Before I begin, I realize the walking cliche that I am, posting about eating or not eating or changing my eating. Whining is one of my least favorite activities, especially in the written form. What’s more self-indulgent than complaining about a situation that I brought upon, nay, I paid for to be brought upon myself? If you came here looking for knitting or adorable French bulldog photos, move along. All you’re going to get is a bowlful of vegan soup and some roasted beets.

I forgot about the caffeine withdrawal. It makes it difficult to focus. Like a slowly closing vice on my skull. My brain feels like Luke and Leia as the walls were closing in. This was the worst part of the cleanse last time. I even chundered on the first day. While at work. Midday. I’ll always remember the day because that’s when I learned that word. Chunder. (The nice lady who said, “You better not chunder on my Marc Jacobs bag” did not like that I took to calling her “chunder thighs” after that, but who would?) I’ll also forever remember the cooked apple, zucchini and quinoa, but that’s a little much to dwell on right now.

The caffeine’s iron grip moved from the base of my head to the front. There were points today that felt like my eyeballs had been scooped out with a melon baller and placed back in the sockets. I had a dull ache behind my face. Not the best state for copy editing. All this pain has caused me to question coffee. Not to worry, I’ll be drinking it again soon enough. But, if something can wreak such havoc on your body to give up is that reason not to consume it? Or reason not to quit it?

It’s not like I drink copious amounts of the stuff, but two mugs are a regular part of my morning. Weekends can see a latte plus a cappuccino or two, and maybe the random after-work rendez-vous. I don’t “need” it to wake up or take care of other coffee-related business. However, clearly, my body makes no bones about having a difficult time of letting go, regardless of what I consider to be in the realm of reasonable. It does give me pause to only drink coffee when it’s really good. In general, unless I’m on a roadtrip, I’d rather go without than drink something that’s not going to be good. I’ve been known to go out to breakfast, only to leave the brunch joint un-coffee’ed to order a latte across the street. This kind of hurt is not worth sub-par swill. (After today, I doubt I’ll attempt this gastrointestinal retreat anytime soon.) Withdrawal is for quitters. And, I just can’t quit you, cup o’ Joe.

I knew things were getting bad when all I wanted to do was lie down for a nap. Even the thought of knitting does not bring me respite. I just want this feeling to go away. I am not myself, right now. Although there are plenty of healthy habits that come along with what I’m doing (yoga, meditation, sipping buckets of hot water, eating mindfully, freshly-cooked meals, soups), my gut’s not cool with hitting the pause button on everything it knows. Just cutting out snacking and focusing on 3 meals a day has been a bit rough. Granted, I’m not doing it by the letter of the law, otherwise I would have eaten three hours ago. Sure, I’ll suffer and let it slip on time, but I will stress over whether to eat butter, because the focus of our meals are vegan, except the ghee. (That’s clarified butter.)

Heck, maybe it’s not just coffee. It could be me. I didn’t do my self-massage with oil. (Minds out of the gutter. I really liked it back in the fall.) I was supposed to exercise beyond my yoga, but how I felt prevented me from running. The timing of my meals is off. (That said, I’m feeling better now as I hunger for overdue dinner than I did when I was eating lunch on time. I understand the slippery slope of cleanse into eating disorder. No fear of my falling off that cliff. There’s plenty of bread and caramels and seafood in my future.) I could beat myself up about not doing it perfect enough, but that’s not the point either. Food for thought. Or thought for thought.

The towel’s not thrown in, but I’m definitely considering it.

Heading over to the first class for the cleanse, kind of an intro meeting / dinner / mini yoga class, I was very stressed out. Of course I was running late, but the reason I was delayed was I had misplaced my wallet. Even upon calling the place where we had lunch, then figuring out it’s possible I left it at the coffee place, I felt unsettled, upset and not wanting to be there. I knew there was nothing I could do about my wallet at that moment and that I wasn’t going to devote the time to call up the credit cards to cancel, but still I was stressing. (Not to worry, it was found at the coffee place and they tweeted my dog to let me know.)

Walking into a yoga studio can either be calming or nerve-wracking. It could be a blissed out intuitive sanctuary. Or, it’s a new space, where I am not a regular, so I don’t understand how the flow of traffic, I can’t figure out where to put my stuff and change. Because of my own mind state and the oddly curtained narrow hallways and multiple doors to bodywork rooms, I was more of the later. Even before stuff began, I felt like I was wasting my money. That I would just fall off the horse again. That I was fooling myself and not really going to get a lot out of this because look at my life: it’s a series of failures and things I have quit. (I know none of this is true, but that’s how my mind works.)

