For me, it is things such as:
- sleeping habits
- eating habits
- feelings about prescription drugs
- the way I feel about my partner
- awareness of the physical self
- views on exercise and food
- view of the future -- employment, education, family, retirement
- financial stability (or lack thereof)
It has been recommended in a most pointed manner that I am overweight and this is unacceptable, that I must change or risk complications and further injury.
G-- D--- *&%(#!!@^&
Grr. Honestly, the reason that I am so irritated is not the fact that the surgeon told me I was fat and this was bad. It's the fact that before this injury occured, I was just coming to terms with the fact that I was fat, had been fat, and was (honestly) too friken' lazy to change it, and this might be ok because I was beautiful anyway.
And now, it's not ok. I'm still beautiful, but I am required to change under threat of future severe consequences. Dammit.
For those of you who aren't following the point of my aggravation, it is essentially that I am being forced into a position of hypocrisy, having just achieved equanimity with my situation. (I think those are the words I was looking for.) Any of you who disagree, feel free to.
I now do a small series of stretching exercises every day (twice, when I remember/have the energy/strength) .
I worked my full 40 hours last week; it kicked my ass. Not quite as bad as when I first began, not as good as the last time I did it.
I did not go back to the position I was in when I got hurt: it was a temporary positon, and apparently they have a precedent for things like this. End result: back to the trenches for me.
I am now desperately aware of how precarious my position is right now. I have no education, no long term employment experience to flaunt, no credit, no money, and the money that is coming in goes out before it actually gets in. The job, for what it is, pays reasonably well. But I'm pretty damn sure I don't want to do this same job for the next 20, 10, 5 years. If I'm still with this company in 5 years, I really hope I've got an office job. Or at least one that has a better pay scale. Or something, please God.
I was talking with the Pretzel and Goat this morning as we sat on their front porch in the beautiful morning, drinking first a bottle of red wine and then screwdrivers; we ended up talking about Purpose. And yes, I do mean the capitalized one. The one that drives you forward, gives you direction and a goal. Pretzel has one. Goat has one, maybe two.
I don't.
I am disturbed by this, for more than one reason. I have always wanted that need/want/desire to chase that dream; to have a dreamvision so strong that it pulls and propels me, shapes my path, alters my perception. I want the hooks of light that lodge in my flesh, burning as I go where they direct or as I fight against them. I want the Mettatron to announce my annointment to me as I go through my mundane life. I want my life story to be interesting, uplifting, compelling, heartwarming, all those standard blurbics -- only for real.
But I can't read the assignment. I am missing the signs, misreading the oracles. As usual, I don't know where to begin. The still small voice sounds a lot like my paranoia, and my insecurities, and therefore it is incredibly hard to tell which one I'm supposed to listen to.
O God, hear my cry: what is my purpose?
