I haven’t written in a while; there are a few reasons: I’m finishing my next memoir, Treyf, which has been an all-encompassing effort demanding my focus on some significant themes that have recurred in my life both in the kitchen and out — the forbidden; the delicious; the illicit; the noisy; the quiet; the tribal — all requiring navigation that comes directly and profoundly from the heart. I’ve also recently launched a new column at the Washington Post about a subject that I’ve often shared here with candor: feeding my mother — my gorgeous, glamour-puss, former television singer, model, cabaret star mother — as she gets older. Add to this the impending paperback publication of Poor Man’s Feast in August, deadlines for the Tin House Workshop in Portland, Oregon, where I’ll be studying in July with Charles D’Ambrosio; a TEDx talk I’m giving at the University of Nevada in January; and the organization of estimates for new house siding (roughly the same price as an Audi, only far less fun to drive), and I’ve become, to put it flatly, just this side of hysterical.
Anyone who has been a longtime reader of this blog knows that certain patterns ensue after I get through a particularly busy period. Rather than imposing upon myself some downtime for rest and regrouping, I keep going — I push through — which, it seems to me, is something that a lot of women do. Actually, scratch that statement; I think it’s a uniquely American habit to put our shoulders to the wall, to keep pushing, to burn the candle at both ends until our bodies heave a sigh of exasperation and weariness, regardless of whether we’re women or men. And then (and only then, it seems) we worry about our health often when it’s too late; we get test results, an unfortunate voicemail message, or a text from our doctor’s assistant. Yet despite the (al)lure of the FitBit, the call of the gym, the beckoning siren of Fitocracy, when you’re a writer, you spend most of the day sitting on your ass, from morning until night. At least I do. And here’s what the equation looks like:
Work + Stress + Sitting-On-My-Ass = DOOM
In so much as we’re different people, doom for me might look very different than doom for you, because my body and mind are built differently than yours are. Doom for me begins in the spongy form of my lungs, and announces its presence in a tiny, baby-like cough. A few days later, I sound like Camille. A week after that, and I’m sucking on my inhaler as if it were a bong, and the date, 1968.
