It was late in coming, but spring is finally here, and with it comes all my yearly ambivalence about it. All the things I meant to do over the winter but didn't come crashing down on my head. For one thing, I had planned to be done writing my first draft of the dissertation by now and I'm still analyzing my data. I personally claimed responsibility for each freak spring snowfall because they let me feel less panicky about my slow progress.
Worse yet, oddly enough, is missing my weight-goal deadlines. It's easy to brush away any urgency about weight loss as you're scanning the menu and thinking about how good the artichoke dip (which is more cheese than artichoke) sounds. It's less easy when you have the first day in the 70s and realize that shorts-and-sundresses weather is on its way. Or, when other women start wearing less clothes and you start playing "Compare and Despair." I know, rationally, that there is nothing constructive in eyeing every midriff-baring twentysomething and thinking, wistfully, about my own inability to ever achieve a figure like that even when I was younger. The women I'm most envious of have bodies smaller than mine was when I was a normal-sized 12-year-old, and, unless I somehow learn witchcraft, I don't think I'll ever become a slim-hipped blonde with skinny legs.
I could come up with a happy, philosophical way to wrap up this post if I tried hard enough, but in reality, this stuff is hard and frustrating and makes me feel like the troll under the bridge, annoyed with the little trip-trap of those cute little goats.