That all said, when we stood up on our yoga mats, even in my jeans, I had a moment of feeling home. Look, I know I’m a honky who grew up in an evangelical Christian background, and that I dabbled for ten years of (really good) yoga at work, but never sustained a home practice. So it wasn’t so much that the yoga studio or the modality of movement (and we did minimal stuff) was perfect. My body was just really grateful that I was moving a little. It gave a little grin when I ate the dinner of rice, mung beans and simple salad. A whispered, silent “thank you” for doing something good for me on a deep, no, deeper level.

I still haven’t shopped for all of my groceries for the next four days of gentle eating. I’m relying on the crutch of the eating plan to drive my consumption. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to be holding onto a hope that this is temporary and that I’ll see infomercial-type results in the next two weeks. I’m already looking forward to a return to pizza, burritos, nachos, beer and bread. I don’t feel like I’m 100% ready to follow this to the letter of the “law,” and I’m afraid of doing this alone, without the support of my coworker Michele, like last time. Heck, I’m not even faking it until I make it.

But somewhere deep down, there’s that quiet voice. Maybe it’s even an invisible nod. My true self’s approval of living a little more in my body. Not going for the quick hit of superficial pleasure, but instead orienting myself on a path that is just a little more right. It’s not really about losing weight or cure-all’s. It’s a nudge towards more balance. A meaningful gift to my body and mind. A break from the easy way out and a moment in something truly better. It’s too soon to say whether this is going to be a miraculous transformation or the theme of my 38th year on the planet. And it may never be said. I’m just going to hop out of the way of indulgence and try to savor the joy and satisfaction and fulfillment mindfulness can bring.

I’m sure there’s a way to mindfully enjoy a beer, once a week. But that’s not part of this here and now. Not for the next two weeks, at least.

I would like to master shorter, more frequent bursts of productivity. Much progress tonight. More to do, however, this pace isn’t sustainable. Work- and wool-wise.

The coming week may prove to be a doozy. C is off to shoot OR by himself. I’m single-parenting and hoping to be social. A big launch MIGHT happen this week, assuming an agreement gets signed tomorrow (which is already today). And, then there are the challenges of feeding myself and leaving for/from the office at reasonable hours.

Perhaps not so much typing practice this week. Let’s wait and see.

My left foot.

It hurts. Been hurting for over a year. Mostly at the start of the day. It’s often so bad that I limp.

I assumed the pain would simply go away. That perhaps I bruised it jumping down off the rope at circus class and it needed time. Then, I thought it was simply tired out tootsies from being on my feet all day teaching at Sock Summit. Around New Year’s I tried to run it off. Push past the pain.

I tried to treat it with ice, rest, massage, acupuncture, ART. I could get the joints in my foot to pop at times when rubbing them. When I started rolling it in a golfball, I was struck by a recovered memory. There was that one day I had accidentally kicked the metal leg of the couch. Really hard. Barefoot, of course. Was that it?

The hurt is difficult to describe. My first steps in the morning burned on the sole. Like a fascial irritation but centered on the ball of my foot toward the outside (unlike plantar fascitis). But there was also a dull ache on the top of the foot, but deep. The bones felt congested, as if there wasn’t enough room for all of them. I wanted to break open the foot and spread everything out.

As I haven’t seen any major progress as months went on, I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I may simply have to live with this. Another ache and pain as a result of getting older. My running and athletic days were over. C’est la vie, non?

Something just wasn’t right in my foot. If it had been broken, I assumed I would have been in excruciating agony. Instead, I couldn’t point my toe as well and never felt comfortable in any shoe nor barefoot.

Lately, my only solace has been five-toed socks and toe stretchers. They bring circulation and sensation to the area. I may have ordered some freaky looking slip-ons that should come later this week (they now come in wool!).

Looking at my foot today (being home from work), I noticed how off my “ring finger” toe is. Like a mis-mounted stitch, it has a different orientation than all the other four. One of these things is not like the others… Why did it take me a year to see this?

No wonder things feel out of place. No, I haven’t gone to see a doctor or had it x-ray’ed. I know what good used to feel like. And I miss it. I want it to get better. My foot is sending a message that hurt is not sustainable. I need to get aligned.

(this is also a metaphor.)

