Since Thursday, April 16th, I have put on 6 pounds. I am typically very mindful of my exercise and diet habits. Jen was gifted with the metabolism and body type of our father, which allows her to pop out children after a 9 month diet of cheesesticks and couch surfing, only to regain her original figure approximately 10 days after bearing her fruit. I am not so lucky. I take after the pear-shaped, bottom heavy body type of our mother. Unfortunately, this means that if I experience a bad few days – no time for exercise and food consumed with abandon, I am going to pack on a few.

I left for Israel about a month ago, and freely admit that I “let myself go” while with my friends. It’s a constant struggle to balance my routines and neuroses with allowing myself to enjoy new experiences fully. So I put it all aside for the nine days I traveled, working out sparsely and sampling the cuisine everywhere I went, without too much worry about my waistline. It was a happy time. But then I came home to the news that Jesika had passed, and I am not too disingenuous to declare that I embarked on three full weeks of emotional eating. My exercise schedule was back on track, but every bit of sweat I poured forth was almost immediately undone by late night cookies, Indian food buffets, and the like. I had felt pretty good about myself while swimming in the Mediterranean Sea. But all of the sudden, on top of grieving for my friend and worrying about the next phase of career, I had a nice case of self-loathing and poor body image to add as the cherries on top of my sundae of misery.

I was sort of getting fed up with myself last week, but after a weekend spent gorging on carne asada at my friend Wyatt’s BBQ (coupled with a dessert feast of vanilla coconut cupcakes), I decided to put my foot down. I met my trainer, Rob, on Monday, who I see twice a week. He has been on me about my diet for awhile. Not because he thinks I am overweight; because I whine about not being able to shed those last 5 pounds (which have now become 10) without the discipline required to ignore all four desserts when I finish my Indian buffet lunch with Eddie. I told Rob I was ill with this cycle of hard work followed by guilt, and was ready to put myself back on the path to summertime hotness.

Goodbye garbage food, hello low carb/high protein meal plan. It isn’t easy, but I am determined. And I remain as serious about reaching new fitness heights. On Tuesday morning, I was up with the sun at 5:30 AM. Weeks ago, my good friend Diane had sent me a coupon for a free workout at this studio called the Bar Method, located at Belmont and Sheffield on the North Side. The class focuses on micro movements, influenced by ballet. I do some light ballet in my own home workout programs, so figured it would be tough, but certainly doable for a fitness maestro such as myself.

I have long known, especially in my case, that arrogance leads to a heavy fall. Yesterday morning was no different. I reported to the Bar Method at 6:45 AM, bottle of Gatorade G2 in hand, ready to sweat. All of my classmates were women, of all ages, shapes and sizes, and I felt my confidence build. I was given a tour of the studio and its amenities, which were both comfortable and lush. I actually began to wonder if this little session was going to be enough for me.

I entered Studio A promptly at 7:00 AM, and immediately began to panic. There was no light warmup. We went immediately into some intense sets with varying handweights. The instructor was about 5’1″ to my 5’8″, and probably weighed 95 pounds with dumbells tied around her ankles. She demonstrated each and every move with utmost grace. I have never felt such a clod in my life as I huffed and puffed, wheezed and collapsed red faced at the end of each pose. How in the world can such tiny movements cause my arms and legs to tremble like a detoxing crackhead? The only thing that kept me from bursting into tears of pain was looking around the room to see most of the other women writhing in the same agony.

As I told Eddie about the experience that night, he assumed I would never return, because to the logical male mind, it is easy to wonder why anyone would choose this form of torture again. I told him I couldn’t wait until next time. The extra 6 pounds I am carrying: you have been put on notice. Don’t eff with the Bar Method.

I have to tell you guys, so far, semi-unemployment really looks good on me. When I announced my intentions to leave the ADA to pursue freelance writing, a corporate writing job, or both, when I wasn’t getting looks of disapproval for leaving a safe and solid full-time gig in an awful economy, I received skepticism from those who wondered what I’d “do all day.” In reality, I have spent only a minimal amount of time drinking wine and watching all the programs on my DVR, as I had fantasized. I have actually been busier than a one legged man in an ass kicking contest, and I love it. Why? Because frantic as I have been, the actions I perform are twice as satisfying. Instead of working for “the man” doing things to further someone else’s agenda, that I may or may not believe in, everything I have done this week is for myself or my family. Though the compensation in terms of dollars is much lower than what I am used to, I am infinitely more satisfied.

