It just came back from a weekend at my Dad's, a place where bodies routinely say Is it after 5 o'clock? Then I believe I'll have a glass or 4 of this delicious local wine. And another helping of this wonderful home-cooked meal. And then I'll just flop right here on the enormous couch and watch my annoyingly skinny brother eat a pillowcase-sized bag of caramel corn. What a great idea! Let's have another bowl of cheesecake brownie ice cream!
My Dad's place is not always Gluttony Central, but he does like to relax and indulge when the kids come to stay. And we fall right into line with that, oh yeah. But the pounds piled on, and J & I came back and said well, now's the time. Let's start that low-carb thing we've been talking about for ages. And so we did. And my body is howling for bread and sweet things, waking up tired and sluggish. I wait for the breakthrough day that's supposed to happen, where I will wake up feeling energized and no longer craving something, anything made with flour. J grins and says "I think I can get behind this Atkins thing," and happily devours another bacon slice. (Don't worry, we're eating tons of veggies. But J does love him some bacon.) Meanwhile, if I don't feel better in a day or two I'm gonna make a huge bread-man in the shape of the late Dr. Atkins and devour it all.
After the kids-together vibe of the weekend, where 4 people in their thirties bedded down happily in my dad's basement with the only responsibility being who was going to walk the dogs, I am also feeling very no I don't wanna about buckling down to my various jobs that are coming up fast. I know, it's whiny self-indulgence. I know I'll do it, and hopefully do a good job. But there's always a few days of fear before I get to it.
My mom left today for the east; starting the tour van at 6 this morning for the long drive to Standard, Alberta. They'll rest there tonight, then keep heading towards Sault Saint Marie for the end of the week. Touring children's theatre is hard work; I should know. She popped in to say goodbye last night, exhaustion already lining her face from weeks of rehearsals. She'll be 63 next month, probably celebrating her birthday by performing 2 shows in some tiny Ontario town. I wish I could give her a bulging savings account and tell her she never has to work again but instead I watched her leave in awe and sadness. She is my mom, my best friend. And I wish she didn't have to work so hard to keep the wolf from the door.