Positive thinking

This is an exercise I am advised to do more often to keep smiling even when the situation is not so "pink" as I'd like it to be.
So in spite of:

- a hopeless emotional situation (because clearly I'm NEVER going to talk to the B&S guy, or if I do nothing will change because he cannot be interested in me, and please don't come and tell me that I only have to try, I DID try before and that is why my fragile heart is shattered into pieces);
- an annoying physical situation (damn shin splints! damn shin splints! damn shin splints! damn shin splints! damn shin splints!) which makes me extra nervous because I cannot run;
- an awful situation at home (I CAN'T RUN! I CAN'T RUN! I CAN'T RUN! I want to buy a stationary bike or a cross-trainer, but having works due in a few months' time I am not allowed to bring more mess in the house!);
- a crazy situation at work (oh, where do I begin to describe what's going on? I could talk about my boss giving me a hundred things to do, but never finding the time to check them with me so my folder is packed with letters and offers and such, ready to be sent...; I could go on with him calling me to his office yesterday at 5, only so that I could listen to him going mad over an invoice HE did wrong, swearing heavily, telling me I could leave when it was 20 minutes later than usual - which means that I have given 20 minutes to the company which I won't be paid for, because I should have done a complete half hour! And what bugs me is that I KNEW I should have stayed those 7 minutes more! But I just wanted to run away! And all this makes me so angry that I've decided that I don't care, and the week my parents are away, even though I should be here full time for the whole week because it's right before the boss leaves for Mexico, I will not care and take Friday off!) (Ahem, it sound childish, but it's a real act of rebellion, trust me);
- my sleepless nights (because of strange dreams, because of my being utterly nervous over the B&S guy, because of my work-out addition, because last night my father went yet again to the hospital with a rushing heart and came back at 2, because I cannot run and I feel like I'm getting fattier by the minute, because my bank account doesn't seem to hold the money in and there is always one more instalment of the car to be paid - but I'm nearly done! I'm 700 euros away! -)
- my general restlessness and irritable condition which makes me snappy 24/7, and being snappy makes me irritable, which makes me snappy, which makes me irritable...You see what I mean;

In spite of all this and much more, these are some good things I MUST think of to keep myself going:

- I can run without problems for one and a half hour at a good speed - and after this week off running to heal my shins, I will still be a good runner;
- I can still swim under water for almost three minutes and my endurance is still high (i.e., I'm ready for the 12-hours marathon)
- My musical abilities are not really in the gutter - however, I need new reeds...
- The parents will leave in two weeks and I'll have a whole week of freedom
- The parents will leave in two weeks and I'll have a whole week of freedom
- The parents will leave in two weeks and I'll have a whole week of freedom
(Yes, I cannot wait)
- My birthday is coming soon and so is the big dinner with the band (aka The Great Event of the Year)
- after my birthday it's practically December, a month I love, if only for the lights and decorations and the cheesy Christmas music (not to mention the Sundays afternoons spent in a cosy café in the lovely company of some friends and a delicious hot chocolate...)
- tomorrow it's a day off work
- and in a few hours I am going to the gym and apart from seeing the B&S guy I will also see the S&S guy, who is nice and funny, and I will do some good work-out, and maybe I will get some more advice on how to recover from my damned shin splints.

And now, deep breath.........

We're on line!

My brother has just sent me the official e-mail about Manè's website.
Being an important project I thought I'd make an official announcement here.

WE'RE ON LINE AND READY TO ROCK!

If anybody's interested, go and have a look: it's also in English - I translated it.
And you can listen to the songs.
Enjoy!

Monday and The Return of the Shin Splints

First of all, a "quick" summary of Thursday night...
get to the gym, welcomed (and threatened) by the S&S guy in a superpacked gym, and after getting changed the threat becomes real and I am sent to sweat on every machine of the place.
Now, I have short hair, but that kind of short which is too short to tie and too long to feel comfortable...and it contributes to my whole feeling of "how damn hot is it here???".
The S&S guy is satisfied, "that's exactly what I wanted you to do, sweat like mad", and I just wonder if this is some kind of sadistic side of his personality I'm peering into...
To be honest, apart from the heat, I feel great and I would go on for hours, but after our usual hour and a half I am allowed to go and get changed and refresh.
Back in my daily clothes (today it's jeans and a top of my new favourite colour, red), I am back with him: he holds me and guides me to the reception, standing next to me as we chat instead of going behind the counter and take the calendar. We chat vaguely for some minutes, which I like, about my shopping mission (tomorrow: I need some decent gym kit, like those technical stuff for athletes that help transpiration and look cool...Yes, I am so vain these days...), and about the fact that I will definitely be less dressed from now on since it's so hot. I am jokeing, but not completely: it IS extra hot, and even though I will not feel exactly comfortable with shorts and tops, well, that will have to be my look to avoid being drenched in sweat. Also, the second mission of the weekend is finding a way with my hair...
Enough nonsense.
What happens is, I get home and I'm all happy, feeling great, full of stamina again, ready to run, say, or dance, so I decide that a hot bath and hot milk are the best option for a quiet night. Then, a book, and I am literally falling asleep at 11, when I switch off the light.
I wake up with a pounding heart, conscious of a dream that features me, the BB&S guy and the S&S guy...no, not THAT kind of dream...But since I have a project on how to invite (him) them out, my mind is rehearsing the event. And I wonder, this is a good dream, why have I woken up?
It's only 1.17 and I am fully awake. Cursing.
I go to the kitchen for my milk, and decide there and then that I will bake muffins for tonight, since I am at Kitty's house for dinner: I chop dark chocolate, mix flour and milk, break an egg, and some 40 minutes later my muffins are ready.
So, back to bed where I read two chapters (end of volume I! Yes! Only 700 pages left!) and I am finally asleep after a while...and until 7 o'clock, time for (guess what) my liquorice tea, a banana and the awful cappuccino at the machine in the office...
And still I am confused (and glad my boss isn't here yet...), about the S&S guy, who's nice and kind and friendly and always holds me and talks to me, even when he's busy he comes over for a chat, and it isn't necessarily kindness as part of the job, I can tell. And on the other side, the B&S guy, and how I would like to know more of him, spend some time with him, and how I keep on going back to the first sessions with him, and the stretching and the quietness of time as we breathed in and breathed out together. And his smile, and his eyes, his face entirely, in every expression, when he's concentrated, when he's laughing, when he smiles, when he talks and when he listens, when he thinks, when he sings, like he (we) did yesterday as there was a nice song on the radio. And his voice. And his hands. And his neck, and his hair, with a few grey hair (do you believe it? He's got some grey hair! And I find it so cute on him!) (Boy, did I really say that?).
I wonder if this sleeplessness depends on the chemicals they use in the factory downstairs...yesterday I could smell them a block away...

It's Monday and after a hectic weekend I finally have five minutes to write, even though I'm dreading a call from my boss to go back to our billion things to do...and being the end of the month he's also in an extra bad mood...Nuts.
To conclude about my lack of sleep, I know that my it is only due to this emotional upsetting combined with an increase of my workout, so that my entire body, in and out, is somehow freaking out! A message I received yesterday said "I know you are thinking about him", and all I could say was "Well, how predictable have I become", because yes, like a teenager, I was thinking about the B&S guy, and about the thousand strategies discussed with my friend on Friday at her house while slightly drunk on brandy (a tiny glass was enought to set me on Tipsy Planet...), until almost 3 o'clock, and then again with Cinzia on Saturday night, and with my shop-a-holic friend on Sunday, while looking for cool gym kits (none found...only an expensive dry-fit shirt which I planned to test tonight for my run, if only damned Shin Splints hadn't stricken again! Blame my responsible participation to the commemoration of the 4th November yesterday morning with the band, and the fact that once you get used to walking in trainers, any shoe with a little heel will cause damage, especially when you're marching downhill, even though for only ten metres...damn!).
There are no strategies, really, apart from a couple of ideas and the obvious need to talk to him more than the usual "How are you?" - "All right, thanks"...
So, for the moment, and until my birthday comes, the mission is talk to him, at least a couple of minutes more than I've done so far, reach that confidential level which I've got to with the S&S guy, take advantage of the time, because when I arrive the gym is quite packed, but by the time I leave there are less than ten people, so he would have more time to chat.
I don't know. I think I'm wasting my time. If it were some sort of hobby, some mental movie to build when I go to sleep, some easy-to-put-aside occupation, just to take my mind off daily stuff like my job or the bad situation at home...and instead it's a 24 hours/day obsession, like most things are for me.
Curiously enough, though, I am becoming more eclectic: I used to concentrate on one obsession at a time, now I have two and a half (running, B&S guy, writing).
I wonder if it's a good thing or yet another sign of my increasing madness...

