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Flipping My Lids

Flipping My Lids

Flipping My Lids

I know what you’re thinking: that I have more than one head thus flipping my lids (plural) = super duper angry.

But no. I have only one head (grew it myself from a kit at Michael’s) and I’m very slow to anger because I’m largely in a state of half-decaf numbity. (That’s a real word, in a neologistic kinda way; who is the OED to control my discourse?). So anger, it happens. But like many last-borns (I am actually first-born too, but that’s another blog), I misdirect with humour.

Did I mention I was on a diet? You can find more about it here, or here.

This is relevant, I assure you.

Anyhootle, I keep things. Not a hoarder, but a forgetterer. I forget things. I have ADD but professionally I’ve managed to deal quite nicely. Personal? Not so much. I archive. I keep notes. I retain. Water. I retain water too. But that’s another blog.

I have to keep notes because I forget what I’m doing/was doing/am about to do. Seriously, I have no working memory at all. None. So I have to keep an aide-memoire for everything. I keep things or I forget things.

Like these lids. I have these motherscratching lids everywhere. The faux Tupperware melts, breaks, is used for cat poop, gets lost, left in a car, stolen by older children. And somehow I end up with lids, lids, and more lids. I want to open a lid store.

For those of you raised in the 70s, a lid means something else. Get your mind out of the hookah.

But have I gotten rid of them?

By way, like my kitty teapot? Goodwill, five bucks.

I think that if, by nature, I retain, take notes, am afraid to misplace and lose, I will tend to eventually not unload, purge, ditch, or throw.

Kinda like my last 28 pounds. I kinda didn’t notice until I actually had to leave the house one day (ew) and go to the mall to buy foundation garments to fit into my jeans. I just kinda absorbed, vaguely noted, saw, forgot, that I have thrown 28 pounds on in ONE YEAR.

Purging and throwing, in theory, is what I do want to do. I hate mess and visual noise (and bright lights, and loud noises, and malls). They hurt my head, quite literally. I NEED clean, soothing surfaces, minimal visual noise, ambient music, and After Eights (sorry, blurted that).

After Eight Fail
See this? I had an After Eight fail the other day. I was dealing with a functionally confused VP and I resorted to slicing this box open with a knife to expedite my self-sabotage. I only ate three though.

I can’t face mess. It’s painful. I don’t mind the work to clean it. But every time I look at my mess of a Mandal in the kitchen (yeah I bought a dresser to put my kitchen because it was larger and less expensive than the kitchen things and I found it AS-IS for 25% off SCORE!), I shrink. It’s like finding old pictures of yourself in high school. 

I grow ashamed.

Like remembering that time you did something for which you are mortally ashamed even though it wasn’t a big deal really but it marred you for life because for some reason you hold yourself to images of perfection and when oh when will I ever forgive myself for giving the partner of XYZ a… well, forget it. An alley was involved and I was in my 20s, moving on. 

I think my weight-stagnation journey (see, it fits in) will be greatly aided by my cleaning, purging, and forgiving myself for all my randomly forgotten (but weighing me down) items like these lids, or that a-hole emerge doc I dated in another millennium who treated me like crap but I lapped it up because I had low self-esteem and maybe my gentle way would change him from being the useless sack of ordure he was, into the good person I know he could have been if he got over his mommy issues.

He liked to have his boys pulled, by the way, which I thought was really weird. Probably the main reason we broke up (but I sublimated it for another reason because it’s kinda hard to say “Dude, you’re too needy and I don’t want to spend the next 63 years pulling your boys like they’re a stuck Venetian blind for twenty minutes every time we do the deed).

Actually we broke up because he was a butt wipe and I hated him. That too. 

We all have skeletons in the closet or in some cases (mine), an Endomorph or three. I have faced a lot of them (15 years of psychiatry, not a word of a lie, means I can actually GET OUTSIDE —except to a mall—without taking an hour to do my “safe” routine which involved a lot of checking and it all had to be done in order and you get the idea if you have REAL OCD, not just the propensity to be fussy and tidy which is NOT real and debilitating OCD) but I have the mundane and the minutiae to deal with now.

So today, without a second-look, I’m purging the lids. I’m imbuing these with my internalized self-loathing and purging. New space in my Mandal, new space in my head.

Sure, I know it’s not the full answer, but it’s a start. And so-fucking-what if I find the container later? I have hung onto these lids for at least three or four years, waiting for the containers to come back. They may or may not. Oh well. We have a sandbox.

When life hands you un-lidded food storage containers, make sand castles. 

 This blog is imperfect but daddgummit, I’m pressing PUBLISH anyway! Thanks for reading.

 

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