Don’t be afraid, I’m not going to talk about my bowels. At least, not specifically and not in graphic detail. However, I had the chance for the first time to step on a smart bathroom scale which, besides your weight, displays the percentages of water, fat and muscle in your body. I was pretty surprised by the results and I should probably do something about it. Like, I don’t know, eat something.
Now, I’m aware I’m underweight and I try not to make too much fuss, except keeping tabs on my weight to make sure it doesn’t drop below the pretty random limit of 47 kg (103 lb). That was my weight when I was getting married. (Why, yes, I was a very insubstantial bride.) Now I’m slightly below 50 kg (110 lbs), including a cat sitting on my shoulder. I would probably benefit from weighting more, but I quite enjoy people giving me free food just by the look of me.
What the smart scale told me though was that I had 45.5% of muscle in the body and 14.2% fat. That’s ridiculous. That’s a lot of muscle for a woman of my age and build, and it must be wrong. I look anything but muscular. (Though there is a mini-muscle forming on my shoulders from my yoga planks and downdogs.) Also, my fat percentage is basically health-threateningly low. WTF. This must be wrong too, unless it’s right because I don’t have boobs and hips, where most women have fat stored.
The scale scared the shit out of me. It suggested that my proportions were that of a top athlete, which isn’t a good thing when you’re not a top athlete. Top athletes are doing nothing but ruining their health. I’m already ruining my health with smoking, so I should consider getting fat for my health’s sake. This is a confusing concept. I’ve been on a vegan-like health-focused diet (plus Oreos) for long enough to completely lose appetite for anything else (except Oreos). It’s awkward when you actually start liking healthy food. And it’s super awkward that I should change my diet for something less healthy. I wonder how this happened.
Yesterday I was at a career fair. I didn’t go looking for a career, I’m currently looking for a will to live, and I don’t want to be looking for too many things at once. I was actually hired to help hopeful job hunters with their CVs. Everyone needs help with their CV because no one knows how to do this mysterious genre properly. Except me, obviously.
At the venue, I got a name tag and a booth of my own. I brought along a book and was hoping to spend the day pleasantly occupied reading my book, wandering around the premises and taking selfies. Unfortunately, people were so keen on having a CV consultation that I only had time for one bathroom break, one coffee break and several smoke breaks, which I masqueraded as pee breaks.
When I had a minute of peace, I couldn’t get my peace either because a camera person jumped on me and informed me that I was going to tell him on the camera what I was doing here and what it was good for. I meekly protested, saying I’d prefer not to discuss metaphysical questions. Also, I’m not even here, and if I am here, then it’s to crush people’s spirits and get paid for it.
The cameraman insisted. Serve him right. Because I still have some residual sense, I knew better than to express my private opinions publicly. So, accompanied with the man’s encouraging nodding, I weaved a tale on the spot on how exciting it is to participate at this unique occasion and get to lend young talented people a hand with getting the career they deserve. A load of shit. But I’ll be a TV star.
In the night, I listen to the sounds that the cat makes. It’s sort of soothing. Here are the sounds:
Floor creaking: the creaky old floor creaks even when my light-weight cat walks on it. There’s an element of suspense because you never know where exactly she’s heading and what she’s up to.
Radiator clinking: the old wheezy radiator makes sounds of its own, but when the cat jumps on it, there is lots of clinking as her nails hug the metal grille when she’s tiptoeing on top of it.
Soft thudding: it’s more of a feeling than a sound, but I can tell when the cat jumps on the bed or the sofa to settle there. It’s a vibrating sensation and it’s nice to see the cat is making herself comfy.
Crunching and munching: you wouldn’t believe the noise that resonates in the night when the cat suddenly starts chewing on her dry food. You can hear each pellet being crushed by her teeth.
Tongue clicking: so you think that a cat washing herself makes no noise? Wrong. She produces a variety of tongue clicking and licking and slurping noises as she processes her fur. It’s a good sound to fall asleep to.
My late grandmother used to have a lot of sayings which I didn’t think particularly clever or relevant. As I’m getting old myself, surprise, surprise, I’m getting my grandmother more. A shame I can’t tell her. (Now I almost sniffed, which is ridiculous because I didn’t love my grandmother that much at all. Feel free to shoot me in my cold heart.)
The grandmother used to say, When you don’t feel like doing something, it’s worse than when you can’t do it. These days this resonates with me more than ever. To complete the picture, my favourite personal growth author writes to the effect that workaholics are the least efficient workers and that when you work too much, you can get yourself to the point when you’re too tired not only to work but also to relax. That’s all me. A shame I know it but do nothing much about it.
Speaking of grandmothers, I visited my late grand-grandmother’s grave today. She was my favourite family member ever. She was a fucking heroine. A shame I didn’t take after her. She was uneducated, simple but commonsensical and she was the bravest person I ever knew. She buried her husband, her grandson and her only daughter, yet she shut the fuck up, dealt with it and lived to 92. How could she do it? I’m only slightly over third her age and I can’t anymore.
I went to the nature. I was half-awed and half-terrified. Because ticks, midges, bugs, myxomatosis and rabbits, rabies and foxes, wolves, boars and whatnot. Now I’m going to get undressed and spend a nice evening—checking for ticks.