Meaningless Snapshot (# 4)

On the phone:

"..and don't worry, I will take care of you tomorrow, ok?"
"...oh, uhm, yeah, right, cool, great, thanks then."
"Bye bye, have a good evening, see you tomorrow."


(And for something completely different, Etna - the Italian volcano - is currently erupting. Tv says that there's nothing to be worried about, and that it's a great sight for tourists...
In the meantime, another earthquake in Northern Italy. Actually, two. Apparently autumn and winter are the best months for earthquakes in this country, although my last earthquake was almost two years ago, in November.)

Investigation on the B&S guy (and three meaningless snapshots)

Imagine me on the cross-trainer, with the clear instruction to keep at an aerobic level vs. warm-up level (S&S guy won't get enough evidence that YES! I AM FIT!), and feeling hot, plus nervous at the thought of talking to anybody in the gym (i.e., nervous because I will not pronounce things properly, because my tongue will be faster than my brain, because my brain will react too slowly and I will have the best answer to anything only five to fifty minutes later).
The B&S guy is taking care of two guys, and he's smiled and said hello so beautifully when I arrived (aww).
Task of the day: investigate over the P.P. as an excuse to know the actual status of the B&S guy(see the Recap of the Weekend).
As I am pounding on the cross-trainer, then, I begin the conversation with the S&S guy by asking how the Expo went on Sunday.
First I exchange thoughts on the event.
Then I introduce the image of my friend to have a scapegoat for what I am going to ask.

Me: So, I am here on a mission, tonight.
S&S guy: Are you? What mission?
Me: Well, do you remember my friend of Saturday? If you don't, it doesn't matter (well..she'll have something to say about it!).
S&S: Uhm...kind of...the one with curly hair, wasn't she? (this is a detail Cinzia will not be happy to hear, concerned as she was about not having straightened her hair...)
Me: Correct. Well, she asked me to investigate over one of you, but since I cannot say who, you'll have to tell me who's got girlfriends and who is free...Can you do that?
Puzzled and thoughtful S&S: Yeees...Ok...So...(And I'm using pseudonyms here): Blondie and P.P. have both got girlfriends, B&S and me are single, New-entries-I've-only-met-once should be free too. Oh, and Girlie from the Swimming Pool is engaged, but you probably don't care, right?
Laughters.
Smiling and concentrated Me: Cool. Thanks. Let me recap for a second.
Helpful S&S: Yes, I can say, for sure, Blondie and P.P. are untouchables, and B&S has no girlfriend around. As for me, I should know!, I have no-one at the moment.
Laughters as we go to the matt for some stretching.

Meaningless moments I want to record (future masochist use)

Snapshot one

B&S guy kneeling on the matt working on somebody's legs. Turns towards me, looks at me:
"Hi beautiful!"
"Hello!"
Long look exchanged.
I open carelessly the door to the changing rooms.

Snapshot two

B&S guy going to talk to Fab Massage Girl; turns to look at me on the pseudo-cross trainer. Look exchanged until I divert it to the tv in front of me.

Snapshot three

Right out of the changing room, going to the reception. B&S guy there talking on the phone. I avoid looking at him. He looks at me by the mirror in front of the reception.

Write-a-holic and addicted to....

It's pretty simple, actually: I like writing. I'm a write-a-holic. I'm also a read-a-holic, but more a write-a-holic.
To be completely honest, here is what I am addicted to:

- coffee (black and long, what we call an American coffe. No, not an espresso fan)
- cappuccino, no cocoa on the top. Lots of milk and a drop of coffee is the way I like it best, although then it should be called a white coffe...so, cappuccino AND white coffee.
- "Medium Mug" from Lino's coffee (I'm using the previous name of this wonderful place): amaretto cream, milk, coffee, crashed amarettos on top. I'm not really addicted to it, because they only do it in this place at the shopping mall where I only go once or twice a year, so, no risk to develop an addiction. But still...
- Running: yes, I guess that was easy to see.
- Swimming: not as easy, since I don't swim everyday, but hey, give me my swimming pool on the roof or in the garden and I'll be there 24/7.
- Reading: anything, and I mean it. At breakfast I read the tv guide because I can't be bothered to read only 5 pages of a book while sipping my black coffee, but I have to read.
- Writing: even these useless lists I am so fond of. Letters, diary, blog, emails, shopping lists, training tables, to-do lists for work and oh, my stories!
- Movies: I know, I know...the last movie I've actually seen was Slevin, on August 28th. Not my fault if a day is only 24 hours. I keep saying that I will find the time and then nothing changes. Dvd are my best drug, then. Even though The Lord of the Rings is not exactly great watched on a tv screen...
- Singing: anytime, anywhere. Except in the shower.
- Listening to the music: see "singing".
- Playing my sax: whenever I can, which means very rarely nowadays...and it's a noisy instrument, so I cannot definitely play in the evening..But afternoons with my sax and a cd full of Jan Van Der Roost, Jacob de Haan, and all my favourite pieces, well that's a great afternoon.
- Fruit (and vegetables): cannot choose a favourite fruit, really...Figs, grapes, bananas, apples, pears, anything. Not keen on mango or papaya, but adore coconut; not superfond of strawberries but in love with blueberries and blackberries. Can do without grapefuit, but don't leave me without oranges, tangerines, nectarines, and kiwi (particularly those we grow in our garden). Favourite veg, apart from my all-time number one (carrot), well, that must be grilled aubergine. Oh, and spicy courgettes!
- Sunshine.
- My friends: we only meet once or twice a week, but I enjoy every second. My best memories, my deepest laughters, the largest amount of pixies...with them. They are my life, indeed they are. Although I don't think it is a two-way feeling, but still, I know they care about me, only not at the same level.
- Daydreaming: I was forgetting this one...But it's a vital element to define me. Especially these days, apparently (oh, the B&S guy...).
- B&S guy: new entry! Thinking of him 24/7. No escape. Madly. Every minute of my day is for him. I feel like a sixteen year-old...And oh, he's soooo cute! (...)

A useless recap of the weekend (obsession, obsession, obsession)

I have tried to begin this post about five times, now. I simply cannot find a way to begin, for all I want to say is pushing me to skip introductory phrases and climatic building up. Well, not that there is going to be a climax in the report of the weekend, which has had nothing worth mentioning or remembering, except my bleeding feet (blisters all over after 16 km...do I blame the shoes, the socks, or what?), my new specs (dark pink, beautiful...but haven't got used yet), and a night at the local fitness expo, which I was not interested in (except that there are also beauty centres which give free samples of creams), but where I couldn't wait to go to see the guys of the gym, as I had promised the S&S guy on Thursday.
Very nice, the S&S guy: as I was warming up on the bike we chatted, to the friendly level where he told me that he and his girlfriend has split up and that he is studying for a specialisation degree. I always appreciate when people talk to me and go beyond the explanation of what we will do in that session.
On Saturday night, then, I was all pretty in my mini skirt and white smart blouse and new boots, and yes, I looked at myself in the mirror and thought "Cool". Except my hair, that is: not up, not down...must find something to do with it...
When we arrive at the Expo I'm glad it's quite hot, so I have an excuse to take off my jacket. The place is packed but after all there is nothing interesting to see; or if there were, I wouldn't notice, because I am nervously looking for the booth where the gym guys are.
It is the very last stand, and there are lots of people there: I am greeted by one of the guys, whom my friend instantly classifies as P.P. ("Possible Prey"), and I start chatting with the S&S guy, for quite a while too; in the meantime, the B&S guy is stuck to a chair in front of a computer, because his role is to check the pronation of all the volunteers who feel like taking off their shoes and standing on the carpet to see how they stand on their feet. He insists I take the test too, and I take off my lovely boots, and he jokes on my "lovely socks" ("Heck, girl", Cinzia says afterwards, "socks? Teach your man to speak, they are T-I-G-H-T-S!"). I stand looking in front of me, at the Christmas trees of the hall (Christmas trees? In October? Hello?), and I turn twice to look at him who smiles and says "In front of you!".
A minute later I am back in my boots and standing next to him, who's explaining how my feet are pretty ok and I have "passed the test". I smile, concentrated on his dark eyes, the tiny wrinkles around them, the sincere expression of his face. Boy...
We find an excuse to spend some more time there, because Cinzia wants to try a machine to test her legs' strength, so we wait and chat and all the while I am looking at the B&S guy, busy on his computer, and I think "he really likes his job, this is beautiful", and I am not jealous, but happy for him.
Cinzia does the test, so do I, proving to be pretty strong (well...I run!), the guy chats with Cinzia for a bit (and says a lot of stupid banal things, I must say), and then I go and say goodbye to the B&S guy (his back turned towards me, so to get his attention I decide to touch him, but I'm scared I will be too electric, my touch is superlight on the shirt, but enough for him to feel it and turn and smile) and then to the S&S guy. We leave, and if it weren't for the Christmas trees in the hall behind the chairs where the local tv presenter sits and welcomes her hosts for boring useless interviews, if it weren't for those trees, I say, I could look down to the booth again and see him. Nuts.
We end our evening in a place I had never been before, which is actually more for lovers than for a couple of girl-friends who want to talk about how cute a certain guy is and how desperate the situation is, for there is no chance I can ever progress (a-hem...that would be me..Cinzia was concentrating on her crêpe with icecream..).
When I get home I think and think and think.
Then I fall asleep because it's been a long day and the dream of the B&S guy is better than anything to calm me down and lull me into sleep.
In the meantime, Cinzia wants me to find out if the P.P. is "a free man". Which means I'll have to ask and talk merrily with the S&S guy, tomorrow night. Which could also be the way to find out more about the B&S guy. Because I am 95% sure there is no girlfriend about, but a 100% certainty would be a lot better. And more information is always welcome.
So, another update to come.

