I’ve had some lovely messages asking me how my sleeping has been since getting drugged up.
Well, being on a combo of an extremely old-school, highly addictive sleeping tablet and an anti-depressant which is more anti-anxiety seems to have taken effect.
An over-effect, you could say.
It took a while, my mind desperately scrabbling back from the land of nod more often than not before I had a few nights of six whole hours. Then I went away and good golly Miss Molly, the time differences worked in my favour. On both coasts of the United States I slept like an American who hadn’t yet realised their government was real.
Then I came home (deep in decline, let’s not forget, due to turning fifty, not yet coming through a door to an amazing surprise party and still no cake) and there was life and dusting and work emails and more work emails and thinking about work and work. So, perhaps understandably I wasn’t exactly on point in terms of the time frames of taking my medication.
By that, I mean, I’m back to going to bed after midnight due to faffing around, working or binge watching Netflix. But the difference now is that I’m sleeping in way too long – taking longer to get to sleep, still waking sometimes but, but, and I am embarrassed to admit this, I could easily sleep all morning. I’m struggling to wake properly and feel frustrated that I’m groggy and flat rather than ‘on the mend’ when I know I’m at least to blame for not doing my bit in changing things up for the better.
I’d make a terrible drug addict and I don’t say that to be flippant. Although I am shallow enough to be more concerned with the outcome of my skin to keep on the straight and narrow. (You know I have a sty, right?)
2. There is stress in my sty
Oh dear lord, I hear you say. Not that bloody sty again! Well, yes but for a good-ish reason.
Stress. Apparently these nasty little stub-muffins are stress related. And I’ve got some stressful life events going on so there you go.
I’m saying this in all good faith that you are kind people and will let this one slide because I was brought up to NEVER say anything was wrong or it was all too much or anything too, you know, personal.
Consequently I have this not particularly attractive habit of judging others when they complain in some manner and always claiming everything is just dandy when it’s far from it for myself.
Luckily social media has been a wonderful platform for oversharing, not editing or filtering out any bad bits and keeping things VERY, VERY REAL.
Yes, I’m sure I’ve got that right.
For years I’ve been an admirer in a completely non-creepy way of perfect bubble butts. Not in a weirdo Kardashian way but in a gentle slope downwards from the lumbar spine towards a high, rounded bottom. (I’ve come over all poetic.)
Again, completely non-creepy. Because if you think about it bottoms are often in our eye line. On the subways or tubes of New York and London and in the yoga studios throughout our fine country, we find ourselves staring at someone’s backside. (Trying to make this a global issue.)
Today however my own truth was realised when I saw my sad butt in the mirror when upside down. Even with gravity giving it a helping hand there was no hiding the fact that it was flat. Flat as a pancake, flat as the vinyl copy of Thriller I used to melt down for earrings in the 80’s, flat as the earth itself (there are still believers out there).
I don’t say this for sympathy or for false compliments. In the space of an afternoon I’ve accepted, if not exactly embraced, the reality of life going forwards.
Pouffy skirts forever.
To be honest, it’s all been a bit crap. But I’ve hidden it well don’t you think?
How’ve things been with you?
Any thoughts on the bottom situation? Just another ageing treat?
Photo by Cris Saur
© The Yoga Connection 2017