tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86453727290445719012024-03-13T12:12:28.292-04:00From the mind of...Simply UnFlabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09303983788740577695noreply@blogger.comBlogger163125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8645372729044571901.post-1735221976228526352018-08-17T10:02:00.000-04:002018-08-17T10:02:23.093-04:00<span style="font-size: large;">Cheer, Bitches.</span><br />
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While it has my unique pleasure to amuse and sometimes offend you with my off brand sense of humor, I have decided to end this blog and begin a new one.<br />
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I started this blog with the intention of journaling my weight loss journey and I feel that after eight years, I have beaten that poor horse into submission. While I may not be an everyday success story, I believe I am an overall one, and I choose to focus on what really matters - my mind.<br />
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I'm not sure if this is good or bad for the world because it means more brutal honesty, more crass humor and more unadulterated ME.<br />
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So, if you'd like to partake in the next chapter with me, head on over to <a href="http://thedailyrelatable.weebly.com/">thedailyrelatable.weebly.com</a> and join in on the mayhem. I'd love to see you!Simply UnFlabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09303983788740577695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8645372729044571901.post-74339073950776684122017-09-11T12:17:00.002-04:002017-09-11T12:17:29.911-04:00Don't Call It A Comeback....I'm not myself anymore, yet I am unlike any version of "me" that I have ever come across before. I have always ebbed and flowed through stages of happiness and depression in various stages of my life, but this weird SyFy version of myself where I lie on the couch watching endless Netflix series, drinking way too much wine, missing endless weeks of work, closing out my family and loved ones, and shutting down the mental capacity to deal with any of it, is something I have never encountered before. They say admitting that you have a problem is the first step to finding a solution. I have admitted that I have a problem before, only for the problem to get worse. Mostly because I was only admitting it to get the people around me to leave me the fuck alone so I could get on with the business of ignoring life. But here I am, admitting my problem to the world so it can no longer be ignored, and I am scared to death. I would pretty much rather stab myself in the eyeballs with sewing needles while listening to the Backstreet Boys on repeat in a room full of clowns. That is how ready I am to get on with the business of living again.<br />
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So, here you go world. I am a fucking mess.<br />
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I don't know when or why I disappeared, or why I am so afraid of feelings, and reality, and being happy. I have been doing a lot of self reflection (in between all of the self-medicating), and there are so many things that swirl in this wine filled, pill fogged brain of mine. Here are some realistic, selfish and probably deluded theories:<br />
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<ol>
<li>Once the kids got older and I didn't have a reason to run around and have other people to care for, I stopped caring for myself.</li>
<li>Once I was properly diagnosed with lupus, and things started hurting more, starting becoming more real, and I couldn't just "do" what I wanted to do all the time, reality became too much and I checked out of it earlier than I needed to.</li>
<li>In light of certain life events over the last year, the depression that I have kept so closely to the vest, has leaked out like a shitty diaper and stinks up the air around me until neither I, nor the people around can breathe anymore.</li>
<li>My fear of getting fat again has in turn actually had this strange obsessive hold over me that has adversely actually allowed me to gain weight which has then plummeted my already blossoming depression into a deeper hole of despair that just circle jerks itself into a spiral of unending insanity.</li>
<li>Wine is good.</li>
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Excuses aside, I have been an asshole. A weak, whiny, excuse hurdling asshole too afraid to take on her own demons, her own mortality and her own life. Aside from cancelling my Netflix subscription for awhile, avoiding the liquor store, and getting my ass off the couch once in awhile, I don't know where to begin when it comes to getting myself back. Maybe I will never be who I was again. Maybe I can be better. I guess the only way I can find out is to take the first gut wrenching step forward. </div>
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Here goes nothing, right?</div>
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Simply UnFlabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09303983788740577695noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8645372729044571901.post-66860794132249008972017-08-03T13:13:00.000-04:002017-09-13T12:42:40.550-04:00Ella estaba sorprendida!! (She was surprised)Normally, I am <b>NOT</b> good at keeping secrets. I get super excited about the <i>idea</i> of keeping them and seeing the look on people's faces when they are revealed, but then I see that person and I just want to tell them instantly. I look like the cat that ate the canary with my big stupid grin and my face is a dead giveaway.<br />
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But with the help of one of my very best friends, I finally did it. I kept a secret from my sister for months. And it <u>SUCKED</u>. It was harder than trying to strap your baby to your chest with one of those granola mom loving baby harnesses that have no buckles and the only way to get your child from face planting to the ground is by knowing origami and having a roll of duct tape. Yeah, it was that kind of hard. <br />
