Betty Davis Eyes

Over this past weekend I went downtown to hear my niece Megan at a gig (do *they* still call them gigs?). She is ultra-talented or mega(n)-talented. It was interesting to get out and do the town though I didn't really 'do' all that much. My doing consisted of walking to the venue from the car, and then walking back to the car from the venue and in between trips to the car, I watched Megan and her new singing partner, Jeff, perform. While at the venue, I drank a sparkling wine mixed with some new age-y heart (though they also offered bliss, mind and rectal, - I figured I had maxed-out on those other areas) elixir that caused both my head and chest to glow flame-red, reminding every human within a few feet that I am old and ripe with menopause sans uterus and ovaries. How handy!? Handy in so far as I no longer use my weight or my propensity to glare at strangers in order to keep people at a distance when I can simply glow them away.

I saw a few people I knew, and when back out on the street, post -"concert" not one of those people asked for my leftovers probably because the venue was vegan. (I did not eat anything, I only drank the elixir.) Even hungry street people have dietary limits.

Speaking of hungry, I have finally made my kitchen completely "weight-loss friendly" by eating every last tidbit of anything edible left over from the holidays. I ate all of the chocolate chips. I ate the last few almonds bought from the farmer's market. All my food that was stored away in the freezer before the last big storm, rotted and was thrown out. I committed to ceasing a weekly chocolate buy. I finally managed to get rid of or eat anything that could possibly seduce me. All that remain are raw eggs, steel cut oats and hominy. I suppose if I get desperate enough, I can make hominy oatcakes.

I was talking with my sister about this whole concept of setting the kitchen up so options for a successful weight loss are optimal (at least while at home). She told me that she has a similar issue (self-sabotage) while at home, though she added, for her, "there always seems to be a little something [she] can eat." A wayward cracker, popcorn, or a jar of baby food from when Hannah was much younger.

I want to be present around food. If I go unconscious and graze for grub, (with my kitchen in it's current snack-food-less state) it takes seconds of futile searching before I am brought once again to the present moment. Still I wonder who that zombie person is that insists she take over in less conscious moments? Why is she there? What does she really want? And why doesn't she just slug me in the face to bring me out of my coma instead of walking, zombie-arms outstretched into the kitchen in search of a form of solace that I won't find there?

I could apply similar questions to a lot of issues around consciousness. I could keep myself even more present (and awake!) by sleeping on a hard floor without blankets and removing all the toilet tissue in the house but I'll keep my practice for now limited to a food addiction.

On Sunday morning, I had put on some makeup on (to attempt to lessen the menopause glow) which I don't always wear because I am naturally lovely. Sunday afternoon, I drove over to grandma's house to visit with Hannah. She was all cuddly and warm, fresh from an afternoon nap. Hannah asked me if she could sit on my lap. She doesn't even have to ask. Of course! Then, looking at me, she exclaimed, "What's wrong with your eyes!?" She'd be the first to notice if there was a real problem.