Loser is a show I've shared for the last two years. Grounded Dutchman and I used to watch this together. Whether having dinner at each other's place, or chatting over the phone as it played. It doesn't feel the same. The fact that Grounded Dutchman is a long streak of piss who grumbles when his ironing board tummy turns to a small pot, making him look a bit like a grey haired Magic Pudding is beside the point. It's just different not having him there, shaking his head, being my illicit Tim Tam eating, bad telly watching partner-in-crime.

I don't admit to missing him much now - for heaven's sake, he's just a friend I used to watch the box with, nothing more. He's back in Holland trying to get his life back. Sunday nights, I just wish he was here.

Enough melacholy. There's wonderful things to look forward to this week. Other than Dream Group, no commitments, so lots of gym, study and writing time. Of course there is my daily eight hour stint at the telecommunications company of String, Tin Can and Whistle Ltd, with a lunchtime run or two in the week. It's good when there's nothing happening - gives me a chance to do different things.

Tarot Card for the Blog: Pick a card, any card.

Temperance. The restoration of balance. Healing. Reconciling dreams with the self. One step in front of the other. Climbing rainbows.

An interesting pick.

Pand

p.s I missed a goal last blog. To buy no more books until I have read a shelf full of the unread books I have in my collection. I have three shelves of unread books. Ulysses, Midnights Children, a heap of De Bernieres and Atwood, the last Artemis Fowl and Lemony Snicket and a few other notables sit there are waiting to be read. Book group books excepted.

Kilometres walked since 29 Jan: 7
Kilometres run since 29 Jan: 0
Currently reading: Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.

The Fresh Start

It's nearly the end of January of another faceless year. I've come to the realisation that I need to set some goals, so I may as well do it here, in public, where people can see it, and I can be reminded of the goals I set myself and remind myself to work for these things.

The past few days have been rather confronting, not that gastroenteritis is confronting , more messy, gross and completely humiliating. It's not so much the fact of gastro as the doctors words. 'Watch yourself, you have all the precursors of appendicitis." Again, this fact doesn't stress me out, going to hospital and having a fairly common operation holds no fear for me. It's the recouperation that gets me. Where do I go? Who will look after me? Who would look after me?

The messy bits, the slight fever and the pains have gone but the lingering sense of aloneness remains. I live alone. I'm single. Who would look after me if I was to fall ill? I'm not like my mate, the Grounded Dutchman, who was able to be taken home by his mother after nearly killing himself with his paraglider - I don't have that support network. This bout of uneasyness isnt as bad as when I massaged somebody with shingles- the thought of chicken pox sent me to therapy for six months. I've moved on from this - now I feel the aloneness, honour it, and try to work out how this can be fixed.

So goal number one: Get that support network happening - one who's in my life daily so we can look after eachother. And get that person soon.

I also need to put this one down in print too.

Goal Two: By my 42nd birthday I will be 20 kgs lighter. No ifs or buts this year.

I will probably bore you with with my weight loss and exercise efforts. I've gone from the morbidly obese range to a very fit and well toned albeit cuddly cougar in the last two years - I'd like to see how far I can take this.

Helping goal two along is Goal Three : Run a marathon in the next twelve months.

The last year has seen me go from a sloth to a clydesdale. Two half marathons later, a bout of exhaustion, high blood pressure and depression later, I'm ready to get back to it again. I need this goal, as mad as it may be.

Goal Four: To own my own property in the next two years.

Yes, I'm 41 and propertlyless. Spent my 20s living abroad, living hand to mouth, my thirties in complete denial living hand to mouth and now I'm here, 41 and a bit more solvent. Seeing Ferdy the Financial Adviser on Wednesday.

Goal Five: Get more of my stuff out there and published

Writing documents for a telecommunications company is soul destroying. I've won a couple of short story competitions. I can do it again.

Fighting talk.

Lastly, my tarot card for the blog. Pick a card, any card:

Six of Wands. Victory. Rising above obstacles. Knowing your worth. Seeing things from above. Working towards goals and acheiving them.

Hopefully a wonderful omen.

Pand