I can only hear the trains here when it's raining.
I don't have to leave the house today, for any reason, and after houseguests and traveling and minimal sleep for a week, I kind of plan to not even answering the phone if it rings. (I did sleep last night, which is a nice change, and probably the first time since last Sunday night that I got a a solid seven hours.)
I haven't been blogging about it, but I got a bunch of work done on various aspects of the secrit projekt over the past couple of days, including ~2500 words of "Knock On Coffins" yesterday, which puts me at 267,332 for the year, which is a better-than-respectable tally, I think. (It's nothing like my heydey, when I was known to write half a million words a year, but woman cannot sustain marathon sprints forever, and these days I have a social life and occasionally do things other than typing grimly away. Like, you know, endlessly hitting refresh on livejournal.)
Tomorrow marks the trrrrriumphant return of ashacat and myself to the gym, after a hiatus of a week or so, what with one thing and another. I am really looking forward to that. I have been walking in the interim, and there was the minihikelet, but considering the fact that I've been living off restauarnt food and not lifting since last Tuesday, I am making warding signs at my (weird electronic gives-weights-in-stone-for-no-known-reas
Oh, and I should have the final word on Eunice tonight, and whether the Little Red Truck is going to the great scrapyard in the sky. (I suspect she is; word from the garage is that it's the transmission, and I am not fixing that. So later this week is going to have to be carshopping. La la la. I can has opshun deal nao pls?)
*I note this because I think it's important to have an idea what real, healthy women with a bone structure and musculature weigh, rather than what magazines tell us we should weigh. There are some pictures behind the cut, which hopefully won't be triggery, but if you suspect they might, you know, don't look. (I've been everywhere from a size 8 to a size 22 in the past ten years. The photos of me where I look like me, you know, are the ones where I'm around a size 12. When I'm down to an eight, people who love me try to get me to eat part of their lunch. I consider that a sign.)
I have this incredibly efficient Slavic metabolism where, if I don't work out *hard*, I gain weight, so when I was pretty much housebound in Nevada I became the incredible expanding Bear. Three days a week is enough to let me maintain; when I'm trying to bring the weight down, it's got to be five or six.
Add that to my weird biochemistry, and the fact that exercise and lots of it helps me regulate my mood swings, and well, I am doomed to athleticism. Even though I am a somewhat stocky not-very-coordinated person.
At least I am strong, and have enough stamina for three or four people.
This is the Bear in 2003, at (approximately) her peak weight, with Shoggoth. Something around 280, I think, which was seriously uncomfortable and I did not like it. Bears should be able to run up stairs, as long as they are are wearing a sports bra.
This is a 250-pound Bear, complete with Robin Hood arrow. I am not big on having my picture taken (my complete lack of melanin means that I show up as red-faced on just about every piece of film ever taken of me: la, like this), so there tend to be amusing accessories in any photo I am aware is being taken. Dogs, for example.
This is the sickly Bear of 1994-1995. Jesus, woman, have a cheeseburger. (I was down under 160 and had no muscle to speak of, because I managed to have walking pneumonia and colitis at the same time, and no health insurance. Do not want. Last time I was this thin was mono, in college.) Man, I need an excuse to wear that cloak again. I wonder where I put it.
Despite the projecting hip bones, I love the photo, possibly because I'm not being me. (I was in costume as Mandor, a Roger Zelazny character, for an LRPG.)
I don't have a good current picture, so you're stuck with the big gap to older ones, which should give you an idea of what I consider my range of fighting weight. I'm currently ecstatic that my grandfather's army air corps uniform jacket and my beloved black denim "oh my god bear you are so freaking eighties" jacket fit again. I suspect they will be getting heavy wear this autumn.
And this is about 170, 175 or so, when I was kickboxing. That's about where I'm aiming.
Man, look at that cut neck. (Actually, I have triceps again, and I'm very excited about that. Another thirty pounds, and I will have *serious* triceps.) I also like this picture, possibly because, again, I am not me in it: I was playing a Ravenclaw for a Harry Potter party/LRPG thing. That's the gorgeous blue silk shirt I ruined at Eastercon in 2006, which can also be seen in this picture, taken at that selfsame Eastercon by Feorag. I mourns it! Because today I talk in LOLCATZ.
And that one's about the same weight, but less agressively physically fit. This picture, of all the photos I have of me, looks the most like my self-image. Yes, those really are my shoulders, not shoulder pads. I still have that jacket, too. Great jacket.
(Most of the above, with the exception of 1 & 3, were taken by netcurmudgeon. 1 was taken by stillsostrange. I have no idea who took #3.)
Seriously unique thing about that blue-shirt photo: I'm wearing a wrist watch. I only did that for about two years, in Vegas, because they don't have any damned clocks out there, have you noticed?
Another thing about pictures of me. Man, my nose makes me laugh every time I see it. The nose I have on my head is so not the nose I have in my head, if you know what I mean.
And now, I am going to go get showered, and brave that scale....