"Fuck It; I'm Beautiful."


So, you know when you’re in a plane, and you’re scared out of your mind because man should not fly, and you hit the eeeinsiest bit of turbulence and inevitably promise to become a nun if God could just see his way clear to make sure you don’t die in a violent, fiery smear on the nearest cornfield?

I did that on Saturday. Sort of.

My weight had been backsliding for a week, and yes, bloating, period, woman-fat, slow-metabolism, building muscle, yada yada yada. I wasn’t really hearing any of that. I heard “Now I’ll have to wait a whole extra week in the middle of summer before I can buy new clothes, because I was too damn lazy to make my workout quota”, because that was essentially what it boils down to. Twelve pounds. The last twelve pounds of your life. The only thing that stands between you and the skinny girls. It’s practically a class distinction. I know some of you are saying “Yes, but it’s only ten pounds. It doesn’t define you. You’ve come so far, and you can make it—it’s nothing to freak out about.” These people are better people than I am. Stronger people. More secure people.

As evidenced by the fact that they would never make a solemn promise that if, by some miracle, they could just weigh 137 like they did two weeks ago—if their weight could revert to the “on schedule” weight that would put them in a size six in time for their family reunion, they would never cheat on their diet or skip their workouts ever again.

And if they would, then they would actually keep that promise.
As I said, they are better people than I.

This morning, after said vow of total re-committal, I weighed myself. 138. Excellent. Practically two pounds had left my torso. My thighs were no longer fighting each other like irate hippos. I felt the thin. I checked the mirror for confirmation; I was right. I left for work feeling like a sexy beast; like maybe all of this hard work was starting to pay off. I was confirmed in my decision to stay the straight course. Fully intent on keeping my promise. I had broken my plateau.

Then at 11:30 this morning, I was firmly booked into Hell.

I ate a brownie. Not a cardinal sin, but not part of a healthy diet.
At lunch, I ate half of my Lean Cuisine—which, in my defense, was soggy—but followed it up with a breadstick from Domino’s.
Full of the guilt, I picked up another piece of brownie, but put it back with shame.

I don’t know what my problem is. No, I do know what my problem is, and it is simple: whenever I have lost weight, it is that much easier to slip up on my eating. I have this mentality of “I’m thin now!” that acts as a total enabler to whatever poor decisions I choose to make. I wish my body were in charge of my brain, and not the other way around. My body doesn’t want half of the crap I force into it, and then I make it work out harder to make up for it. No wonder my body was unhappy with me for so long. We’d just start being friends again, and I’d fall back into my old pattern of mistreating it, just because it was familiar. My body is like a four-year-old child, and my brain is its abusive parent. I can’t give a kid Cheetos and hard liquor and expect him to be healthy (or well-behaved, for that matter) any more than I can give my body straw and expect it to turn it into gold. I have an impulse-control problem, which makes it difficult to be charge, stay in control.

That’s a reason, not an excuse. I don’t believe in excuses.

I need to remember what it’s important to me, which is hard when faced with a big piece of [whatever]. I don’t even want the food, and if I do, I don’t want twelve portions. The sensory is really just that much stronger than mentality. I know I’m fighting a losing game, but that doesn’t mean I can’t win.

Here is what I want, what I need to remember that I want:

A new wardrobe
A healthy sense of self-esteem
To go shopping at Urban Outfitters
To start making all those dresses I have patterns for, that I refuse to make until I am the right size
A two-piece bathing suit
A resting heart rate of 55
To walk down the street not have any objections about the way I look
To be able to sit down and write without thinking I should be working out instead
To get hit on without constantly thinking about the appearance of my uterus ledge
More skirts
Body confidence
Waving without underarm flub
To not flip out over the occasional piece of cake
To run five miles in fifty minutes
High heels and long summer nights
Higher roundhouse kicks
To bear my midriff
A pants size in single digits

This does not even compare to cake.

I’m not going to dwell on what I did wrong. I don’t need a defeatist attitude. And I’m not going to swear off food, or make false promises, or skip dinner. I’m going to drink water, go running, and eat a healthy meal, same as I always do, and realize that I just need to work a little harder.

And on the only positive note in this entire post:
Happy Birthday, CD, even if you’ll never be as old as me. As I. Shaddup.


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