The Fuck-it Project (Peggy's version) and Friday rant (bargain: 2 for 1)

Thanks to Rigmor for 1. the inspiration for the title; and 2. for teaching me the word "rant".

Boy oh boy, what an intense life I am leading.

A-hem...note the ironic streak in my writing.

Tonight I'm going to stay at home as part of the Fuck-it Project, whose name is, I confess, copied from Rigmor's F.I.P., although it is an entirely different project.

MY Fuck-it Project is about not caring about things that are no longer priorities.
About spending Friday nights playing boring pieces that would make you fall asleep, except that you are so angry at the thought that this is the kind of music that a "popular" audience doesn't want to hear, and even less is it the kind of music that non-professional musicians of a brass band want to play.
About spending Friday nights playing bad music in an uninterested angry attitude, making the conductor furious at us not listening when he speaks but complaining to each other when we start a new piece that is so unbelievably bad that we can't believe our ears.
About spending Friday nights thinking that I have gone there to spend some time with my friends, only there is no break during rehearsals, because we begin at 9.20 p.m. now and we go on until 10.30 only, and I remember that we used to begin at 9 sharp, break at 10 until 20 past, then back until 11. We have tried to go back to that habit, but if even the conductor at 9 is still outside sorting out the parts and talking to somebody, what can the few adventurous ones do, who've already warmed up?
About spending Friday nights thinking that after playing we will go for a (quick or not too quick) drink and recap of our current situations, if only to know how things are going with university, only to see friends leaving five minutes after the end of rehearsals to go to a boring Irish pub for yet another night with their friends (and boy does it bug me: because we have tried a few times to go with them and stay with them and their friends, but the place is just PACKED with people, and you cannot physically sit down. Or hear, for what matters, for the music is break-my-ears-please loud).
About spending Friday nights being told off for people who have not come to rehearsals (and you are there), who have not helped with the chores or the preparation of the stage for some concert (and you were there with the usual 10 volunteers), who, who, who...And all the while you are thinking that some things are told and some are not, like why bother us and not tell off the real "bad" ones? Why bother me for missing one rehearsal and not say something to the girl with no sense of rhythm who plays percussion and comes to five rehearsals a year, usually once or twice before the date of the concerts? And she plays exceedingly bad, and when we listen to the recordings we are all mad, for all our efforts are wasted and all you can hear is one who has studied her part at home, maybe, but at her won tempo, and she can't care less about following the tempo we are going. Oh, I could go on for hours.
The Fuck-it Project is also about not feeling guilty anymore for missing a rehearsal, a dinner, a meeting where you are "always well accepted" but somehow they can make you feel like you are a guest, so speak freely, but remember, nothing you will say will make us change our minds.
It is about not feeling guilty for not going to yet another Sunday morning, come rain or sunshine, wearing the most uncomfortable of uniforms, playing and marching for hours, listening to boring speeches, carrying around a 8-kg saxophone (my back thanks), only to hear the conductor and the members of the board complain because we are only 30, and people should be more responsible about their duties towards the band.
It is about not caring if the time we used to spend together was really good and the time we are (not) spending together is real shit.
It is about doing things that I really like, and playing music for 5 year-old beginners is not exactly something I like (I used to play studies for saxophone for students of the 5th grade at music school, so the arrangement of some Italian pop song is not exactly like playing an adaptation from Paganini). So, if my Friday night can be more productive than this, if only because I will have one more running session or I will read more or write more, or just watch a movie (last time I actually watched a movie was...August, 28th. A movie-lover who doesn't watch movies...), then be my guest, I'll do something else.

Another sleepless night (Io non dormo, e penso a te...)

Chronicle of a sleepless night

(Perhaps I should start from the - lack of - events of the evening.)

The evening sees me with less cramps than usual, jumping about in the gym, proud to show off my great heart beat and endurance to a shocked S&S guy, who calls me "dearest" and laughs when I say that I'm not afraid of whatever he will make me do, tonight.

So, off to the cross-trainer, treadmill, cross-trainer again, abs, bum, arms and shoulders, weights, a whole hour and a half and I'm barely breaking a sweat. Final stretching and I'm in the changing room getting dressed in my office smart kit.
Please note: the B&S guy has greeted me twice: once when I have arrived, and once while I was going from machine to machine, calling me the sweetest of names, which nobody has ever called me. He asks if everything is ok, explains what we are going to do (funny, that personal trainers always say "we": after all, "they" don't do much apart from showing "us" what to do and how. Then they only look!), smiles when I say that I feel great and says that I'll soon be swimming like a dolphin.

I am slow as usual, and only smile and reply weak sentences, I don't even get near him, in fact, and consequently I spend the whole session looking at him from the distance, in the mirrors, walking about, pretending to be looking for the S&S guy to ask him things (that is only half true: matter of fact, I only partially listen to his instructions - I have other things in my mind, that is clear, I guess? - and have to invent the time I must spend on the treadmill, or the incline and speed to select, or the reps...).
When I go back to the counter, at the end of the session, to see about my next appointment, the B&S guy looks at me once, only once. But he's on the other side of the gym, taking care of a guy with a really bad back and a whole lot of complaints and refusals to stretch any further...

So home I go, and have a banana, a mug of hot milk and 4 biscuits; I watch tv, or better I outline the parts of the story I had left behind in the summer while watching tv, and I start yawning at about 11, so I decide it's bed-time (my first prime-time mistake: yawning must not be considered as a go-to-bed warning).

So off to bed I go, and I think I fall asleep right away, with blurred images of the B&S guy and I chatting merrily in a bubble of bright silence.
It's some time later in the night. I believe it must be about 4, as my awakenings...but no, I cannot trust this, considering the last sleepless nights at any possible time of the night.

So, let's check: 1.37.

Honestly, I am shocked. And agitated, totally restless, I understand this is not going to fade and I am not going back to sleep just by changing position.
So I get up, and get changed in shirt, sport bra and gym trousers. Because the plan was, and has been for the whole week, to wake up a bit early and do some easy work out and stretching prior to anything else, to awaken my body. Well, here I am then!

Ball, matt, everything set, walkman playing R.E.M., and me breathing in and out with every movement for a whole hour.

As "Find the river" begins, I am halfway through the final stretching and just as electric and full of stamina as before. I think that if I were living alone and had a stationary bike or a cross-trainer (the treadmill is definitely too noisy) I would use them right now. But I can't, and anyway, an hour is enough. Now I need to cool down.
Hot milk, my bed, and the book I am struggling to continue. I read for about an hour. Check the time, it's 4.30 by now. More yawns come my way and still I don't realise that they are NOT a switch-off-the-light-and-sleep signal. But I switch off the light and try to sleep. After texting about 7 people to let them know that I am sleepless because I have only one single thought in my mind and it's driving me crazy (oddly enough, I get an answer almost immediately from a friend whom I thought would be fast asleep at this time of the night).
My dreams are all but normal for the next (hours? minutes? who knows?) and I wake up with the weather forecast followed by Madonna on the radio.
I only have the time to prepare my liquorice tea and an apple for work, and here I am, mind in a thick mist of confusion and the usual mess on my desk, plus a nervous boss who wants me to send an order confirmation to Australia so that they can open a letter of credit and gets angry when I say I haven't sent it yet, "it' already eight p.m. there!", "well", I'd like to reply, "then they couldn't open the L/C even if they wanted to, right? Or are Australian banks open 24 hours/day?". But my mind is trying to wake up, and this is the strangest feeling, for my body is perfectly awake and if I could I would go for a run right now. (In fact, tonight I'm going swimming.). So I don't reply to my boss and go back to the mess on my desk. And guess what? All the time I've had the idée fixe in my mind, of a way to talk to the B&S guy, and the continuous daydream of his smile directed to me and only me.

