Eyes down

So, it appears that you can't swallow down sadness with food.  Nor can you take the bitter taste of disappointment away with sweet things.  That's right, dear Reader, I didn't get the job that I wanted so badly.  I heard this morning by email.  I suppose I knew it was unlikely but the rebellious bit of my mind that wouldn't quite give up on the dream had constructed whole alternative universes with me working there, away from the vileness of my office and somewhere where people are nice and I could have been enthusiastic about the work. 

It doesn't help that this knock back comes hard on the heels of my six monthly check up with the mad Prof about my weight.  I absolutely know going in there that it won't change anything (other than it's nice to see him) but when I leave, having recounted the failures of the last six month and having agreed together that there's no drug on the horizon and I'm doing the right things so maybe at some point my metabolism will perk up (or show some signs of existance - perhaps I need the Higgs Bosun guys), I want to cry and cry and cry.  Being terribly English I just sit quietly for a day or so and will away the frequent surge of tears when they threaten to take over and try and count my blessings (which are of course plentiful).  At least I managed not to cry in his office this time; that's progress.  My voice went a bit squeaky and wobbly but we politely had an unspoken pact to ignore it.  He's very English too.  Insists on calling me Miss ....

They say that nothing tastes as good as being slim feels.  'They' clearly aren't getting out much but nothing tasted right tonight. It's pointless grazing all evening of nothing of nutritional value, let alone diet compliant, but just at the moment I don't have the mental resilience to stick to the diet.  So that's been my Friday night. That and watching an indifferent chick flick featuring the absurdly beautiful Nathalie Portman.  I even bought a bottle of wine to drink solo (P is out) which is incredibly rare.  But I had to force down my solitary glass in the end (pretty stupid in itself).  It could have been indifferent wine of course but nothing seems to take the taste of disappointment in myself away and I suspect that's the problem. 

I worry that I've inherited my father's bodge gene (along with his mean little eyes) - if there are two courses of action, he unerringly picks the wrong one; bad luck seems to dog him and it's not entirely of his own making.  Although he has a spirited and unceasing attemt to botch up his life comprehensively.  Maybe I have that trait?  The one that makes me clumsy and mistake-ridden and unlucky?  Count blessings, count blessings....  Anyway, I've practically had a heart attack every time my mobile has rung this week (uncharacteristically frequently) so at least I needn't be so on edge now that I know that the man from Del Monte say no.

I had the call to say my wedding dress has arrived (one of the ones that precipitate my heart to a gallop).  The boutique owner told me what to bring for my fitting and included Spanx adding politely if mendaciously "not that you need it".  I joked that they hadn't yet invented Spanx that could contain me and that they'd need to be made of a stronger substance than kryptonite to stand the merest chance.  But at least I had started work on my bingo wings before I had this call.  It gives me the illusion that I might make some progress in de-wobbling myself.  Okay, it's unlikely in about a month and a half but worth a shot.  I've been doing some weights at home - three sets of targeted exercises, three sets of reps of 15, four times a week.  My arms feel hot and achy and I hope that this will at some point frighten the fat away.  Sometimes it seems that the only fearless part of me is my fat because it toughes it out whatever I throw at it (a hungry and hard week of intermittent fasting achieved a very disappointing loss of 3/4lb this week).

Perhaps I'll win the lottery tomorrow and then I won't need to worry about work at least.  Assuming I win the big prize that is, I don't think £10 will emancipate me from my life of wage-slavery.