July. How did it get to be July? Just two more months and we reach the point of the calendar at which D and I said that we would make a final decision as to the future of our marriage.
This poor little blog has drifted away from its original purpose this year. It hasn’t been a blog about losing weight (although the scales have started to flurry downwards in recent weeks – and I’ve actually been stepping on the scales which is progress). It hasn’t really been a blog about food either, meal out posts aside, because the food I’ve been eating at home has been highly uninteresting. I don’t suppose anyone stumbling across it nowadays would feel inspired to learn more about Weight Watchers (although I am not, and never wish to be, an out and out advert for the company – I just happen to think that their healthy eating plan is eminently doable and sensible) or listen to a word I have to say on the subject of healthy eating. I still love it (the blog) though. I love the fact that it is an opportunity to do a little bit of writing every now and again and writing is something that really makes my heart sing. I love that I have retained little vignettes of my life across the past few years – and yes, most of them are food related but to be honest I have always been someone who measures out their days in meals rather than coffee spoons. And I want to continue to write it and, hopefully, make it less of the one woman pity party that it occasionally veers towards.
I guess that I am partly contemplating this now because I am distracted at the thought of the approaching deadline. If we decide to get back together, this blog will hopefully subside back into a cosy record of domestic meals and a suburban housewife’s battle of the bulge. But if we don’t? What then?
I recognise that my life cannot proceed in this, the state of limbo that I have existed in since last September. That, for me, has been the hardest thing about this process. The initial, horrific pain has subsided – as pain generally does – to a dull ache of loss. But the mourning process that must proceed from a relationship break up that I’ve not been able to fully go through. I feel like I’m caught in aspic – not quite single, not quite a wife. And it’s making me very, very tired now. Tired, and fed up and stubbornly resisting committing myself properly to anything. Like counting points. Or sorting out my messy spare room. Or knocking a couple of annoying tasks off my work to-do list. Or being anything other than inert.
Or perhaps it is just the weather. Let us be British and blame the weather instead.