I’m down 50 big ones.
In 4 months.
How’d I do it?
I quit indulging in the Drinkeepoo and family-sized bag of Chex Mix every night, traded my flat bars in for drops, and got my porker-sized butt out on the road.
What was the catalyst?
Self-discovery, stumbled upon through a bit of free-writing.
Two paragraphs to be exact.
Long-ass sentences that explained why and what I’d been running from all these years—the bouts of drinking, the trying on the wrong different people, places and things, the “girls don’t come along askin’ for ranchin’ chores.”
The unreconciled grief.
The “inflicted void.”
When I was on the edge of 20.
Edge of 20?
19. (Not 17, like Stevie Nicks.)
It was so powerful I sought a path to recovery.
I ride that path on my Trek Alexa.
A 47-mile bike ride down the Cape a couple of weeks ago helped shed those few pounds to achieve the big 5-0 milestone. Calcium was leaching from my muscles making my quads scream. The popping a squat to dispense fierce diarrhea and relieve the cramping in my lower gut didn’t derail me either.
Just made me dirty.
Hell, yeah. 52 and riding strong.
I got no strength, but I got endurance.
And I’ve dropped from an all-consuming 3X and comfortably sitting in a size 16. My inner thighs no longer bunch together and become one when I roll over in bed.
Does it feel great?
Has my presence of mind returned?
Not the kind I need to secure my smaller porker-sized ass in the workplace amid the Millennials. It’s troubling. What’s left of my mind is fleeting. And it’s not entirely due to alcohol consumption ’cause my high school girlfriend’s Cyndy and Kathleen’s minds are like sieves too.
And they ain’t boozers.
Nothing stays in my mind for long and there’s not alot of computing going on, just anxiety. Cycling helps. Yoga helps. My former writing coach did yoga. I wrote about the paradox (her doing yoga and my doing drinking) in the essay called My Dear Friend the Dirty, which the editors of Elephant Journal scooped up and devoured nearly 3 years ago.
My coach, alas, left me to pursue work with ‘better’ writers over a year ago, those who are book-publishable-friendly and can afford her soaring hourly rates.
(And tolerate her sense of self-importance.)
I kept drinking the Dirties.
She used to say before reading one of my manuscripts, “I’m eager to read me some Lisa Mae DeMasi.”
That translates to, this is going to make me laugh in parts but it has no depth or meaning.
I write when I can; back on the subject of my time spent in Cody. When I fell in love with toiling in the elements and fighting the boys to do the chores they hated. A 3-month period when Heartbreak was displaced by the cows and horses and mountains.
I wish I had gobs more time to write. I chant every morning for a grant to fall from the sky and into my lap. Especially now since I can finally give meaning to my work.
You know, having discovered the discovery, and feeling like a person again without all that “blind heartache weight.”
Adanna, a journal for women, about women, printed in its October edition, Why I Love Bike Commuting in Boston.
I no longer get to play chicken with city buses living in the Metrowest.
Damn, I miss it.
My work was also published in an Anthology last month, nestled inside other essays and poems by 50-something kick-ass women writers who are still enjoying sex with others and themselves. I flew out to attend and read at the launch in Santa Barbara, but never made it due to the fires.
Pick up a copy on Amazon and read it in the bathtub.
With rose pedals. And bubbly.
Time to go to spin class to burn away the remaining excess weight.
Where’s my low-calorie Gatorade.
Write to me at lisa dot demasi at gmail.