According to a certain Parks Department worker who can't seem to keep from shouting at me as I bike past him in the morning, my name is "Big Momma."
That's right - that's what he shouts at me every time he sees me.
"Big Moooommmmaaaa!" He yells it across fields, even. I'd like to kick his teeth in, except I realize he's actually doing it as an expression of appreciation. He waves at me, smiles, gives me thumbs up, pumps his fist and so on.
Is it really so hard for people to believe that larger folks can be very fit and active? The other day he gave me a big grin because I made it up a small incline in Central Park. I felt like bashing him over the head with my bike lock -- I'm hardly so out of shape that I can't peddle up a minuscule hill!
Anyway...I feel like I am finally climbing out of a strange sort of entombment. Buried alive, if you will. For the first time in about....oh, six months, I don't have a deadline looming over my head. I shipped the last extra project off today via e-mail, and heaved a massive sigh of relief.
Now I have to fight my way back into my "normal" routine. It's been a summer of tension and distress; not without its pleasures, but a lot of challenges.
Who am I? Big Momma, I suppose. For the moment, at least. Time to change that perception of myself and get back to when I felt like Lean, Mean Momma. And I want to drop two jean sizes by Christmas.
So...there's the gauntlet, well and truly thrown.
January 15th, 2018 A Different Story
14 hours ago