Mondays suck

 Vanity versus practicality.

How long has it been since I have talked about how I feel about how I look? Probably not long enough, right? Be that as it may, it is time to revisit that topic.

Becky and I went shopping on Saturday because I wanted to see if I could find something -- anything -- that was not what I had been wearing over and over again these last several months. We had a good deal of success; I found a fairly decent pair of jeans (!!) as well as some nice, loose, but not totally unflattering tops. We brought them home to make sure they fit (remember, I don't try things on in dressing rooms), which they did. On a couple of occasions I looked at the tags and reminded myself that I was buying articles of clothing that were easy to get on and off and which would allow me to maintain some little semblance of independence.

I remember back in 1989 when I went on a very serious diet.  I lost a considerable amount of weight and promised myself I would be very careful -- I was concerned about stroke and heart attack, too. Running came later and I said goodbye to smoking. My 40s were promising to be very wonderful years.  I had such plans. Well, as you know, if you want to make God laugh tell her your plans. You know the rest.

Bottom line: practicality is outweighing vanity. Ha ha, literally as well as figuratively.

Next: the melt down.

Last night at 12:30  I woke up to shrieking and moaning, growling and crying. I was  so frightened  that my daughter would come into my room and vent her unhappiness to me -- my heart began to race and I felt a headache crawling around the top of my head. Past experience has taught me not to try to engage her during these times as it only exacerbates the situation. As I cowered under the covers I kept thinking about when she goes to college; how this sort of behavior will not be tolerated by roommates or others in her dorm; how she needs to learn still how to manage her frustration. The more she howled, the more I thought, the more anxious I became. Finally, at 1:40 AM, it stopped. Not trusting the silence, I stayed on alert, finally falling asleep at 2 AM.

And next: the next day

Things are uncomfortable here in my house. My daughter is unapproachable, unrepentant, even belligerent. I'll catch some grief for disclosing that I'm alone in trying to have a conversation with her or thinking it's necessary. I'm told my standards are not normal. More than that I am unwilling to reveal.

The degree of pain I am feeling tonight has prompted me to try a dreaded Klonopin. The crying has stopped, but I feel it hovering nearby.

Not one of my best days.