I have published another article for the life coach in California. Here is the link for anyone interested:

http://www.surviving-infidelity.org/internet-cheating-online-affairs.html

I also published my first small piece for the Institute for Public Dialogue. Scroll down to the small section on China and Tibet:

http://ifpdialogue.org/case_studies.php

I must confess that researching and writing this latter bit really got my nerd juices pumped and flowing.

I continue to apply to different freelance postings, as well as sending out resumes to “standard” corporate entities, as long as the work is writing related. But the most important assignment I am occupied with at the moment is the tribute I am preparing to deliver at Jesika’s second memorial service on Saturday, May 23rd. I have been chosen as one of the lucky people who gets to talk Jesika, a woman who affected my life so positively for 16 years. It is important that I write my speech out and practice it beforehand. I believe that repetition of the material may help in preventing a public emotional breakdown. Those of you who know me realize how possible that is.

I miss Eddie, who is away traveling for work in South Carolina. I always long for him when he is gone. I have a small voucher left to use on American Airlines and we are currently working out a plan for me to join him in the South for a few days at the end of the month. I will drive his rental car around and explore while he works.

I realize that my posts on this blog can be a huge downer at times. I am, I have admitted before, a relatively serious person, alcohol misadventures notwithstanding. But right now, I am feeling fine.

I have been afraid to laugh the last two weeks. Well, the first week plus after Jesika passed, I just didn’t have the urge. After her funeral however, whenever I started to feel that familiar tug at the corners of my mouth, I supressed it as quickly as possible. Humor felt disloyal, on the one hand to Kevin and others whose awful grieving process is only beginning. But more importantly, any experience of mirth also felt like a betrayal of Jesika, as if the world could ever go on as normal without her in it. To giggle seemed, on some level, as though I might be forgetting.

In recent days, I have begun to rethink my position. I could not forget Jesika, even if I really tried. She is still with me, every third or fourth thought throughout my day. 16 years of her light in my life is not so easily extinguished, and certainly not through the form of a good chuckle, an expression of humanity Jesika both enjoyed and encouraged like no other.

My new attitude toward laughter could not be more timely, as my husband Eddie powerfully tested my resolve to keep a continuous straight face yesterday. We drove out to Woodfield Mall in Schaumburg for what seemed like an innocent day of lunching and shopping together, two activities we both enjoy. However, on this warm spring afternoon, my husband left an imprint of quirks, idiosyncracies, and downright hilarity across the Northwest suburbs.

We began with lunch at the Olive Garden. Now traditionally, I am reluctant to patronize chain restaurants, being the champion of urban individuality that I am known to be. But when it comes to the OG, I am powerless to resist. I lay the blame at the feet of the bottomless salad bowl, with that delicious and zesty dressing which must contain crack as its secret ingredient, given I have never consumed fewer than three full bowls per visit. But I digress…

The nice part of being in a committed relationship is that, with any luck, you can freely be yourself. I confess, I eat like a man in front of Eddie: both because I love food and secondly, because he seems to enjoy my hearty appetite. This works both ways. For as well-built and handsome as my husband is, his eating habits are very much akin to a seasoned sumo wrestler in training. Knowing these things about each other strengthens our bond, and yet even I was shocked as our waitress set the first of Eddie’s soup bowls in front of him, and he sort of nonchalantly reached down and undid his pants. Yes, he did. As though we were watching reruns of “Everybody Loves Raymond” and eating sloppy joes in our living room. I do believe he was discreet enough so that none of the other patrons noticed. But at the end of the meal, I felt a sudden urge to jump up and stand in front of him as he calmly rebuttoned before we made our way out the door. Men of the world, I say to thee: if you must unfasten your drawers to enjoy a big meal, please, for the sake of your beloved, buy a bigger pair of pants to wear out to dine. I would have hoped it went without saying that your wife does not want to sit across from you as your boxers are on full display to the children crawling under neighboring tables, but apparently, it does not.

