fat esme on a bike that goes nowhere
I never had a blog before this. I didn't even consider it. I always took the words "diary" and "journal" to mean very personal accounts. Like a private purge. Or dollar-store therapy. So actually going through the motions to set up a cyber platform for this seemed to me something only someone with an extraordinarily exciting life should do. Someone who has a life so absolutely fascinating that they are willing to forgo all sense of privacy for the sake of sharing that brilliance that they've been blessed with with readers who can't seem to get amazon.com to work and order a real book. So, this is worse than a literary documentary. My life isn't thrilling. I'm blogging about blubber, elephant thighs and rolls of fat, and the attempts to whittle them down to a size resembling some ideals of minor self-esteem.
That having been said. I worked with Terri on Wednesday at noon. It's Friday and I am happily sore. I feel like an asshole doing exercises involving quick movements or balance. I'm happier to just lift things or stand still and watch. But I want to be thin more than anything sometimes. And I don't know how much of this has to do with living in NYC among waifish foreign models, or just me wanting to forever take up less space. As it is, I use organic cotton bags, refillable cups and contribute to landfills as little as possible. In a blog, everything is a foggy metaphor. Don't accept plastic.