where has it all gone?

Pondering where it has all gone.

By "all," I really mean time, money, and my waistline. It seems that just yesterday I was closing in on 30. Now I'm closing in on 40. How the hell did THAT happen? Sure, I got a Ph.D., got married, bought a house, had two kids, got a job, lost a job, then got a new job, and watched 7 dogs and 6 cats die all in the past decade but still, it seems to have gone by in a flash. I don't feel older, except for being constantly exhausted, but I probably do that to myself with too much stress and too little exercise. I am still as infinitely cool as I was at 28 (snort), but I seem to be moving out of "hip young professor" status very rapidly. Will I be 60, thinking that I'm 40? I'm guessing that time just keeps on accelerating. It seems to be some cruel trick of nature and nurture that time drags by when we're suffering through the interminable teen years, but speeds up just as you figure out who you are and what you want out of life. Go figure.

Now to the money. For someone who is in such massive debt, it sure would be nice to have something to show for it--a flashy car, a second story on our house, some amazing vacation to talk about for years to come. (To be fair, I did go to Australia for 9 days when Bill was teaching there, but I lived in the dorm/hotel with the students and my parents paid for the airfare, so it didn't contribute to my current debt. Plus, I had to take care of the home front for 2 1/2 months, so that seemed like a fair trade off.) We drive a used Honda Civic and a VERY used Subaru station wagon, are crammed into 1200 sq. ft, and don't usually get farther than Asheville, NC, aside from academic conferences. Those have become our default vacations. So, where did it all go? Gambling? My heretofore unknown crack habit? A designer wardrobe that no longer fits? Bill's "Hair Club for Men" membership (kidding)? Nope. It's walking around on four legs in our house. Our animals, of which there have been many, all of them rescued from some type of traumatic situation, have better health care than most Americans. Including me. Need spinal surgery at UGA? Got it. Chemotherapy? Done. A special medication that has to be imported from Europe because it's not FDA approved? Sure thing. Acupuncture? Weekly. Now the root of all this is clearly compassion. We don't take in animals to whom we can't commit for a lifetime (though we'd like to break that rule with our parrot Fry Bread, who drives us f%*#ing insane). Unfortunately, that means the lost animal waifs of the world, especially those with rare and expensive medical conditions, seem to find their way to us. Or maybe I look for them. God complex? Perhaps. Either way, they show up at our doorstep and we take them in. Aside from our mortgage and the insane amount of money that it takes to have quality childcare to facilitate two working parents, our credit card debt walks around our house, sheds on the carpet, and barfs in my shoes. I should start renaming the animals Visa, AmEx, and Wells Fargo.

Finally, my waistline. That is the most tragic of all. While getting out of credit card debt is certainly what would be best for my family and make them happiest, finding my ass again would improve MY mental health even more. It's not like I was a triathlete in my younger days, but I could fit into clothing with single-digit sizes and didn't feel the need to wear a mu mu at the beach. OK, maybe it's not that bad. We're not talking Rikki Lake or something that would appear on TLC, but it feels that way in my head (as I've already mentioned, my head often works overtime, independent of the rest of me, and often independent of basic rationality). My diet isn't that bad. I'm a vegetarian who lives with a vegan, so it's not like I'm binging on steak dinners. Maybe a little too much mac n' cheese and refined sugar, but there are lots of fruits and veggies and tofu and tempeh thrown in there. I just need to get up and get to the gym. And I don't. Ever. If I did, I would probably enjoy the increased energy, the renewed strength in my muscles, more flexibility, better sleep, and high self-esteem. Yet here I sit, on my ass, typing on my computer and bitching about the spread of said ass. Sounds like some therapy, soul-searching, or the kick-in-the-pants that is bathing suit shopping is needed. None of those option sound pleasant, though bathing suit shopping is definitely at the bottom of that list, right below having my tonsils removed without anesthesia and eating my own foot.