i Food
I started liking oysters a year ago. At $6 a pop they don’t come cheap, but they make me feel powerful. So does foregoing breakfast when I’m home alone. So does eating a sweet treat when I feel like one. So does making a meal from the vegetables I grew in my garden. So does filling up on pasta and bread, even if it hurts. I flirt with food.
I start slow – cutting, chopping, tasting, frying, boiling, baking. Lashings of a good oil and a pat of affordable butter. Spices make me weep softly into the pan. They make me believe that wishes can be granted on the right night, eaten with the right cuisine. I eat to please and punish myself. How many bites is reasonable?
I’m still eating while all my friends smile at me over half-finished plates. I can’t waste food – ask for a takeaway box. Eat the same thing for lunch every day. Meal prep once every few months to feel like I’m doing it right. Eating.
ii Exercise
I caught myself cursing the body that greeted me each morning. I couldn’t stop telling it off for its greed, for filling itself with summer’s offerings. The spreads, the barbecues and potlucks. The way the back of me blurred into the front in no astonishing or earth-shattering manner. That cinched waist a mirage I only saw in the bevelled edge of a mirror.
Put on tighter clothes and ran around the block only to look exactly the same and feel worse. There’s no shame in stopping. No shame in not being able to do it.
Be consistent, be consistent, be consistent. Every morning, clothes off in the mirror, look away – consistent. Running three times a week, losing sleep to get it done before work – consistent. Weekly yoga classes after a year of none; crying in a couple of them – consistent.
iii Budget
I set aside less money for this week. And I might set aside less the week after – just to get by. Because I don’t have any coming my way. Took my final paycheck and divided it by my expenses: I’ve made those two-and-a-half months last four.
They say time is money, but the more time I’ve had, the less money I’ve possessed. I have less than I’ve ever had, but more heart; more words to stitch a day together with. Dreams aren’t free, they tell me, but they neglect to mention they can be cheap.
I made a dollar and my expiry date pushed out a minute more. When I make a dollar, I stretch myself a little further. I make a dollar and lose a day.
A dollar a day for the struggling artist in your suburb?