At the risk of becoming a broken record, wearing comfy pants is the third best thing about working as a freelance writer. The second is that my home office is in such close proximity to my refrigerator and to my pantry. The first is 100 percent control over my schedule.
Unfortunately, these three benefits, working in tandem, are also the worst things that ever happened to my waistline.
I tend to unconsciously meander into my kitchen whenever I’m stuck on the next sentence, ambiguous about what project I should tackle next, or overwhelmed/frustrated/miffed over how the day’s work is going in general.
My comfy pants cheerfully accommodate the results.
About 25-years ago (oy! sad, but true), when I worked as an administrative assistant, a friend and I went to a new French “bistro” that lasted something like a month here in where’s-the-beef-rural-West-Texas. I’ve never seen anything like that place, before or since. The dessert menu was unbelievable. We turned into children in its presence. When we left, she went home and I went back to work. The unyielding waistband of my denim skirt knew not of comfy. Its training was in torture.
I never insulted my “work clothes” that way again.
Flash forward to last spring. Although the winter had been the most productive season of my writing “career” (please stop laughing), after six months of nearly complete immobility, even my comfy pants were starting to whimper. I thought I’d lose the excess … baggage … during the summer because I’m much more active, but (last Saturday) we had the season’s first freeze, and I’m still…
Well, let’s just say that, apparently, I wasn’t active enough this summer. I kinda had to change out of a pair of comfy pants this morning into others that were … more comfy.
Does writer’s block necessarily have to equal writer’s fat? When I’m on a roll, and the words are stringing together like good little soldiers, I forget about the chocolate chip cookies that are only nine steps away. Ice cream is but ten. (Yes, I counted them. Was that OCD?) Anyway, as long as I’m on a roll – not overwhelmed/frustrated/discouraged/miffed – I stay out of the kitchen. Not acceptable. Such nirvana rarely lasts long. I need a better plan this winter, lest I have to buy ever-larger comfy pants. Unfortunately, I’ve been trying to formulate that better plan so that I can write this sentence for at least half an hour. Now I’m not only frustrated and discouraged but, yes, miffed. Not only did I just face plant into writer’s block, but also my stomach is growling again.
The nice unlucky good bad thing is, relief is just nine steps away.
I is a writer.