I managed to compose myself after this Mother’s Day lunch rush shame spiral, at least long enough for Eddie and I to enter Macy’s. I was after a new set of gym shoes and a bathrobe to replace my decade-old version, mottled with wine stains and burn marks. I confess in this case, I should have been able to anticipate Eddie’s coming somewhat unglued in the women’s lingerie section. He has never been able to so much as utter the word “panties” without becoming visibly excited (no I did not mean THAT way – get your minds out of the gutter!). Right before the section of the department dedicated to bath robes, there were three female manneguins on display, draped in expensive looking thong underwear. I was able to breeze right by this, but I should have had the presence of mind to ensure that Eddie was moving with me. Because the next thing I know, I wheel around the to the sight of my husband massaging the plastic buttocks of one of the aforementioned manneguins. I had a momentary Andrew McCarthy/Kim Cattral flashback before I sidled up to Eddie and hissed urgently in his ear, “Just what kind of perverted shit are you doing to embarass me now?”

The excuse given, wait for it, was the following, “I was thinking of purchasing some new panties (there’s that word again) for you, and I was feeling the quality of the fabric so I could decide if it was worthy of my wife.” It was at this moment that the bullshit sirens in my head began to blare excruciatingly loud. Instead, I merely yanked Eddie’s arm of out his socket as I pulled him away before any mothers with young children could complain about the freak feeling up plastic asses in the store.

Ok, I admit, it took me about a half hour to recover from this incident, but bravely I soldiered on. Eddie and I finished our shopping and made our way back to the City. He had been complaining about back pain for the last two days and repeated, for about the millionth time in 48 hours, that he wanted a massage. It is, however, stereotypical for a reason that people of Indian descent are woefully penurious. Eddie loves the pampering of a Mario Tricoci spa, but balks at paying more than $50 for things he feels ought to be a given in life. A cheap metrosexual – where did I find this guy?

But Eddie was in luck. There is a “massage parlor” on Lawrence, right down the street from our apartment. Why do I put this title in quotes? Because I have long been suspicious of this place of business, with its requirement that one rings the doorbell before entering, the darkly tinted windows and their odd business hours: open until 9 PM or later most days of the week. Let me put it this way: it’s no place I would ever step inside, and for quite some time I have referred to this storefront as the “Happy Ending Hut.” Well after a full of day behaving like a registered sex offender, I was hardly suprised when Eddie expressed a desire to find out how much a massage would cost him. I pulled the car over and he went in after inquiring if I were interested in going with him. I believe my look of profound disgust said it all. It turned out, Eddie could avail himself of a one hour massage and access to the sauna for the low price of $75. Now all jokes aside, I wouldn’t have tolerated this price inquiry were I the least concerned about Eddie’s fidelity. He is a weird one, never afraid to do what he pleases on the off chance that society might find him odd. But he is definitely all mine. So with my intellectual writer’s curosity leading the way, I encouraged him to go for it.

I went for a jog around the neighborhood and reviewed my Woodfield purchases. When Eddie came home 90 minutes later, surprise, surprise he found the experience a bit seedy. He mentioned low ceilings and dark light, bizarre music. But I finally had my “I told you so moment” when my husband revealed that, toward the end of his treatment, the masseuse firmly demanded he remove his towel. To hear Eddie tell it, they nearly got into a tug of war about it. Might this have been the inevitable attempt to provide my man with the “happy ending” I predicted, or simply the miscommunication of a language barrier? I will never know, but my warped sense of humor is dying to conclude the former.

Eddie left again this morning. He has started his first series of business trips for Blue Cross that will take him to Columbia, South Carolina for the next few weeks. How will I adjust to the lack of his presence, especially now that I am free from the 9-5 corporate world, and I do not have anyone else in my life who will drop trou, hit on plastic women and visit the Chicago version of the red light district, all in one day?