Any idea on how I can go back to a normal, bored me? One who sleeps and is content with running, reading, writing? One who simply dreams of a better job and doesn't lose her head over a hopeless romance that will never begin?
I am never satisfied, am I?

Welcome, shop-a-holics of the new world

Yes folks, let's raise our glasses to my entry in the magical world of size 44 (I think it is size 10 for the UK).
Less than an hour after the beginning of the shopping day, the result was as follows:

Shop-a-holic friend: 0
New-size-44 me: 5

By the end of the day my self-esteem was high up in the clouds and my daydreams a lot brighter (and the final result was 3-7...).
Not that this means that I will suddenly get an invitation from the B&S guy just because now I have dropped a size. But still, confidence: confidence is good. Confidence makes me look in the mirror and think "Decent" rather than "Awful". Confidence makes me feel less shy, somehow, even though it doesn't solve the problem of the girlie girls lightly jumping around the gym.

To celebrate, yesterday I ran.
I ran so much I could hear my legs scream.
As a result of over-training and under-eating, I spent a sleepless night (light off at 23.30, just not sleepy, then woke up at 3.30, at least there was "Dancer in the dark" on tv, so I watched it, then went back to bed, tossed and turned for about an hour - I kept checking the time-, woke up at 6.20 thinking I had heard my radio alarm going off, started thinking confusingly about calling sick at work, dropped to sleep until almost 7, woke up definitely at 7.10 for coffee and a thermos of liquorice tea to bring at work. Running the 10K was a lot easier than spending this sort of night).
As a result, my mind is clouded and I cannot focus on the massive amount of paperwork neatly divided in my file. And my writing lacks verve, today, I'm so tired.
Thank God my boss is abroad until Thursday, although so far he's called me five times already...

I have been thinking about my next actions with the B&S guy (BTW, notice that in spite of my decision to give myself only one week more - expired by now - and to brainwash, my mind is still on that one single track): it is a crazy plan, actually, so as a precaution (call it superstition) I will not write it here.
Instead I'll try to stick to this decision, not let time pass and my miserable me take over.
I'm just so damned scared.
My mantra for the days to come:
Obstacles are those frightening things that we see when we take our eyes off our goals.

Or close to this.

The Day After (and a Bad Hair Day too)

So....On Monday I had written a witty forecast of what I thought would happen and what I would have liked to happen on the night of the Great Event of the Week.
It is all very nice to try to be funny now, because I think this is the best way I can face things when they turn against my wishes (which they always do when I am in this kind of situation).
Still, I'm going headlong towards the "Desperate Kingdom of Shattered Feelings", and it doesn't feel that good.
My crazy mind is seriously thinking about chatting for a minute with him, on Tuesday, at the gym, just to have some contact, try to progress, see if he wants to progress.
"Progress" is a huge word, really..Cross that out and put "begin" instead. Or any synonim that implies the blank state of being nowhere in space and time with somebody.

Oh, probably I should mention that he was not there, yesterday.

I'm drinking gallons of tea.

I'm thinking that tomorrow I'm going to a huge shopping mall, 200 shops to get lost in, with a shop-a-holic friend who will help me through the difficult task of buying "things that I don't really need but which will make me look cooler when I wear them and therefore I may be more attractive". My feminist me screams and shouts when I say this sort of things!
But it's true! I have gone from gym to gym only to see more girlie girls and 50-something women and business-women and "multimedia" women (mother who's in perfect shape after three kids+businesswoman+wife+trendyfriend - all combined in one) all wearing tight shirts and tiny shorts, with breadstick-like arms and legs, or curvy-but-just-perfect bums, showing the typical attitude of "I only want to be a bit more toned, you know, but actually I think I am perfect and have only come here to show off". And what I think and see is, I am not that different (except that I am a bit more curvy, but the curvy that feels good, which makes me look like a woman and not like a 10 year-old girl), so I suppose I shold get some looks from "the boys", right?
Then I think, it's all because of my torso, which is a swimmer's torso, more developed than, say, a runner's, and this make me look a lot fatter than I am, and there is really nothing I can do about it, because it isn't something you lose by dieting or exercising, it's the way my bones and muscles have developed after 15 years of semi-professional swimming, but obviously the average man will not think that (and for what matters, not even the average woman will), they will go straight to the "fat girl" classification, which annoys me like mad, like the time I was out with a couple of girlfriends and we were jokeing with the bartender and one of us suggested another round of Vodka (sigh..my drinking days), and the bartender simply looked at me and said something like "well, you can afford that", as in "you're fat and a bit more alcohol won't affect your ability to drive because it will be absorbed a lot better than for these poor thin girls who are out with you".
I don't think I have expressed myself that well.
What I mean is, there are lots of contrasting thoughts in my mind, all related to my being physically "abnormal" and living in a world of people who: 1. don't exercise therefore have no muscles whatsoever; 2. don't exercise therefore have no muscles therefore are thin and light; 3. don't exercise therefore have no muscles therefore are thin and light therefore get noticed more; and people who 1. exercise less than I do and yet look better and fitter; 2. exercise less than I do and lose weight, tone up, look fab after a month; 3. exercise less than I do and get exactly the shape they wanted to look even greater.
Do I scare people? Disgust them? Do I look ridiculous when I wear smart clothes, mini-skirts, and such?
I remember this episode on my English book, when Arthur and Mary are going to a party, and Mary has bought this cute green dress; so has her friend whatshername, who's just a little plumpier than Mary. I remember the comment of a classmate, girl, who said with a smirk "look, she's trying to look as good as Mary, poor idiot", or something of the kind, and me being a lot fatter back then, I felt so ashamed.
I also remember being at the swimming pool with friends and looking at the girls, one by one, being thrown in the water by the guys. Noticed? I said "looking".
And I remember friends sitting on their friends'/boyfriends' laps. Something which I couldn't do even now, even thought my BMI is supernormal and my weight is perfect for my height. But I still look fat, don't I? And what bugs me is that I have decreased my size while manufacturers have decreased the sizes of clothes, so now a Large is actually a Small, so I still have to buy L or XL for my Medium me, and feel guilty and fat. Epecially when I have to ask for a larger size (that's why I don't like shop assistants: they're all skinny little bitches who look at your miserable self and merciless tell you that no, 46 is the largest size they have, and if they could throw you out of the shop to avoid bad publicity they would do it regardless).
Sometimes I feel tired beyond reason. Sometimes I think "fuck all, why bother, I'll eat and drink like everybody else does". Sometimes I think that eventually I will find somebody who will take me as I am.
Then something clicks in me, and I get changed in trainers and shorts, and I'm running miles, music out loud in the headphones, and bright images of a normal world flow in my mind.
Then the daydreams get more real as the miles increase, and all feels good, and I'm breathing fresh air and I am thinking that tomorrow something good will happen and I will feel well.

Visualize is the key to success

I'm leaving for the gym in 30 minutes.
I'll work out for an hour.
I'll go home straight away.
I'll take a shower, or maybe a hot bath (uhm..better).
I'll carefully choose the clothes.
Because the ones I've been thinking about for two days will not be good for the night.
Or I will look extremely ugly and fat in them, all of a sudden.
I will make up my eyes, light silver eye shadow.
Somebody said that my eyes look like deep lakes when I wear make up.
...No comment.
I will choose some new cd to play in my car on the way to the restaurant, so that I can sing out really loud as I'm driving.
I will take deep, deep breaths starting from now on to stop these awful cramps.
I will think what I always think: "Hey, they are nice guys and easy-going, so there's no need to be worried beforehand".
And also "This is going to be a good evening, whatever happens".
And also "Carpe diem".
And again "There are no surprises when nothing is expected" (Robbie Williams...) (which sounds pessimistic but it helps).
And now, breath in.....
.....Breath out.....

Friends?

