Although my life is pretty much an open book and I generally share a lot of my world with certain people, there's a lot going on that I'm just not ready to talk about.
In an old blog post titled, "Waiting for the Other Shoe to Drop," I wrote about how I kind of walk through my life waiting for the other shoe to drop. Things can be going pretty damn good, but I'm usually looking up waiting.
Waiting for that shoe to come falling from the sky and knock me square in my head. I say this because it's true.
It happens. All the time. A lot.
You can call it self-fulfilling prophecy or putting negative energy in the air or bad juju, but it is what it is. In my world though, it's not usually one shoe that drops. It's the whole damn closet.
I've grown accustomed to it. Sad as that may sound.
"It makes you stronger," they say. Well, I'm so strong, I can bench press a damn Buick.
"To get to the testimony, you have to go through the test." I've taken so many tests, I have a PhD in Life.
"It's always darkest before dawn." I think I live in Antarctica.
So, right now I have the entire inventory of DSW falling from the sky and I must have some Kyrptonite near me because I am weak. I'm tired. I just can't dodge the shoes right now.
A couple of days ago, call it serendipity, divine intervention, fate or whatever you like, God sent a wonderful woman my way. She reached out to me because the spirit told her something more was going on with me.
We talked. She shared her life with me and I shared mine with her - a complete stranger.
During that talk, she suggested I find ways to manage my stress.
She asked what I do to care for myself. Does wine count? I didn't have an answer.
Right now I am so focused on all of the wrongs in my world and how to make them right, that I haven't been able to take the time for myself.
I told her that I write and she asked when was the last time I did.
Writing for me has always been therapeutic.
I've lost a lot of weight.
That stress diet ain't no joke! I'm a little woman, just barely under 5 feet, four inches and I've lost eight pounds.
What pisses me off to no end is when people guffaw or scoff at me when I openly discuss my weight.
I always compare it to ground beef. Most of us cook and most of us shop for our own groceries. Look at eight pounds of ground beef. That's a lot of meat, right? Now imagine that eight pounds of ground beef on my body.
So, on my way home today, I stopped at Popeyes, ordered myself a three piece - mild, dark meat, with red beans and rice and a sweet tea. Hey, I live in the South.
I got home, ate two pieces, half of a biscuit and half of the red beans and rice and sat down with my sweet tea to start writing, but before I pulled out my tablet, I owed my best friend Jelly Bean a phone call.
I promised her that I would call today to finally share my struggles and also confessed that I had just polished off two-thirds of that Louisiana goodness in the orange box.
"I'm trying to get my booty back," I bemoaned. "I lost my booty! Not like I had that much to begin with, but what I had, I want it back!"
"I understand," Jelly Bean consoled. "I'm shorter than you and losing five pounds is like losing two dress sizes."
"Yes! My shorts are sagging on me and don't even get me started on Thelma and Louise! The girls are gone," I cried. " You know I love my girls. The three of us have had some adventures. They were my ride or die, but they just LEFT me!"
"Not Thelma and Louise," Jelly Bean laughed.
"I think they drove over the cliff," I whimpered as I pulled my tank top forward, looking down at what's left of my cleavage.
Even though I've always been petite, I've always been curvy, but there's a cup size missing from the front, and the back - well Bell Biv DeVoe won't have any trust issues with me.
Some people eat when they're stressed, but I lose my appetite. I'm also taking thyroid medication, which I believe may also be a suspect in the disappearance of my booty and my girls.
I'm thinking about posting lost flyers or putting Thelma and Louise on milk cartons. I miss them and I'm gonna be doing squats and eating a whole lot of red beans and rice. Sir Mix-a-Lot is an expert on the booty, right? If red beans and rice can bring the booty back, I'm down.
Well, while I work towards rebuilding my life, I'm going to also take more time for self-care and healing. Writing is the first step and tomorrow morning I'm going back to the African dance class I once enjoyed.
My problems aren't going to magically go away, but at least I have an outlet to help me get back in fighting form and instead of dodging those shoes, maybe I can grab a pair or two.
Hey, high heels help lift the booty, right?
Bonus.
