Maybe I need help.
That sentence brings a giggle. “Help” seems more apropos to clearly dire situations, say clinging to a wooden plank in the middle of the ocean or gazing into the jaws of a grizzly breaking hibernation and jonesing for a chewy snack.
The trouble with asking for help is when. Addiction and problematic behavior sometimes look an awful lot like simply overdoing it, having a bit too much fun. Filling a lonely hole. Having spent the weekend over-indulging however, I worry. How can one be spectacularly special if relying on outward stimulus?
Friday night, instead of meeting the ladies and bet-I-could-stir-some-interest-with-the-drummer for dancing, I dived into half a bag of Lay’s Potato chips and the tabloids (Jon & Kate are everywhere). The next afternoon, instead of dropping more than fashionably late into a potluck, I swallowed the alone and a heaping bowl of shrimp ceviche and nearly entire sack of tortilla chips. The craving for carbs tells me I need something, that blast and kick from empty fuel, a familiar crunchy hug.
Odd the scale this morning shows none of the abuse.
Worse than a possible eating issue is the fact that over doing isn’t going to keep me in the one size-smaller, side-zip black stovepipe pants I finally found and that give me great pleasure. I can tell you the stock at Macy’s at any given moment. A smaller frame and clothes that finally fit, and fit well, is a serious temptation (and motivation, damn conundrum).
Ah, boys (can’t call them men). When something organic, calorie-and-guilt-free feels so good and satiating in large, girthy doses, how can that be bad? Perhaps when one is greedy, needy even. Like the chips, I want one more and text messages pant for a casual visit. The worst I’ve sent? “I need a refill of you.” Even I wouldn’t answer that booty call.
Boys plus booze merely elevates the desire for both and I like my cocktails. Red wine, super chilly white. Vodka and Tangueray. I’d consider a step into twelve, just to check in on myself (and more mornings lately leave the head knocking and body longing to sweat out a fifth in the steam room). But then I couldn’t indulge period, I’d be bound not to. And the summer drinks are coming out.
On the upside, I’m also addicted to spinning and yoga, sunscreen, taking supplements and vitamins, a clean house, being kind to animals, mostly optimal nutrition (can’t remember the last Twinkie, doughnut, corn dog, Coke, Pepsi, Cheeto or Dorito or any of the “to” snack family I’ve had), good hygiene, overall general kindness and apathy and ability to stake emotional vampires.
Like John Lennon sang, maybe I just need help getting my feet back on the ground. My life has changed in oh so many ways, some not entirely for the best, and I could use a genuine shoulder to lean against, to curl up into, to sit beside or nudge playfully.
Won’t you please, please help me?