Sat in the park at lunch time, the flowers in the maze of knee high hedge row were in full bloom of red and yellow petals in carefully grown puff balls on sticks. I sat on the grass with a book much like a woman sat not so far away. A couple sat in the shade of the old oak trees, him lazily laying back with his backpack for a pillow and texting on his mobile while she slouched over a Mcdonald’s burger box and a cardboard pocket of an excuse for chips clamps between her knees.
While I might be enjoying the summer and past-times that keep me occupied, I am still aware that I am approaching a page in my diary for my next psychiatry appointment with a looming decision. With that date in the midst of August I wonder what that outcome will be and what my options are should they say no to a further referral.
The yes and no are both scary prospects. Yes means progress to a few unknown outcomes and no means a halt and further indecision with my life being on hold once again with the only person who will be able to move things on will be me.
With the sun glinting through the summer leaves, and the heat in the humid air, women in the city are wearing their favourite summer dresses, skirts and shorts and suddenly I am ultra aware of the outward expression I am missing out on.
I compensated. I made an effort to run and exercise so at least I would feel a little more happy about my body. James text last week, “Done my leg in. Not been running since we last met. Gonna book with physio cos not getting better. Totally gutted.”
I was too was gutted for James. He’d made such an effort and was running most days through the week. I vowed to continue on, sliding a fitness DVD into the player and laying the Yoga mat on the rare days that we had rain or when the evening was still too hot to run.
Early on Sunday morning I headed to the coast, the 8am crisp air devoid of working week pollution and the fragile sunlight of August that hadn’t quite got up to a sun-tanning burn. It was exhilarating and motivating. My lungs felt like an old Marigold glove that had been blown up, unsticking the insides of the fingers. When I started there were only a hand full of fishermen, fisherwomen and the odd lone runner; being near the city few are on nodding terms, as we pass, compared to home.
That Sunday was still a gorgeous day. By 9am the sun was hot and joggers were out in packs. Far too hot to run for my liking but some persevere equating fluid loss to weight loss. I returned home, switched on the cappuccino machine and grabbed my light blue frayed denim shorts to lay in the garden and attempt to redress the balance between those women in the city in their summer clothes and myself enjoying some me time.
While the cappuccino machine grumbled in boiling internal noises I pulled my shorts up to my hips and pulled the zipper expecting it to stop midway as it has done for the last few years. It zipped right to the top; without me breathing in. I’d almost done it. I’d started my weight loss and it was starting to come off in the right place, the front of my tummy. Just a little more and I’ll be reinstating the use of the button. These were old shorts. Bought several years ago from New Look when they were still churning out reasonably quality and their old squared text branding. This means of course that they last for years but also shrink as the inevitable years of age pile on my waist and become increasingly more difficult to wear.
I felt good and promised myself then, as I poured the steamed skimmed milk into the dark treacle-like decaffeinated espresso at the bottom of the cup, that I would run the coast at least once on the weekend; which of course means I get to wear my short-running shorts. Not that is any reason to go running. Well, may be a little.
Until next time.