Just a quick thought, today: what is wrong with friends?
Ok, I'll explain: life-long friend, we've know for (oh, already) 22 years (now that's a lot!) and we are very close to each other, even though sometimes we don't get to see for months, in spite of living literally five minutes away (by car...).
I don't know how to say it better than this: if she doesn't feel like going out for a drink, why can't she simply say so? Instead of making up excuses, or texting me the morning after saying she had her mobile somewhere else or was kept at work until late (which happens, mind: the Awful Winter Time is beginning for her: working time from 5.30 am to 11 pm, if she's lucky).
What I mean is, honesty? Ever heard of it? Or am I the only one who uses basic words like "Not this time, thanks" when somebody invites me oout (and that rarely happens...My refusing the invitation, that is).
It really bugs me.
It's like when somebody says "maybe next week we could go out for a drink or something" and then that "next week" never arrives.
Or I try to organise something and am continuously turned down by this one person who cannot come home for that weekend, this other who's waiting for the boyfriend to arrive, this who must study (!!!), this who is home but feels bad for not spending some time with her parents.
Boy, is it just me?
Of course I don't get out much, and I like seeing my friends as often as I can since we rarely meet apart from the couple of hours on Friday during rehearsals. And I've said it before, right after playing they all leave to meet their other friends. Unfortunately MY other friends live too far from me to just take the car and go and see them at 11 pm. And it bugs me that I should be the one who cares and wants to spend some quality time, if only to catch up with the recent news. Even if there aren't any.
Now, we (I) were trying to organise a dinner, which we do once or twice a year. When? Good question!
Halloween's week: one of us has three parties to go (ok, maybe not three, but you get the point), one is not home, one is not coming home before Friday...
The week my parents are away on holiday (bless them, a whole week of peace): they are all at university, and on the night of Saturday of that same week we have THE dinner of the band (another GREAT EVENT, but this is all in capital letters), which means that on Sunday they will all be catching up with the drinking and the non-sleeping.
So...no dinner. See you next year, then.
Personally I keep repeating that I'm sick and tired of trying to organise these things.
Then I always fall back and do my best to find a night to meet.
I crash against the same wall over and over again.
And this train of thought is only prompted by the fact that tomorrow I really wanted to go out for a quick drink before the Great Event of the Week and I bet a million euros that she will not answer my mail, or not answer my message (which I am therefore not going to send), or will find any excuse not to come, even if this means crossing the street to go to the cafè opposite her house.
Anwyay.
My treadmill is waiting for me and I've got to go.

The Great Event of the Week

I have not written about the Great Event of the Week yet, aka one more reason for continuous cramps.
On Friday, at the gym (where I worked out with the other guy, not with the B&S guy...who chatted with me for a minute or two, but nonetheless had to stay with another person, and when we had to plan for this week he said that I could organise with the other guy, who from now on is going to be named the S&S guy - Sweet&Smiling Guy) (it bugs me, that I've had to work out with the S&S guy three times now, because now that I was ready to talk and all, I cannot be with him anymore! How unfair is that? And what can I do? Being a personal trainer he doesn't wander about the place looking here and there, but focuses on one person at a time.. So either I go talking to him while he's "working on" somebody or...I just don't do anything and look at him every now and then...), anyway, I went to the gym on Friday and among the casual warming chat (how are things going, thank God it's Friday, how are your shoulders feeling and please forgive me but on Fridays I tend to be slightly more bonkers than I usually am) he threw in the meeting to celebrate the first year of opening (I had already seen the notice on the door, actually...and my mind had already gone very, very far...): this meeting will take place on Thursday, which is..in two days' time, and it's a dinner, and I'm torn between so many feelings that I most certainly cannot be rational as I outline my thoughts.
Which are:
1. I would like to go, if only to spend a night out
2. I would like to go, if only to spend a night out looking at a guy whom I find attractive and therefore a couple of hours of looking at him could make me feel well
3. I would like to go, if only because most of the times a night out like this is a way to have unexpected fun
4. I'm scared at the idea of going, because there will be the usual trendy skinny bitchy girls, all smartly dresses and made up, looking at me and at my unmade face and not-so-smart-but-kinda-cool clothes;
5. I'm very scared at the idea of going because I will end up being with people I don't know who will know each other and therefore have fun with me trying to be a part of it and feeling like I am in the wrong place completely;
6. Not to mention the fact that the trendy skinny bitchy girls will be the heart of the night, talking and laughing and jokeing and being generally admired by all the men who will scarcely look at me, or will sometime notice me when I get up and leave, and then they will ask: "has she been here all evening? I've never seen her".
6. I'm terrified at the idea of going and spending the evening looking at a guy I find attractive, only to see that he's having fun and he's talking and laughing with the usual trendy skinny bitchy girls whose DNA is filled with flirty genomes - unlike mine.

The plan is as follows:
tonight I am going to the gym (before going on I should mention that I'm not happy with telephones. I'm not one who calls and chats, not even with my closest friends. I simply don't like it; I don't like calling to book visits or tables at the restaurant, or such. So this explains what I am going to say now), I'm going to the gym at 18.30. Actually, see?, on Friday the S&S guy and I decided that I would be there at 18.30, then on Saturday morning I got this message from the B&S guy who said that I was also going to have the massage at 19.00, so...what happens, I do half hour and then massage and then another half hour? Unlikely! And confusing. The idea to me is that I would start everything at 19 with the massage and go on afterwards with the work out. Which means that I will be there half hour earlier. And possibly look like a sissy, sitting there with my huge book (I've just started "Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrel"). Anyway.
So, gym, and then I will put my name on the list. Which I would like to do when the B&S guy is there, maybe while or right after planning our next meeting, although I have the feeling that next time too he will be with somebody else so I will actually be planning my next session with the S&S guy...But I will try and chat about the night a bit, with both of them. See their reactions. Somehow.
This is when my rational me comes out and screams WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?????
On Sunday I was out with a very close friend of mine: love him to bits, he's so special. He can even make me feel well with myself, showing me the chances I could have if only I weren't always thinking over things the way I do.
I told him about a couple of things of this story: that the B&S guy had smiled when I told him that I was single, and that during a conversation that happened between him, two more guys and me as the only girl, he mentioned that he's single. My friend thought these facts as very significant. Said that I really had to catch this train, as he put it. And advised a couple of glasses of wine to relax. (...)
So, the final plan is to put my name on that list, calm down, select good clothes for the night, and take my mind off things. Carpe diem, enjoy the moment as it comes.
Not that this is ever going to happen...
Update on the subject on Friday morning.
And now, for something completely different...back to work!

Just a note, right back from my lunch break, to confirm that I'm taking this too seriously and I'm utterly crazy.
I found a missed call on my mobile.
From the B&S guy.
I thought it was because of the misunderstanding with tonight's appointment.
Called him back.
He denies calling me (!), which will be the subject of a chat tonight (...).
But, almost ten minutes after calling him, my hands are still shaking...

Divided Kingdom

I like talking about books. Discuss them. So here we begin.

First book of the list is Divided Kingdom (read about it here) and a list of things about it:

• Interesting idea, of course. I went to the website and found that there is the assignment test, which would send me straight to the Green Quarter, with the melancholic lot. Quite appropriate, I must say. It was also helpful so I could see how the whole system would work, because after all I did answer a few things tending towards the sanguine, rather than the melancholic. But I'm a predominant "green", and I could say that I wouldn't be a phlegmatic (too nervous!) nor a choleric (though my brother would definitely be assigned there, no doubt whatsoever). Talking to a friend, and outlining the main idea of the reassignment, he asked an interesting question: what if you are classified a green but as you grow up you become a blue? Which is a correct question, especially for children, isn't it? I guess I would have classified a sanguine, like many children, but then I turned a melancholic due to the experiences of my life. Then again, as the book puts it, when you are assigned to a quarter you become what you were expected to become, unless you show some switch to another mood that urges a change, like Jones does in the book. Thomas too becomes a melancholic when he's reassigned to the Blue Quarter; he doesn't spend enough time in the Yellow Quarter to become a choleric, although he acts like one when he has to cross the border. But then, it wouldn't have been in him, to act as a choleric, i.e. an aggressive person. I wonder if with time he would have become one, if only to survive.
• Which leads to the idea that basically the reassignment system shapes the personality: your answers tend to a choleric mood, so off you go. But maybe if I had been put in the Blue Quarter I would have calmed down, adjusted my aggressiveness, wouldn't I? Or spending some time in the Yellow Quarter, me being a phlegmatic, would have made me develop a little aggressiveness, a little confidence, maybe. In the end, spending some time in each quarter would have been a useful idea. Which leads to the final thought, that you cannot divide people this easily, for we are lots of things at once and this is what makes us unique.
• The time Thomas spends with the White People is very interesting. They are the clandestine people, the immigrants (illegal or not) of our time. They are feared of (although for different reasons from our fear of immigrants - practical reasons, I mean: the WP are feared of because they are said to have psychic powers or such; but in any case the reason people fear and end with hating them is ignorance, diversity), and hated, to the point of being attacked and mistreated even by those who should protect them (police &Co.). But it's interesting to notice the changes in the main character when he travels with them, almost becoming like them, not only because he interrupts the usual means of communication, but because he understands what they feel and why they behave that way. Which is the main thing with people from other places, isn't it? Only we are too lazy or too scared to go deeper into these subjects and we (almost always) prefer stereotypes. I'm not being moralistic here, because I know it is not that easy. But the idea is, the White People have not formed a personality yet, and this is a risk that must be avoided: to put a possible choleric personality in the Blue Quarter, or a Melancholic in the Red would bring to no good. (However, it seems that the problem would arise only with a mingle of these three colours: the Red Quarter is virtually invincible, although the book shows that even a sanguine personality can be corrupted). Anyway, being unclassifiable makes them scary because you never know how to treat them, and what to expect of them: which is the thing with people from other cultures. You cannot be sure that a smile, a glance, a gesture, will be understood this way or that, not to mention the linguistic problem: irony, kindness..it's hard enough, sometimes, to be understood among your own "people".
• The White People, on the other hand, can be so multifaceted that every colour of the world is inside them; that's why they don't respond to the rigid set of questions that would define them; that's why they don't talk. They have no race or colour because they don't belong anywhere, they belong to the Universe, if I can put it this way. Maybe in another story they could be thought of as sacred figures, rather than outcasts.
  
