Thank you, garbage crew.

The garbage men/women. Every week they noisily come at a stupidly early hour for such loud machinery. All week long, the things I cast away pile up - reminders. Shouldn't have bought that... we ate out too much again... that was SO worth the money and I didn't think twice about throwing away the tags and receipt. And always thinking through: did I throw away something Miles loved too much. The puffy envelope from Jiles came back out after much whining and garbage rubbing and Miles's furry keester has been sitting on it protectively at least once a day since. But, I digress. Every week this crew comes by and carts away what I have shed from the week. It is the main thing that marks the pass of a week for me. The panic in the morning, trying to remember if we put the can out at the street, as well as the separate recyclables bin... the loud noise of the truck coming and going periodically through the day... what is missed blowing away through the yards. Those squeaky brakes remind me how fast life is gliding past me and calling for me to be more, do more.
I wish I had a system so I could shed the emotional trash from the week. Something thoughtless a stranger said, degrading thoughts as I look in the mirror, the crippled feeling and hopelessness that accompanies illness, anger, tears, streaked mascara. I wish there were a crew of people that came every week, loud and annoying as it may be, and brush it all out and take it all away. But, though my therapist tries her best, she can't work those kind of miracles. And if she could it would be under-appreciated, anyway. The real garbage crew are taken for granted and are paid less than they hoped to make as kids, but we need them so much. (I am aware that normal people think much less about garbage than I do at this moment. And, humorously enough, I don't mean my mind is in the gutter! XD -I'm funny, ok?-) So, I guess I'll have to figure out a way for myself. (I'd like you all to hear that as meself, as it'd been in an Irish accent. It's cooler. John can do it. If any of you are ever around us again - cause it feels like it's been decades already - I'll tickle him til he caves and does the Irish accent for y'all.)
I wore shorts this week for the first time in 11 years. That's how much I've hated my body. I could probably count on one hand the people that have seen my knees and fewer those that have had any kind of glimpse of my thighs - the ever-hated area I avoid seeing. I was anorexic for a time, which is apparently significant according to the doctors I've been seeing. And honestly, society paints us women that don't look that good themselves and that is what we emulate as women. Dove is doing a brave and noble thing - just as a side note. But, of late, though I have gained a little weight - like 5-10 lbs depending on the last time I revealed my weight to you. And somehow I just don't care. I've been ordering clothes that fit me now instead of saying I'll wait until I can wear a smaller size to buy it. And I bought shorts. Little sweats shorts that are gray with a cute heart on them and that say PINK on the behind cause I buy from Victoria's Secret lately. And I've been wearing them. Not yet in public... we'll work up to that. The cat calls from junior high of "dog ugly," "fat," and "thunder thighs" still reverberate through my emotions when I get to the doorway. But the prepubescent voices are growing dim. I care less and less. I can feel my personality growing bolder and I can hear my own inner voice telling them that I'm attractive, cuss it. (Just saw The Fantastic Mr. Fox... loved it far too much - thus using the word cuss instead of the cuss word. XD I kill me! -- that's a throwback to Alf for anyone old enough to know what I quote.) In any case, I am making plans to jog in these shorts and in the second pair - blue with a rainbow heart - that will be shipping soon. *giddy* Because the humidity is arriving and the heat creeps up and I will not be sweat-laden and long-pantsed all summer like I have been for so long. I will actually wear summer apparel at last. This may seem to be a small step. But I look forward to the day when the garbage crew comes and I can tell them - ok say in my head as if they can hear me and then understand again why I'm in therapy - that THIS time they're taking the excess away from a girl that wore shorts outside. Life is made of little things. And in the end, those big things don't end up mattering so much... cause they are all held together by the bonds of little things.
Randomly: I've realized that it can be awesome to admit you were wrong to someone. It feels good somehow. Telling someone that they were right about you and you hated it so you're working on it... it's got a release. You might just want to try it. Unless you're one of those people that are never wrong just not right. I really hope not, though, cause that'd mean you kind of annoy me.
Anyway... last little thing to report for now: I've started dancing again. I'm happy, y'all.