Self realization is a bitch

So I’m blogging again. I told you it wouldn’t last.

I drove up to Santa Cruz last week to dog-sit for my good friend [and alternative everything mentor], Nakedjen, while she and her husband made their annual pilgrimage to the Oregon Country Fair.

It was sooo nice. Santa Cruz is gorgeous, Jen’s house is lovely, and she and Dave were unbelievably kind. When I mentioned that I was having trouble with their scented candles, Dave gathered all of them up in a box and put them away in another room. Then he fixed up a futon, with featherbed on top, for me on the deck so I wouldn’t have to worry about any lingering traces of scent causing headaches. When I was a little creaky the next morning, he dragged the mattress out of their sofabed and sandwiched it between futon and featherbed, making a bed more comfortable than my own. Now that I’m home, I miss sleeping under the stars.

The bad news is that I turned out to be allergic to Stella and Buddha, Jen’s adorable matched set of nearly-year-old Lab pups who happen to share my birthday. I tried to stick it out and lasted three days. But Jen had it covered. Her dog walker, Robin, an amazing woman who was already boarding at least half a dozen big dogs in her home, just took Stella and Buddha home with her. And I drove home, saddened but wiser.

The trip turned out to be an eye-opener for me. I didn’t realize that my energy level was so low until I tried to keep up with Jen and her dogs. And looking in the brightly-sunlit bathroom mirror several times a day was sobering. Aside from my obvious weight problem, I was shocked at how just-plain unhealthy I looked. At home, I’d been able to avoid really seeing myself for years.

I was thoroughly depressed by the time I got home, but after a few days of rest and reflection, the trip has really motivated me to work hard at regaining as much of my health as I can, through diet, yoga and whatever else works. It sounds so simple, but I know from many failed attempts exactly how hard it is. I can’t afford to fail any more. Each time I do, I slide a little further down the slippery slope toward infirmity–and I’m not even 60 yet. Frankly, I feel like I’m 80.

It’s like Bette Davis said: “Old age ain’t for sissies.”