The Road to 40: Month 3

This post is late because on April 1 (when I normally would have made the update), I was stuffing myself senseless on Italian food in Bologna, Italy. My visit to Italy was a cheat day that happened to last 168 hours. Into my gullet went a dozen different hams, tortellinis packed with bursts of goodness, freshly-made tagliatelle in a winey, creamy, rich ragu; light airy ricotta, jazzy artichokes; pungent and sharp parmesan cheese, surreal gelato, and each culinary symphony accompanied by a bubbly and refreshing Prosecco or Lambrusco. Consequences? Yes. Guilt? No.

Weight: up .6kg
Pants size: Same    Belt notch: same   Pants feeling: Snug

This last week, the trips to the gym have had a dual purpose. One, I've needed to rid myself of the toxins of indulgence. After a 45 minute step machine session on the first day back, I swear I exuded a deli-like aroma. I know I should be "making up" the lost time, but I've kept the same routine. I tell myself a half-assed or 70%-assed workout is better than a no-assed workout, but I don't know if it's true and I don't want to google it.

Not only have I needed to burn away the evidence  of sampling culatello ham that had cured beautifully for 24 months, I've had to combat an especially dark and draining bout of depression. I think if anything had gone awry on the Monday morning after the holiday, such as not having milk for coffee, missing the bus, or finding the copy machine broken, I would have dropped to the floor like a wet sack of laundry and remained there until someone carted me out. As it turned out, the day was fine, classes were fine, gym was fine, dinner was fine. But mentally, I did not feel so fine.

But with each subsequent workout, run, and productive teaching day, the pit of despair closed a bit more and as I type this, I feel more or less my usual self--somewhere between Sylvia Plath and Rose Nylan. So what the hell was the problem?

Because I don't have kids, pets, political causes, a garden, or houseplants to take my attention outside of myself, I have a lot of extra time to get stuck inside. Lately, I've become more hyper-aware of the passing of time. When I lived in Thailand, time didn't seem to pass because I wasn't working a lot, there was no changing of seasons to mark the time, and nothing about my life situation felt permanent because it wasn't. Now, the days whiz by and I'm physically assaulted in my chest with the knowledge that there won't be enough time. Not enough time to see all of the world, not enough time to see everyone I miss, not enough time to learn some new trade, not enough time to eat in every restaurant or drink in every pub (if I had a 100 years ahead of me, there wouldn't be enough time for that in Dublin!); not enough time to try every recipe; not enough to read every book, see every film; not enough time.

Am I dying and some part of me knows it? Am I having a mid-life crisis? Should I buy a plant?

I could write something about how I'm learning to "live in the moment" but actually, I think that idea is a load of bollocks. If I didn't have any regard for the future, I would just drink wine or Guinness all day and eat arepas. And yes, I should be more "grateful for the little things" though I do love the small and free random things like Dublin clouds and listening to seagulls, even if they steal snacks from my hand as I walk down the street. I need something more meaningful than platitudes and I feel it's there right on the tip of my tongue. Perhaps I need to quit confusing my tongue with sparkling wines and succulent ham in order to find it.