  Well, this is just a list of some things that have gone through my mind during and after reading the book. Of course there could be much more. But I'm still waiting for that phone to ring and my boss to say "Come on, and take all the papers with you", and I'm dreading that moment...

Playing on Mars

Saturday, 7th. H 15.00.
The bus leaves, packed with strange people all dressed in blue uniforms, laughing, talking, yawning.
The bus crosses the mountains, filled with sunshine, speeds along the lake, bright and beautiful; the strange people dressed in blue uniforms have taken off their jackets, rolled up the sleeves. Laughters are louder, words deeper; somebody's sleeping.
An hour goes by. A voice on the microphone fills the recent silence with details and instructions. The strange people look around, trying to understand where they are.
The bus crosses a street; somebody says "we're in the city centre! There's the university there!" and the strange people understand that they have arrived. The bus turns on a crowded street where no cars are allowed, a street filled with shops and people, young and old, all elegant for the great occasion of every Saturday afternoon: the up and down parade of the show-off. Girls in high heels, smart dresses, mini skirt and boots, shiny make up, holding the hand of some boy in designer jeans, cool top, polished shoes, his hair (only apparently) casually arranged by means of hair-gel, his eyes dark and suspicious. Every head turns towards the bus, looks at the strange people who are looking down, in disbelief and curiosity.
On the bus, the strange people are putting on their jackets again, and some grab their black cases and blue files; the doors of the bus open, but nobody gets out.
"Ok: who's going to get down first?"
"Boy, it feels like we're landing on Mars! Look at them!"
"A small step for man, a giant step..."
Laughters.
A tall black-haired girl carefully descends the steps, followed by another short-haired girl, and another, and another: soon the tiny part of the street the bus has stopped at is filled with strange people dressed in blue uniforms and instruments and worn black cases.
The strange people start walking and carrying the cases and instruments along the street, in casual order, followed by the eyes of the smart people around them, until they get to a semi-desert square, where chairs are being put in semi-circle and music stands are being assembled. The strange people in blue uniform work together and chat and scream, while a group of punk teenagers look at them from the far side of the square, silent and bored.
Once the chairs are all in place and so are the stands, the strange people assemble their instruments, and soon casual notes are echoing in the square, along with the instructions to get in line and prepare: the strange people gather casually until a mass of tidy blue is formed and stands noisily in front of the stage. The blue crowd starts walking, back to where it came from, it crosses more streets, half running, laughing, looking around, smiling at the astonished curious faces of the smart people lined outside shops and cafes; another square fills with their voices and laughers, more elegant people gather in front of them as they begin to play, as a city bus approached at the corner of the square and patiently waits for the song to end. When the last note is played and shy hands begin to clap, the blue crowd turns, and a man in front of it lifts his hand high up in the air, and lowers it quickly with a waving movement: new notes fill the square, and an echo lingers there as the blue crowd begins to march, and plays and marches along the streets and on the sidewalks, until they get back to the previous square, where the stage is lit by the dim light of the sun.

And that is how the blue crowd sits on unconfortable chairs and plays to the smart people sitting outside the cafes, to the passers-by, to the bored punk teenagers. They play and play, holding the laughters when the bells of the church begin to toll in time with a song, holding hands before a solo, releasing relaxed smiles after the solo has been performed, standing up at the waving sign of the conductor, looking around at people clapping.
The square empties: only the punk teenagers are still there. The strange people in blue uniform close the music stands, wipe their instruments and put them back in their cases, approach a table where some refreshment is being offered: chilled white wine, frozen orange juice, crisps, sesame breadsticks. The blue people eat, chat, more laughters echo in the square; then, little by little, in small groups, they pick up instruments and cases and gather where the bus is waiting for them, climbing up and sitting back where they were when they left.
They take off their jackets, roll up the sleeves, close their eyes to sleep, talk little; they look out of the windows at the lights of the city, at the darkness approaching.

Copy and paste from paper to blog

It's good not to have my boss around, because I get to do my job in a more relaxed attitude. But I also get easily bored, so I end up writing and writing and writing without having much to say...

This is something I wrote on my paper diary. It makes sense to put it here to get yet a clearer idea of what I'm going through with the B&S guy thing.
Written on the evening of September, 25th.

I'm listening to soothing classical music: the air on a G string by Bach, one of my very favourite.
And I'm daydreaming again.
Is it going to end, I ask myself? Or am I just heading towards self-destruction the short span of a couple of months? Because in December I guess I'll end the cycle of back and shoulder training, feeling physically well and with (hopefully) less tension, but what about my heart?
All these cramps that make me almost bend in two when they hit me, suddenly, treacherous blades across my stomach, even when I'm not thinking about him.
Was this something I needed, I looked for, unconsciously? Haven't I learnt the lesson yet?
Loving is pain, endless, burning, undeletable and unforgettable.
Daydreaming is also to be avoided.
[...]
I am allowed a few fantasies over a non-existent person who may see something good in me, something to love, I am allowed this, to lull me into sleep. But to fantasise on a real person, someone out there, someone with a real life, now that's dangerous.
Because how can he love me, how can he ever like me, what good can he find in me, what part of my body, of my self, can he be attracted to?
I am ordinary, banal, a face lost in the crowd, a voice that's easily forgotten.
I am no great love of anybody's life, and I will never be, I should just give these fantasies up, right now.
Instead I was reading my blog, today, reading my perfect story of how he would kiss me the first time, and at the same time I was thinking that I had imagined it too far in time, I wanted it to happen now, I am restless, I want to see him now, talk, take his hand, be kissed.
When he took my hand during the session he said "What cold hands!" and we smiled; we talked about swimming and he was shocked when I told him about my record at the marathon, I felt as if he was putting me on a scale, and I was proud to show off for once, and then he said he wanted to go back to swim too, was I wrong when I took that for a hint of some kind, although I cannot classify it?
My mind is playing these subtle, sly tricks on me, and I am torn between what I think and feel, and what I know is the truth, which is that he is not interested in me, like everybody else.
I should simply be content for the warm touch of his hands when he helps me through the session: I cannot recall the last time a boy took my hand.
But I cannot stop thinking about it, dreaming about it, talking about it [...], and I was right when I told Luisa that this is dangerous because it's too close to the feeling I had for HIM, the one who must not be named without sensing the missing piece of my heart that has gone with him, like feeling the pain in an arm that has been cut off.
[...] This is basically my best form of self-inflicted torture: seeing the object of my desire, being painfully close to him without touching him or telling him anything, just looking at him and at the same time projecting my imaginary me at his side, building up fragment after fragment of a beautiful story of love, and all the while watching him going away from me, finding a partner, a life-long companion that is not going to be me.
I am a true masochist.
[...]