They’re all carefully ensconced in their paper shrouds. Likewise, the weekend is all finished up. Pretty darn tasty, too. At least the caramels are.

Caramel posts twice in a row? Life isn’t all about variety. There’s sadly a whole bunch of repetition. Besides, I don’t have much to share that’s special about today.

Breakfast, wrapped caramels, talked to my mom, napped with Janie, laundry, knitted a heel flap, two loads of laundry and a bunch of trash TV. Not my most memorable Sunday. Much on my mind. Much more to do.

In the meantime, Let’s be optimistic, by Marc Johns

I meant to post this last night, so I could keep with my daily-ish typing habit. It was going to be a whiney “I work too late” post, but who doesn’t these days? It doesn’t make for great reading or compelling content. But it keeps the reflection up, although I don’t want to wallow in less-than-stellar feelings or preserve their memory too often.

Now, the post won’t descend into a “I failed at typing regularly (again)” self-pity. Before I fell asleep in front of the TV (only to awake at 12:20), I knew that I was going to type something, so that’s a win. I made time for the picture, but chose to eat dinner and veg out in front of the idiot box before zonking out. Having a perfect record is not really the purpose of making a little time to tend to my thought garden.

This takes us to today. Saturday morning. Some typing around 8:00am. Perhaps there will be more this afternoon or tonight. Perhaps not. No one’s counting except for me. I’m luck enough to have you reader friends who peek in here. The comments you guys so generously leave brighten my day. And you quiet ones, I feel you too.

Thank you for reading this poorly-constructed, phone-typo-riddled stream-of-conscious drivel. Right now it’s just about quantity and oiling rusty forgotten habits. Pardon the diary-rhea for the time being.

Dinner with a long-lost friend tonight in the Mission. She wrote me last-minute to say she was in town from Hood River, OR. Even though it’s been three or so years, I wouldn’t miss a meal with her. We spent too many hours on the phone, daily, during my time at CLIF Bar. A good friend indeed.

Weirdfish is one of my favorite restaurants in San Francisco. Why so? Decor, people, commitment to sustainability, vegan options and the fun they have with the menu. I enjoyed the suspicious fish tonight, which the waiter barely describes to gives a sketch of the meal but you don’t know specifics until the plate arrives. Heck, it’s only my fourth or so time there and I still haven’t tried the fried dill pickles. I need to go more often.

Going over life and career changes, talking about kids growing up and sharing future dreams, it was just like old days. It was also a reminder of how terrible I am at keeping in touch with past friends. I have plenty of stationery, a box-full of cards and fountain pens just dying to be used to chat up my past.

Instead, I let what’s in front of my nose take up all of my attention. Most often work or recovering from it. Sure the occasional anomaly (like Tami) gets me in touch or out to eat, but sadly these are not sustained. I fall off the wagon of regular communication. Weekends pass by with the best intentions to get caught up on correspondences to no avail.

Instead, I’m the weirdfish who’s great in person, but one circle around the bowl and I’m once again surprised by the plastic castle, no remembrance of tanks past. (ignoring all of the goldfish research I’ve done lately saying they are smarter than that.)

That’s one of my reasons to keep writing and snapping pictures lately. I just want to prove to myself that I can do it. Show some longevity in something. There’s no finish line, just the practice.

I’m not good at blogging.

It’s a struggle for me to make the time to write something here. Regardless, I’m trying to type put something – anything- each day. Even if it means falling asleep as I thumb away on my phone. Typos and all, it’s a quick record of what’s going on in my life, not necessarily meaningful content. I’m approaching this right now as a practice. A daily devotion to take a moment to reflect and perhaps create.

Things I know am good at make me sound like a 3 year-old. I know I like sleeping, eating and pooping. Unlike a toddler, I enjoy being active, knitting, and spending time trying new things.

Forgive me if posts end up being repetitious meditations on the same things. That’s just life.

Today was sleeping in with Janie, Sightglass Coffee, reknitting a toe, working at Tsunami Tsynchro fundraiser watershow, the pictured kimchi on a vegan hotdog from the underground market, C’s Canadian Flickr friends, more coffee and a new local Ethiopian restaurant that recently opened. Shiro? For sure! And more knitting.

A very full day that now demands rest.

Welcome to the best I could do.

This was the most productive bit of my day. I’m just ready for this project to be launched so I can move on. It is what it is.

Technically this post falls outside of the 24-hour period that is Friday, but I am just heading to bed now at 1:09 am.

I’m counting it as good.