it's a great life, if you don't weaken (matociquala) wrote,
it's a great life, if you don't weaken

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Partial, but satisfying.

I cleaned out the closets this morning, preparatory to WisCon packing. Part of this involved trying on a lot of pairs of pants, because I have consolidated two entire wardrobes which cover ten years of time during which I ranged from:

a size 8/10 (yes, that belt is wrapped around me one and a half times. And I need it, because the jeans would have fallen off without it. I was dressed up as Roger Zelazny's Mandor for a LARP. Yes, that cloak really is that gorgeous.

(this was, the first time, immediately after the mono, and then again after a bout of pneumonia and colitis. Yes, both at once. My hips stick out and I'm constantly freezing to death at that size, which is about 155 on me: I'm not tall, but I am built like a small tank. And okay, the big staring gamine eyes are kind of cute, but really, I sit on my ass a lot and it's nice to have one.)

to a size 22 (depth of profound depression and self-medicating with food, beer, and spending twenty hours a day sitting in front of the computer. Early grave, here we come. Got a lot of books written, though. This photo was taken mid-Stratford Man)

Well, right this second, I am sitting here typing this in a t-shirt that didn't fit in January, and a pair of size sixteen relaxed-fit jeans. The 16W's are a bit too big, and I can button and sit down in the Old Navy 16 misses' but I bloody wouldn't want to wear them any longer than that. Which means I have two and a half jeans sizes to go to being able to wear my favorite pair of size 12 jeans. I keep thinking that can't be right, because that's about seventy pounds away, but maybe I am carrying more muscle than I think I am and it's really only 55 pounds away (see below).

Or, to looking about like this. (the first pic is me at a moderately fit size 12/14 (I could racewalk five miles in about an hour, but I wasn't lifting) and weighing in around 170; the second is when I was lifting and kickboxing and weighed 185. Good lord, look at the muscles! in my neck! I had muscles in my neck! (the ones between my ears stay there no matter how broad the beam happens to be. *g*)

And I'm feeling better than I have in years. Since 2001, approximately. (I overtrained myself into a bout of bronchitis, and then after that the depression hit. And Vegas makes it really hard to take yourself out for a walk. Ugh.)

So take that, ridiculous little personal trainer woman who wanted to put me on a 1400-calorie-a-day diet.


I'm gonna go have some curry.

If "Desert Rose" wants to be a Mingan song, "A Thousand Years" wants to be a Muire/Strifbjorn song.

Funny how books build themselves soundtracks. We are pattern-noticing machines.

A thousand years, a thousand more,
A thousand times a million doors to eternity
I may have lived a thousand lives, a thousand times
An endless turning stairway climbs
To a tower of souls

If it takes another thousand years, a thousand wars,
The towers rise to numberless floors in space
I could shed another million tears, a million breaths,
A million names but only one truth to face

A million roads, a million fears
A million suns, ten million years of uncertainty
I could speak a million lies, a million songs,
A million rights, a million wrongs in this balance of time

But if there was a single truth, a single light
A single thought, a singular touch of grace
Then following this single point, this single flame,
The single haunted memory of your face

I still love you
I still want you

A thousand times the mysteries unfold themselves
Like galaxies in my head

I may be numberless, I may be innocent
I may know many things, I may be ignorant
Or I could ride with kings and conquer many lands
Or win this world at cards and let it slip my hands

I could be cannon food, destroyed a thousand times
Reborn as fortune's child to judge another's crimes
Or wear this pilgrim's cloak, or be a common thief
I've kept this single faith, I have but one belief

I still love you
I still want you

A thousand times the mysteries unfold themselves
Like galaxies in my head
On and on the mysteries unwind themselves
Eternities still unsaid

'Til you love me

Tags: edda of burdens, project: less-of-me, pudge report
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