3 decisions i will inevitably, unfortunately have to make sometime soon

1. Gym membership. Apparently you don’t win friends with salad. Perhaps this is the reason I am fed so many biscuits and lollies and other what should only be ‘sometimes’ foods at work. That is: I could surmise that everyone wants to be friends with me and I should be pleased. To work in a cube of such high morale, of such sweet goodness, is a privilege. It is enviable, I know. But while my smile grows wide as the Natural Confectionary Co bag is opened, so do my hips and my stomach and all of my general body portions. My arms now have an excess of flesh so that it appears I have gills and or webbing. The only thing that does not seem to be growing is my pants. On the contrary, they have shrunken. Which is a shame. Firstly because I really like them, and secondly because it is the physical evidence that you never want to see, the flashing, bleeping, yelping, whale-sounding signal that you must cease the binging, learn to say no, and do something sad like going to the gym.

2. Sleep or book. I must have only 30 pages left of Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go so my big goal for today, apart from trying to get back into writing lists of a higher standard than that produced recently, was to finish it off. But alas, work and its big angry eyebrows just had to ride in on a medieval horse and banish thirteen hours of my day, leaving me with next to no energy and a feverish desire to abandon all my hopes and dreams for the simple, but nevertheless beneficial, comfort of my bed. On the other hand, I could stay up to write a list, since that is what I am already doing, finish the book, get some sleep, and then attend graduation tomorrow, feeling more emotional and wound-up than necessary, which could be either bad or really bad, given that no one likes a weeping lady-girl.

3. Doctors and dentists and shots, oh my. I hesitate to have to call and make appointments, to arrange time off work, to catch a bus here, and catch a bus there, and sit waiting for hours reading That’s Life, which isn’t really life as I know it, but is overly demented or sentimental, but sickening either way. I don’t know whether it bores me, frightens me, or if I’m just lazy, but I’m reluctant to make visits to the white-coated goons. Perhaps it was the slapdash way I was raised. Frail Tegan, pale as Lite milk, clutches her tummy, vomits pulverised, purple grapes, and cries weakly, ‘Mama, Mama! I feel ever so queasy. Won’t you take my hand, pat my forehead and send me straight to the d-d-doctor?’ And Mama says sternly, but not unkindly, ‘Now here this, you child there. You ain’t a headed to the doctor for a wee sore tummy unless your this here spleen is comin out from under your paisley shirt’. Which it wasn’t. So I didn’t. And now, fifteen years later, I can’t, but will somehow have to, I guess.