Whilst shoving my worldly possessions into boxes I found my 2006 food diary, in which I'd faithfully documented Wot I Ate. I wish I'd kept up that habit – even a one-line description gets the memories flooding back. Hot chocolate in Amsterdam, paella in Valencia; burnt porridge in the office microwave.
But then I remembered that in addition to the paper diary I was also tracking my calories online. And in addition to that, for the first six months there was a running tally on a spreadsheet, so in May I could tell you I'd eaten precisely 96 apples, 9 chocolate digestive biscuits, 205 cups of tea and 1 serve of vegetarian haggis. How bloody sad is all that!?
These days I'm not so loony, but I'm still trying to find the balance between paying attention to what I chomp but not being obsessive about it. I can go months without writing anything down and do fine on instinct alone. Then other times the portions creep up and the jeans start squeezing, so I start journaling again to reel myself back in. Hmm.
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So the move starts tomorrow, woohoo! Everything is a shambles. This is my sixth move since starting this blog. Blog technology has come a long way since 2001 but there have no ground-breaking innovations in the science of moving house. It still blows!
Back in 2000 before the lard-busting began, I helped The Mothership move. She left me unsupervised temporarily while she went to a very important quilting workshop. I was tasked with moving three trillion sets of crumbly encyclopedias from one house to the other – just half a block apart.
This is one moment from my Larger Days that I can still recall with painful accuracy. I brushed it off with jokes when I wrote about it at the time, but as I lugged pile after pile of heavy books to the car, I honestly thought I was going to die. It was September so it can't have been that hot yet, and the distance between the house to the car was all of ten metres. But I can still feel my burning skin and hear my jagged breath and rattling heart. Every step was painful. I flopped down on the front veranda, desperately gulping for breath and worrying how/if I'd get back up. Should I call Mum? Or an ambulance? Would I fit in an ambulance? Panic, shame, humiliation; so much hatred and anger.
After twenty minutes I crawled to my feet and came up with a crafty plan. I brought the big wheelie recycling bin into the house then unceremoniously tossed the encyclopedias inside, one by one. Then I slowly walked them round to the new house and poured them out onto the floor. Just three trips and I was all done! I felt so clever and resourceful and went back to telling myself that everything was just fine.
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