tamed by the pressure.

Day 31 | Dry as the Heart of a Haystack | Down 14 Pounds, 52 to Go

She crawled on her hands and knees across my ass.

No, really.

The massage is a treat for my 30-day milestone [the cost equals a bottle and a half of 1.75L bottles of Ketel One, a 3-week supply].

I say to the therapist, “my gluts and lower back are tight from hiking ‘the Pipe’ at Callahan.”

She cocks her head.

I provide more detail. “It’s so steep, it’s nearly an inverted climb.”

A question mark appears in a call-out balloon above her head.

I rub my back side with both hands. “My ass muscles feel like open wounds.”

I reached her this time. She chuckles. Then she tells me to take all my clothes off and the smile runs away from her face.

Big and naked I lie.

Her tiny fingers are razor blades. Honing and kneading into my connective tissue.

I breathe through my nose the entire hour.

Send out flairs and pop red smoke for a break, some gesture of comfort.

Take short inhales, long exhales.

Whistle the air out of my mouth.

It helps mitigate the pain.

This morning, my ass doesn’t hurt anymore. It’s a bit sore, but it’s not bleeding. My shoulders are so loose, they feel as if they may rotate out of their sockets and fall to the floor. The back of my neck feels as if it’s not even attached to my head.

A body rototilled has its benefits.

It’s my reward, right?

[Yes, Ginny, it is your reward. 30 days without a fucking drop of booze. You’re on fire.]

Hell, yea.

Kudos to you, Mark Garrison. I finished Guts ‘N Gunships and loved every second of it—learning a combat helicopter pilot’s perspective [and terror] in fighting the VC—and rescuing Americans so they could get home.

 

the sooner the better now.

Day 29 | Clean as a Rose After Rain | Those Smells from Pizzeria Regina Are Killing Me

I lost my mind.

I overheard myself talking in an interview to a silly and vibrant girl who reminded me of SJP in L.A. Story. At Liberty Mutual in Back Bay. I sounded bright. Like, I knew what I was talking about. Silly Girl was talking about this enormous, kludgy system, “the project,” and when she stopped to take a breath, she said, “what do you think?” As in, what is my opinion on how to tackle the problem.

I wasn’t nervous. I was confident.

One word comes to mind, I told her.

Architect.

As in architecture. Creating a map or set hierarchy in which to roll out the project.

I hadn’t lost my mind here, you see.

I gained it back.

Whaddya mean?

I wasn’t overwhelmed or worried about saying the wrong thing, tripping over my words.

My head was clear.

Not bloated from eating a bag of Green Mountain Tortilla Chips with Chex Mix mixed in; no lasting effects from drinking the amount of alcohol the night before that could anesthetize a wild boar.

I am a clearheaded, educated individual.

Again.

An hour later, Silly Girl led me and the dog to the bustling reception area and took my hand in hers.

“Nice to have met you,” she smiled.

“See ya, sister,” I said.