“There must be some kind of way outta here
Said the joker to the thief
There's too much confusion
I can't get no relief.”
”All Along the Watchtower,” by Bob Dylan
In my early thirties, I threw out my bathroom scale. I could no longer tolerate the daily measuring of my weight—up a few pounds and my mood turned dry and cracked, like an old desert father’s skin, for the rest of the day. Down a few pounds and I suddenly though I was Cindy Crawford. After twenty years of measuring my worth through the size of my body, this was a game I could no longer tolerate and gone it was. As long as I fit in my favorite pants, I’m good. If I can’t button them, something needs to change.
I live in California, blessed to be sheltering-in-place while my husband works from home. Sure, the past month I’ve been stripped of many of my basic rights. Hell, today the neighborhood forest trail where I walk several times a week to keep fit and sane has closed, even though I see more people in my neighborhood walking my dogs than I ever have walking that path. Regardless, it’s a state park and it’s now off limits.