I think we can all agree there’s nothing more tedious and annoying than an artist discussing their ‘process.’ They’ll spout on about their ‘craft’ and their ‘inspiration’ and how they ‘see the world differently’ than the rest of us and then they’ll tell you about the speck of dew they saw on a young leaf that morning, and how it relates to them entering as the new kid in the middle of first grade. Maybe their voice will waver and they’ll get a tear in their eye.

And you’ll want to kill yourself.

So I try not to do that here.

I mean, that shit is BORING.


Unless you’re this guy. Then nothing you do is boring.

So I won’t get into that – but I will say that writing this blog has changed how I experience certain aspects of my life. Because I have now a constant sense of mild anxiety in regards to posting each week, I’m always searching for some little thing I can latch on to write about.

Sometimes, I’ll find myself rewriting conversations in my head as I’m having them, or mapping out different situations as I’m walking through them, preparing to post about them. Or even worse, if I have something big coming up like an event or a trip, I’ll actually start writing about it in my mind before it even happens, as I’ll think I know how it will turn out.

This is probably unnatural and I should perhaps consider talking to someone about it.

Anyway, that’s what I did with this work-trip. I was sure there would be some sort of epiphany, some sort of life-changing event I could write about. After all, it was a big deal to me to be given this chance to expand my role. And I was scared and I was excited and I was overwhelmed. All perfect topics for a post.

But after a few days, it was clear that nothing really out of the ordinary was going to happen. I mean, I was learning a lot and it was great to see my friends in the West Coast office but a monumental event? Not really.

One of my last nights there, I walked down to the waterfront. I figured I should at least do that, since the first two nights I’d just stayed in, watching the exquisite sunset from my high-rise hotel room and eating a room-service cheeseburger.

Burger mine

This is how I roll.

As I made my way along the boardwalk, I spotted a Ferris Wheel in the distance. This sight immediately made me sick to my stomach, as I am horribly terrified of heights. I could barely even look at it. My heart pounded loudly in my head and I started to sweat.

And that’s when I knew. This was it.

I was going to go on that damn Ferris Wheel. And that’s what I was going to write about. How, even though I was scared and wanted to stay on familiar, solid ground, I’d still taken the ride. And it would be a metaphor for how scared I’d been for this new role but how I’d moved forward anyway, by challenging myself and having faith in the outcome.

Clearly, I am brilliant.



There was no one in line for the ride, so obviously God was telling me I was on the right track. So I walked up to the ticket counter, holding my breath in anticipation for this influential experience.

Then I looked at the price. It was $13.

Fuck. That.

So not much of note happened on my trip.

Except this one small thing…

Since posting ’90 Days, Part Three,’ I have stuck to my vow of not dieting, not exercising, not doing anything that would cause me to lose weight. I ate whatever I wanted and didn’t work out. I actually specifically didn’t work out so I could see how much weight I would actually gain without it.

And I did gain some weight. I don’t know how much because I can never find the right battery for my scale but it was enough that my clothes became very tight and I looked a little slutty, what with my chest bursting through my shirts and my jeans now all becoming painted-on jeggings. But through it all, I was surprisingly detached. I more looked at it as a bemused observer. It didn’t really affect me more than, “These pants are super tight. That is really uncomfortable.”

Now, to be honest, I didn’t really feel that great physically. I was eating heavier meals than usual and a lot of sugar – which I normally don’t do. But it didn’t affect me emotionally. Every once in awhile, I’d run my hands over my expanding muffin-top or flap my arms to see how flabby they’d gotten. But I didn’t hate myself. I wasn’t horrified or self-loathing. I didn’t tell myself I was disgusting and a bad person. Instead, I’d think, “Well, so that’s happening,” and go on with whatever I was doing.

So when I went on my trip, I was heavier than I’ve been in years. But for some reason, and I really have no idea why, I felt like a total hot babe. I swaggered around that city, tossing my hair and swinging my hips like I was living out Whitney Houston’s ‘Queen of the Night.’ I don’t know if it was because the weather was beautiful and everyone was in a good mood and smiling at each other but I just felt like guys were checking me out left and right. Who knows if this was actually true but in my mind, it was. Maybe it was the jeggings, I don’t know. Anyway, I waved at people and said hello to strangers and joked with the other hotel guests I came in contact with. I felt confident and I felt strong. I have not felt that way in a long, long time.

When I returned to New York, I figured I’d fall back into my normal routine of looking down when I walk and speaking in hushed tones at Duane Reade. But I didn’t. In fact, I felt so great, I was motivated to go online and pick out some simple, healthy recipes I could make so that I could bring good things for lunch. I put in an order at Fresh Direct so I could have all the ingredients on hand. I also started to get excited about exercising again and pulled out all my old DVDs so I could get started immediately.

In short, I was inspired.

And I still feel inspired.

I honestly could not care less if I lose weight. If I don’t, I’ll just go shopping with Sheri for new clothes and she’ll make sure I look incredible. So I don’t have to worry about that. Because what I learned from this trip is – how I feel about myself has nothing to do with what I weigh. I’m actually not sure what it has to do with, but weight is not it.

The 90 Days isn’t technically over yet – there are still three more weeks. But my perspective on it has changed. I am still allowing myself to eat what I want, but what I want has changed. I don’t want to eat pizza everyday, not because it’s not allowed. I don’t want to eat pizza every day because it just doesn’t make me feel great. I want to eat well so I can feel well. I want to exercise so I can feel strong. I want to take care of myself so I can live my life and be awesome at it.

So all in all, I’d say the 90 Days, and the trip, were a success. Because through them, I got my strut back.

So now I guess, it’s time to date again.

The Canadian Troubadour







13 thoughts on “Strut.”

  1. Favorite line from this post: “This is probably unnatural and I should perhaps consider talking to someone about it.” The amount of shit I do that makes me think this is incredible and it’s good to know that it’s not just me! 😉 ~ SC

  2. Woo hoo! So happy to hear you are confident and feel inspired…you really never know where that inspiration will come from at anytime, but it’s always a great thing!!!

  3. Through this whole post I kept thinking “okay, I have to remember that point so I can comment on it” – yes, I realize my comments are crucial – but I got overwhelmed because, well, I think this is one of your best posts yet. 🙂 And I’m so glad this is where you are, emotionally! I just, day-before-yesterday decided to stop shit-talking myself and to remind myself that a hole in the heart can’t be filled with food or, really, anything but love, so give it and take it and be as happy as possible!

    1. Thank you so much. I’ve found that shit-talking myself does absolutely nothing except make me feel worse about myself, which perpetuates unhealthy behavior. Change just doesn’t come that way for me. I’m glad you liked the post!

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