I had a title for this long post on the update of the situation, but all the writing made me forget it

Ok, an update is the best idea at the moment, since I have absolutely nothing to do.
One, I am not moving, after all.
We are at the non-talking stage, which is fine for me, and I don't care if he thinks he's right and that I'm an arrogant idiot.
To think that it all started with one of his usual remarks about whether I knew the glycaemia index of my third slice of bread (bread is one of the few foods I still enjoy eating: most things have bored me, even those I really used to love, like - hear, hear - chocolate and ice-cream. So being one of the foods I still enjoy eating I sometime behave like a greedy pig and eat a slice too many, because it is so good).
My reply: Doh! Of course I do, you boring bastard!
(A-hem, that was the answer in my mind only: I still feel like I should pay respect to the people who brought me on this planet and took care of me for nearly twenty years, despite the way they - he - treat me). I wasn't born yesterday, and being this food-obsessed person I always know what's going into my stomach: its nutritional qualities must pass a strict test set up by my brain which will otherwise command to stop the food from going down.
Like fried things: a small bite is as much as my stomach accepts before feeling sick; same thing for butter-rich food, like...anything, really. And so on.
I mean, I read and study on almost a daily basis about all these subjects, and I know the values of everything that I ingest. So, I know that sunflower bread does have a high glycaemia index and therefore will take my sugar level up to the stars, only to suddenly crash down and make me feel hungry. But I am allowed foods of this list every now and then, like a couple of times a week, which is when I have some white bread at lunch and my special weekend breakfast with my beloved rice pudding. So, to cut it short, stop taking me for a nursery school child, will you?
Oh, god, I'm so sick of fighting over these idiotic subjects.
How many 28 year-old people must argue over food, or sleep patterns? Over the amount of bran I add in my yogurt in the morning (low glycaemia index vs. 4 slices of white toast with butter and jam, which is his breakfast...followed by a bowl of tea and two pills to control his heart and blood pression...)? Over catching up with the fruit I don't eat during the day by snacking lightly after my run with a fruit cocktail and a mug of hot milk? Over spending my weekends the way I prefer, that is usually running, seeing a couple of friends, running again, reading and watching tv, and not necessarily going men-hunting in order to find somebody to marry and settle down? (Ok, these are not the right days to think about my emotional situation, what with the B&S guy. But still, his idea is that I should have found a man by now, and seriously settled with children and so on, and every time a friend of mine announces a wedding or a birth, or a move-in with the boyfriend, I have two reactions: the first is self-pity at my miserable condition, then the anger at the response I'll get in the family. But this is entirely a different story).
I remember the time he told my brother to go out and catch some sun, because he looked like an ill old man: we were in the middle of July and my brother is a bit of a lizard, unlike me, but when it's too hit even lizards hide in the shade, particularly with about 40°C and the highest rate of humidity recorded in the past 50 years. Brother got so angry at being called a slug (literally) that snapped and started an argument over being adult enough as to decide independently what was best for him, and the usual things we both say and think every time "god" wants to give us pieces of his illuminated mind.
Which we don't really want, thank you.
Which we have received for all our lives and therefore cannot bear anymore.
Which are mostly total nonsense and even out of time, sometime, or spoken out of sheer arrogance for being "the one who knows".
Like, practical and recent example: I booked a flight for him to go to the convention of the company he works for. Booking made for Friday morning. He then received news that the company had changed the bookings to Thursday night. He tells my mother, who wonders how they got to change a reservation I had done, paying with my credit card and using my details. He laughs, and says that we're not in the middle age any more, you know? That the company guys must have contacted Ryanair and told them the change all the reservations for them all.
Now, you sensible people, how idiotic is this? Of course my booking had not been changed...for Ryanair would have asked my credit card details, and the company couldn't have them...
So, the answer was, the company had booked the flight by themselves and paid for all, then changed all the reservations: my booking had been done by mistake, because "god" had not understood a single thing of what they had told him and had thought he had to book himself.
40 euros wasted which I will never see again, but that's not the point.
Last night I was thinking about how sad it is, when you get to the point of hating somebody and wishing him to be dead.
Because that's my feeling.
He's useless on this earth, and has always been.
He's getting worse and worse.
When he's out for work and cannot come home for lunch, we are happy.
This is sad, isn't it?
I remember when I wrote that composition at the primary school, the first step of my writing career (I'm being ironical here...): when I had to describe my mum, I only got an 8; but with the description of my father, it was the school master who read it and gave me a 10.
I know it's the typical feeling of daughters for their fathers, a special love, some sort of Aedipus complex (the Electra complex, I know. If your mind develops normally you overcome it, of course), so I was a lot more inspired when I wrote that than when I wrote the one about my mother.
(I should say that I went past the stage of overcoming the complex: I simply crossed the line between love and hate, and what's worse, I was brought to it! But what is worse still, is that so many things he does are done in the belief that they are for good, for my well-being. And his anger when I refuse to listen to him is because he wants to help me and I don't accept his help!)
But to think back now, about all the love, is too sad.
My very first memory is of me sitting on his lap, when I was really little (we were still in the wood house, so I can't have been more than 2). We were watching tv and I remember my thought to be that with the blanket wrapped around us I was too hot, but without it I was cold.
This is my first memory.
Sad beyond comprehension.
This is not even the beginning, really, but I'll stop here.
And I don't even know how to conclude.

Unexpected

Ok, this will be official only next week, but...I am moving!
I have spent less than 15 minutes on the phone calling several agencies and what I got is the offer of what sounds like a nice apartment (or flat if you want to be British, I remember writing this before) at an incredibly good price, which made me wonder about the differences of renting prices between an unanimous town which is not mentioned on tourist guides of the valley and an apparently important tourist resort where apartments cost just as much as the flat my brother is currently renting in a big city up North.
Anyway.
At first I thought it would be too big, but now I've thought it over: I have a lot of things and the price is exceptional. So my evening is not going to be run-shower-meeting-book, but agency-meeting-shower-book-sleepless night due to tension due to this unexpected turn. I hope I can get everything sorted out by the end of next week and start packing.
This comes so suddenly, doesn't it.
But it's the right path I'm taking, after being called yet again a "slow-witted, ignorant, arrogant idiot". It's about time I gave myself what I deserve: respect. Fear is not good. I cannot be afraid of what I do, when I do, what I say, the tone I use when I say it; I remember it took a long time to make my father understand that even though when he and mum arrive back from Sunday walks I am lying on the couch it doesn't necessarily mean that I've been there all day. Simply because he doesn't see me eat it doesn't mean that I don't eat.
Freedom of speech, freedom of thought...no bell ringing?
Of course not. We are all little insects with no brain who are so damn stubborn as not to accept every word he says as TRUTH, but grow little ideas and opinions and are crazy enough (or slow-witted as he puts it) to stand up for them.
It's time for a change.
I am going to call the agency now and see if I can fix an appointment and start whatever needs to be done.
Update to follow.

Bad vibrations

Another sleepless night...It seems that Tuesday is THE night, when with an inner alarm clock I wake up at 4.16. Precisely.
And I go for a cup of hot milk, reruns of the X-Files, and then back to bed, where I read until about 6 o'clock, when I feel my eyes closing again and I sink into the coma until 7.15.
I wonder if this depends on what I do in the evening of Tuesday, i.e., seeing the B&S guy. Although last night I didn't really work out with him, but with the other guy, who looks very sweet. I did work out very well even though my eyes were in a terrible condition and I kept "crying", my vision blurred.
When I went to the counter to pay for the past two weeks he asked me if I was still going swimming, so I told my story of going in the evening, trying to go on Saturday to check on the amount of people, being unable to go, and all that. Somehow I still feel like giving a go to a quick swim at lunchtime, and I was thinking of really going on Monday, with the good excuse that this Saturday I cannot go either, because we're out playing. Just to try. Just to see if we meet.
I'm crazy, because I found myself a good excuse to daydream a bit more due to the fact that yesterday we didn't spend our usual time together. So obviously I must catch up, right?

To change subject for a minute, I am deeply annoyed by the situation with the website of the band, to the point that I am thinking about deleting the link on my blog (as if it made any difference) and, even though I wouldn't cancel my inscription (mostly not to disappoint the only person who would be truly disappointed) I am not going back again. It is pretty useless to say what I think and offer solutions or opinions or whatever, I mean contribute as they ask, when everything spins around one single person who doesn't even realise it. Like, I wrote what to me we had reached during the long meeting on Monday (i.e., next to nothing) and his reply was, that I am a very sincere person, and on the other side there are people who are hypocritical and make him feel like quitting. WHAT THE HELL HAS THIS GOT TO DO WITH WHAT I SAID???
So I left a quick message in the chat (in English, not in Italian) saying that the thing annoyed me immensely, that I really felt like I was speaking another language. It does annoy me, I won't repeat it again. I am not trying to get everybody's approval and I don't even want my opinion to be the leader, but to be ignored or passed over as if what I say meant nothing, now that really drives me mad. And I knew it the very moment I went on that website and saw what he was doing. And at the meeting? The only moment when we were trying to analyse what to write, he quickly moved the conversation to personal things and opinions, confusing us with words that meant nothing in the context of what we were supposed to be discussing. This is not correct. And if things just go on this way, I definitely don't feel like going on with the website. It was only because of the other guy if I agreed on translating, in spite of being provoked (maybe unconsciously, but still).
I am getting angrier by the minute. I would like to go back to the chat and tell him everything, but I can't be bothered to engage a discussion when there is no way he is going to understand what I mean, simply because his inner system refuses anything different from what comes out of his own mind, however democratic he says he is.
So anyway.

