It’s like booking a colonic, and then getting the sh*ts
So it’s been a while and lots has happened. I’ll summarise but bear with it’s a long paragraph. You might like to imagine this as a “previously on 24” montage. Let’s be honest everything sounds sexier if Keifer Sutherland says it…
Since we last met… (deep breath)
My ex boyfriend died, my dad died, my fish died, I took antidepressants, I stopped taking antidepressants (without checking with my dr – whoops don’t do that!), I stopped running, I bought a flat, I decorated the flat, the flat is my baby, all my friends got married, I drank a LOT of wine, I ate a LOT of food (once got a Maccies delivered when Maccies is 200ft away), I put on weight, I joined tinder again, I joined bumble again, I went on some dates, I didn’t meet the man of my dreams, I felt miserable, I drank more, I felt worse, I deleted tinder again, I deleted bumble again, I stopped drinking so much – I mean I still adore wine but now I just get slightly smashed once a week and usually with other people instead of nailing Vina Sol by myself on a Tuesday, I joined weight watchers, I got new glasses (not really important but I do love them), I started losing weight, I started running, I signed up for a half marathon, I didn’t do the half marathon coz I didn’t do any training but still the thought was there plus I lost a contact lense and I don’t like running in my new glasses, I started feeling a bit better, my head feels clearer, I feel like my bones are more positive, and I have finally got to a point where I want to write again.
There you go. I know what you’re thinking
“But Sophie what do your new glasses look like?!”
Yes I went to Specsavers but not before accidentally walking into the key cutting shop next door. Judging by his expression I was not the first and I will not be the last to do that.
Each event in the above could warrant a blog post all of its own. I would love nothing more than to write about my dad. I wanted to write for his funeral but every time I tried it was overwhelming. I can’t. It’s too big. There aren’t enough words.
I started, as lots of people said I should, but it was never good enough. How can I get these 26 letters of the alphabet into some kind of order to tell you how much it hurts that my dad isn’t here or how incredible he was. The best way to describe it would pretty much be just the noise of me wailing dramatically, and I don’t know how to spell that.
I honestly thought I’d never write again, until this week, when something made me laugh and I thought for the first time in ages “I want to write about this”
So here we are.
What kind of revelation happened to reignite my passion for the written word, I hear you asking?
I shall tell you. It’s pretty profound.
My attempt to be more “my body is a temple” and less “my body is a KFC” has led to me joining weight watchers, or WW as we now have to call it. It’s pretty much Scientology for fat people. It’s a cult. But instead of holding two tin cans and confessing my deepest secrets in order to get closer to our alien overlords like Tom Cruise, it involves obsessively writing down everything I eat and lecturing strangers on how Pret A Manger is ridiculously unhealthy until I give up mid week and dive head first into a burger.
I’m so sorry for my friends. I can’t have a conversation without trying to convert people. I might as well stand on Market Street next to the Jehovas Witnesses with a bottle of Fry Light and a sign that says “Butternut Squash Tastes Even Better Than Potato!” (Spoiler alert – it does not).
Anyway, alongside this I have decided to go the whole hog as it were and next week I’m having a colonic and a coffee enema because it was only £14 more. Oh dear god.
I’ve heard good things about how it makes you feel and I saw Tanya from Cheshire housewives get one on ITVBe so it can’t be that bad.
Booked it, paid for it, and then out of nowhere as though my colon knew what it had in store I’ve had nothing but the pips for a week! I wouldn’t have paid £69 if I knew I could get the same effect from slightly undercooking a prawn. Actual money down the toilet.
Much like Alanis Morisette and her many many spoons (too many IMHO), I found this very ironic.
So yes I could have written to you about my dad passing, or about the fab and funny times I had at hen dos and weddings last year, or about my mental health and how I learn to cope with it, but instead of a very deep and meaningful post, I have written to you about poop. And do you know what? I’m really pleased I did.
I will let you know how next week goes, although quite frankly what’s the point now I’m pretty much empty.
Funny side – I wasn’t going to tell my mum about my “appointment” but I did and she looked at me with disgust and said “I don’t know why you can’t just sit on the toilet for hours like your dad did”. Pretty sure she’s praying for me on Sunday.
Thank you for reading, I missed you.
P.S although I couldn’t write about my dad, I did manage to write an obituary for my goldfish Miss Anna Mae which I’ve included below. She really was a great fish.