My Stomach is a Six-Year-Old Child

My wardrobe has changed since I lost my job of 25+ years and the one item with which I have been most glad to be finished is pantyhose. Over the last couple of years I had noticed that no one was wearing pantyhose anymore. This is fine if you are twenty something and tan nicely but as a fifty-something woman of Irish decent, I was not about to show up in the office with my blinding-white bare legs. Well, since my position has been eliminated I no longer have to worry about appearing out-of-touch with the latest fashion trend. As a matter of fact my wardrobe has been pretty much reduced to tee shirts and sweatpants. (FYI: I never wear sweatpants outside of the house other than to walk to the mailbox, I always upgrade to a pair of jeans.) But now here is the problem: Pantyhose always let me know when I had put on a pound or two, sweatpants keep it a secret.

After seven months of hanging around the house in sweatpants, I stepped on the bathroom scale to discover I had gained six pounds. Yes, I had seen the numbers slowly creeping up but my scale is digital and those things just aren’t all that reliable. I could gain or lose a pound just by moving my feet two inches to the left. I had noted as well that the roll around my middle seemed a bit fuller than before but wrote it off to faulty memory and menopause. It was not until a friend took a picture of me that reality set in: My scale was not lying, the sweatpants were.

I have always been quite disciplined so when I decided to lose the six pounds, I was all in. Midafternoon snack, gone. Extra serving of rice with dinner, gone. Cookies, gone. Well, this all came as quite a shock to my stomach which was used to its snacks and cookies and it began to behave like a six-year-old child. “I’m starving!” it said. “Feed me now before I die!” Let me tell you, I almost gave in a number of times. A nagging child can be quite convincing, after a while you are willing to give in simply to make the nagging stop. But I stuck to my guns. “No means no!” I told my stomach. “Stop pleading!” Did it listen? Not at first but with each passing day the begging has become a little less. Eventually it will accept the new regimen and quiet down altogether. And when I reach my goal, I will reward my stomach by treating it to the occasional cookie because every six-year-old child deserves to be rewarded for good behavior.

Writing in the Dark

Last night I got all of three hours of sleep. I went to bed at 10:45 then tossed and turned for four plus hours finally dozing off around 3 only to wake up at 6:15 with my mind whirling again. I have had a lot of these 3-hour shifts of sleep since “my position was eliminated” worrying about an unknown future and the prospect of never making good money ever again. Last night was different. Last night all I could think about was Arnold.

Arnold is the protagonist in my new novel. Well, it isn’t a novel yet, it’s more of a 256-page idea for a novel. It remains unformed. I have learned a great deal about Arnold but I’m having trouble figuring out how to sum up his story, how to give the reader an ending that will leave him or her satisfied. I’m looking for the perfect dessert to end the perfect meal.

Then last night I realized the meal was the problem. The ingredients are all there but it just isn’t coming together in the right way like a soufflé that falls flat when pulled from the oven. I was so disturbed by this thought that I could no longer enjoy watching TV. I picked up the spiral notebook I keep for just such moments and started jotting down ideas on how I might fix the problem. Maybe this should happen? Maybe that could happen? Mostly I was rehashing old ideas. Where were the original ideas and why weren’t they coming to me? Then I went to the heart of the problem: I suck at this. Maybe I should just admit that I’m no good at this writing thing and throw in the towel. But then what am I going to do? Get another job like the one I just lost? That isn’t going to happen for two reasons: One, I can’t take the commute anymore; and two, no one would have me. I’m too old. I was a well-paid art director in NYC. It is a young person’s career. Much as I hate to admit it, I am no longer as young as I was once. I have no choice: I have to make this writing thing work.

I headed to bed taking the notebook with me. I don’t know what it is about the dark but as soon as I turned out the light new ideas began to come. Not all great but at least they were different. I jotted them down and tried to go to sleep. I had more ideas and wrote them down as well. Okay, that’s it, to sleep now. I had more thoughts. Never once did I turn on the light, my words no more than faint impressions on the page. I could not get stuck on any one idea because I could not read what I had written. I went on like this for hours getting only the small window of sleep mentioned above when I sprung awake with my best idea of the night. It was just a sentence but it was perfection. I got out of bed thinking I might not suck at this after all.

I see many sleepless nights in my future. I may soon have to go out and buy a new notebook. Will my novel turn out to be the original gem I hope? Who knows, but my best shot at getting there is going to be through the magic of writing in the dark.