an envelope in the mail at the end of the day saying that one of my favorite poems was accepted for publication. "For my Unborn Son" will appear this time next year in Main Street Rag.
an email the day after that envelope in the mail, informing me that another poem has been accepted in another lit mag. "Visiting Cary" will be published in the next issue of Free Verse.
knowing that I'm doing something that will ultimately be good for me, in the form of delicious beefcake. Ahem. What I mean to say is that I bought not just a gym membership, but 12 sessions with a personal trainer. At 2 trainer sessions a week, and 2 weeks that I'll be gone for the MFA residency and then travel for work, that nearly takes me through the summer. Let's set aside the fact that I am paying some nubile young sexyman to scream at me and watch me flap my armfat until I can reach some semblance of fitness. Let's set aside the fact that this boy (he sounded very young on the phone) told me to make certain I eat before the workout tomorrow. (I figure along with caliper-ing my fat rolls, he's also going to measure how fierce my projectile vomit skills are.) Let's also set aside the fact that I feel absolutely ridonkulous going to a gym where I don't know how any of the torturous-looking machines work, and that I obviously look out of place in a building simply teeming with young blonde fit things, and hunky no-neck manthings. We can even set aside how pathetic it is that I have to pay someone to tell me what to do, since I'm more likely to exercise if it's structured as homework (with the supervisory training sessions like pop-quizzes with the teacher over my shoulder).
Hm. While we were overlooking all of that stuff, I forgot what we were supposed ot be looking at.
Anyway, I have 2 pairs of jeans that I could wear when I was at my most seriously ill, when I had a fab bod. (Not skinny-skinny - I've never gotten to the point that you can see my ribs. But hot woman fabulous.) Before I go to bed tonight, I will be hanging those jeans - and the killer-neckline top - on my bedroom door. And maybe (since there are two pairs) over the fridge.
I have the willpower to do (and enjoy) my job. I have the willpower to grind away at poetry manuscripts until I can't see. I have the willpower to pursue graduate work until my eyeballs want to bleed before reading more literature, and my hands want to fall off from the typing. So why is it so goddamned hard for me to step away from the burgers/ice cream/whatever? I find that most annoying.
Anyway. Yes. Publishing. Yee-haw. And with any luck, feeling better about my bod in just 2 short months. And by short, I mean hellaciously long and painful. But with eyecandy. Who will be screaming at me and cleaning my barf from his shoes, but eyecandy nonetheless.