On with the complaints, today is the day: mother worried about me and in need of a preach. Lord...I don't want to be rude, but how can I make them understand that I am fucking 28 and know what's good and what's wrong? That I feel things and am provided with a brain, however unstable, therefore I am able to decide what's best for me? That I don't need their advice on what to eat and when to eat, since I don't do things by chance, I carefully plan my diet in order to have all the vital elements, and my iron deficiency is nothing I can control because in spite of eating meat and taking supplements for four months nothing changed, so it's obviously not my fault? And she speaks, who eats tea and biscuits for lunch! At least I have a balanced diet! It is not quantity, but quality. But in my family this is a concept to refuse. My mother wants us well fed, like stuffed pigs for Christmas, and my father lives in the belief that you must eat as much as you can, empty every dish on the table, even when you are already stuffed. I would understand it if he had lived during some war times, like my grandfather would have been: starvation in time of war can lead to emotional overeating once things are back to normal. But he's not. He's just completely nuts and believes he's god on earth, sent to tell us mortal how to live. And if we don't behave the way he does, then we are idiots. Now who is being an idiot here.

Tension building back on my shoulders. All these bad thoughts set free inside me, and anger and frustration kicking in.
This is not a good day.

Time to write

I need to get back to writing.
Seriously, I do.
I closed my notebook at the end of July, with a story on the way, another two close to be completed, and one half set in my mind.
I must go back to writing.
It isn't very important, but for my mental health it's vital. It makes me feel good, alive. It's my therapy.
Virginia Woolf wrote "there is an immense pleasure in writing, even only in trying to write". Or close to this (I have the quote in Italian).
My notebook is calling for me on my desk, and so are all the words trapped in my head.
Outside it's raining, and I have set a plan for the months to come which include some serious writing, if only to spend a few hours of my weekend in a productive way, rather than running two hours and collapsing on the armchair with a book. It is also important to make me think of something else, focusing on what I want to say, have my feelings and thoughts converge and lose weight when they are transferred on paper. I always feel relieved after a good writing session.
I know that plan won't last, though.
It's raining harder.
Stephen King wrote that if one wants to be a serious writer, one must write every single day, no excuses. It makes me furious to think that somebody with such a practical sense like he seems to be should write such nonsense.
There is no spare time. Not every day.
There is an eight-hour job, with one and a half lunch break when I must tidy the kitchen from breakfast, prepare lunch, eat, tidy again; there is a workout I need to do to keep my blood running and de-stress after the 8 hours on a job I don't like. There is always a book I must finish; there is some friend, luckily, who calls me, or whom I have to meet, if only for a quick drink and an intelligent chat (rather than the casual, repetitive, useless daily nonsense I hear at home...); there are rehearsals, and chores, and a good movie to watch, every now and then, because I like cinema and it helps me getting away from this dimension. A serious plan must include all this, plus the intention of finding a better job, i.e. studying, i.e. even less time than before.
But, like Zeno, next week will see me start and stick to a running-reading-writing routine.
Oh God.
More cramps.
In two hours I'll be at the gym, with dilated pupils after being at the optometrist: they say that one of the first signs of attraction for someone is the dilation of the pupils at the sight of the "object of desire": well, I think I will be giving a pretty clear sign tonight...

Running and a funeral

It's really been a hectic weekend, and yet relaxing, in a way. The hours have flown by and suddenly it was ten o'clock and I was staring at the ceiling, in darkness, half dreaming.
It all started on Thursday night, 11 p.m., when the telephone rang and I knew my grandmother was dead. Very sudden, and with my father away for work, Friday was a combination of research to have him back as soon as possible, my mother overtired for spending the night at the retirement house to fix all the things for the funeral, me...running, running, running; and then phone calls, my hysterical boss, a sudden order from Turkey to set, and the wake, with six yawning people and a yawning priest reciting prayer after prayer. All very quiet.
When I arrived and saw my grandmother in the coffin I thought I was in the wrong room, that couldn't be her, her face was too different, her colour too brown: they must have used too much make up. My mother arrived with a picture and that was when I could see that it was her, only different: three years without seeing her have been a real lot, but her eyes and her lips brought back all the images of the past. Her sad blue eyes, her purple lips.
I ran, once at home, and showered, and went to the band; nothing special to be said, but I did played better than usual, focusing on my breathing for the first time with the consciousness of how wrong I've breathed for all this time. I remembered the breathing exercises when I begin to play, 12 years ago, and lying on the floor with two dictionaries on my belly and breathing in, breathing out, filling, emptying. I am slowly going back to that good practice, and it does feel good.
(I shouldn't say this, being focussed to think about anything else but the back-and-shoulder guy: but on Thursday he made me lie on the bench, sat beside me, made me breath and practised a massage to make my breathing fuller, richer: in the end I got up slowly, feeling dizzy, too much oxygen in me, and his warm touch still there. And at some point, before beginning on the left side, while he was talking to the other trainer, he carelessly caressed my arm, index and middle finger moving slowly on my skin. God, I must stop this).
So anyway. After rehearsal we went to a pub and discussed lots of things: the end of our friend's relationship, the website, my irresistible crush or whatever it is for the back-and-shoulder guy (who from now on is going to be simply "the B&S guy"). I like going out for a drink and a chat after playing: shame that we never do, for they all have boyfriends, and companies of friends to see yet again on Friday even if they meet five times a week. Anyway.
I came home at one o'clock and slept little; Saturday morning was a slow walk at the market, a coffee, and back home to watch tv, and then playing for a while with the children before going to the funeral.
The funeral. It started with us at the retirement house, some more prayers, another priest (not the same of Friday) asking what the name of the woman was, reciting a few prayers, saying goodbye. I wonder what my father was thinking, or feeling, as he looked at his mother lying there, as he watched while the men closed the coffin and put it in the car.
Then we all left for the church, and there was the mess, which was a concentration of yawns by me, mostly due to the tone of the priest, whose voice was just typical, a hypnotic sequence of sounds with roughly no meaning. And all the while there was this question in my mind, set off after hearing the first priest, on Friday, talking of how Christian souls will be buried in blessed earth for a peaceful beginning of the after-life.
And this is me thinking: "Hello? I'm not a Christian, Catholic or whatever, never have been, my parents didn't have me nor my brother christened in a snap of democratic 70s rebellion against the dogma of the Church which is almost ruling our country on the moral and ethical point of view, and all these years I've never felt the urge of a conversion, and am happy to live like this, so....where do I go when I die?". I'm not talking of my soul, no, I can't be bothered to head towards a philosophical discussion now, but...my dead body? The coffin and the flowers and the picture and a nice quote to remember me...What happens after my last breath? Sometimes this thought pops in, but the idea of me dead is still strange and remote, although the necessity of preparing some sort of will is floating in my mind at times, when I think about all the books, the diaries, everything that I've got. But I am treading on dangerous grounds, now, and I have no time for (nor do I feel like) it.
What I was saying is, I've been running and running and running. Exercising till I almost got cramps, and my legs felt so heavy after the shower, when I went back upstairs in my room, and yet I would have done more. I'm not even eating much, and it makes me feel so well. I have lost another kilo in a week, and all this running really feels good. My hypochondriac me wonders if this is not the famous work-out addition, while my other me can't wait for this evening, and the music, and the treadmill, and the shower. I have worn my red top from Trinity College today, after trying it on once, when I bought it two months ago, and that time I saw that it was slightly adherent, but today it fits, no, it's large on me. How cool is that. I can't wait to go running tonight.
I always think that if I am thinner I will find a boyfriend, I will be attractive enough and be noticed. This obsession...I can't get rid of it, even in my best times.
I know I have given myself only one week more to fantasise about the B&S guy, but this week includes the important action of talking to him. Which means, when he asks me how my job is going, I should say more. More than my "well, not bad" answer. Let him know me, let him see something of me that goes beyond my shoulder problems and my (good) flexibility. Maybe I can start a kind of weak friendship, after all.
I understand I am not very lucid, today. But these are confused times.

(Later, this afternoon)

I like thinking about you.
I like seeing your face in my mind, feeling your touch on me like a hand on a cold window, while it's snowing outside.
I like inventing stories about you, about how we talk, and what we say, about how you take my hand and caress me, about how I slowly fall asleep in your arms.
You have awakened feelings that I thought were lost, crumpled up in some corner of my body. I ache all over when I think about you.
It's always a sudden image flashing in my mind.
I bend to silence the pain. I take deep breaths. I think about something else.
And that is when your face appears, stronger than ever, and pushes to get to my heart, to make me say the words that I don't dare say. That I never said.
Things have no shape anymore. I am drowning, I am blind.
Where is this taking me?
First it's excitement and madness.
Then jealousy.
Pain, and disappointment follow.
Enter sadness, followed by anger.
Curtain.