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For months, we texted and called and Amazon Prime ordered and Etsy'd our asses off planning for this party. It was going to the be the best fake bridal shower planning, Surprise 40th Birthday Party anyone had ever pulled out of their asses. It was complete with gold glitter cat decorations for my cat loving sister, pink and gold glitter e'rthing, booze that would rival a Jay-Z backstage after party and enough food to put you into Weight Watchers meetings for a year. <br />
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But when her car pulled up and everyone got into position, the tension was palpable. I could literally feel the heartbeat of every person there pounding in my chest. I don't think I remembered to breathe for a solid five minutes. As she came up the side of the house, our friend Melissa signaled for her son to start playing "Go shorty, it's your birthday", we all jumped out and yelled SURPRISE, she had an aneurysm and everyone went home. <br />
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Kidding.<br />
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She was carrying arms full of baskets for the shower she was supposed to be planning, along with wine and other shower-like goodies that she almost threw on the ground, and I am pretty sure I saw a trickle of pee come down her leg when we scared her half to death and she instantly started crying. Mission accomplished. I believe her exact words as she rounded the corner were "What the hell is wrong with all of you? That is terrible!" Aw, sweeter words have never been spoken đ<br />
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Head over to my Instagram to check it out: <br />
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<a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BXL2EITjZtB/" style="color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none; word-wrap: break-word;" target="_blank">"What the hell is wrong with all of you? That's terrible!" What tracy says when she thinks she's coming over to plan a shower and 60 of her closest friends and family surprise her for her 40th birthday đđ #surprise #happybirthday #goshortyitsyourbirthday #success #40thbirthday #40andfabulous #shedidntseeitcoming @tracyreeves66</a></div>
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A post shared by Lisa Sinclair (@thetattooedninja) on <time datetime="2017-07-30T21:02:23+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">Jul 30, 2017 at 2:02pm PDT</time></div>
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I have to say, I haven't seen my sister smile so big, or be as happy as I had seen her that night in a long time. She was glowing, she was dancing, she was hugging, she was being hugged, she was genuinely realizing just how far the people that love her would go to let her know how incredibly special and important she is to them.</div>
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And just when she thought it just couldn't possibly get any better than that she started opening up a gift that was signed from a group of us who had donated towards it and came in eight sections. Each piece - things like sunscreen, maracas, a margarita glass with tequila, a Daddy Daycare DVD, a tank top that said This Senorita Needs a Margarita, a calendar and finally - a signed card - told her that she has an all expense paid trip girls trip to Mexico next spring!</div>
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BOOM! NAILED IT! As much as we looked forward to it, and enjoyed it, I had never been so happy for something to be over. Surprise parties are stressful and I am glad she doesn't turn 50 for another 10 years. </div>
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Also, I have a sprained wrist. Long story short, gravity and alcohol (and walls) are not my friend and if I want to sit on the ground after I fall I am pretty intent on doing just that, until I'm not, at which point I will sprint into the house, and into a wall. Good times, good times.</div>
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I am available for your Sweet 16's, Quinceanera's, Dirty 30's, Lordy Lordy 40's and Bachelorette Parties for a reasonable fee. Just don't let me drink Fireball on an empty stomach. You've been warned.</div>
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<br />Simply UnFlabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09303983788740577695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8645372729044571901.post-74063758303265519382017-07-28T10:35:00.001-04:002017-09-13T12:40:18.481-04:00Thigh Gaps and Knee SlapsSo, what's the deal with "thigh gaps"? I mean, I don't think I ever had one. Not even as an infant. Or a fetus. When I was a kid that was just never a thing. Girls didn't aspire to be anorexics or Victoria Secret models. We aspired to have enough Rave hairspray to get us through a weekend of rollerskating and drinking beer on the railroad tracks. We wanted to make sure that we we had enough safety pins for our bleached out jeans and enough batteries for our walkmans. I have always had stumpy limbs and I ain't mad about it because it's not only true that "thick thighs save lives", they also save cell phones from falling in the toilet when you're playing Candy Crush in the morning. They save that last crispy piece of pepperoni from falling on the floor. They bounce babies which create giggles, which is the best sound in the whole world. And they look hella good in a pair of skinny jeans. We, as women, are not meant to look like the 12 year old versions of ourselves. We are meant to look like humans who have birthed other humans. Like women who have loved and lost, and drank dranks, and laughed and cried and lived a thousand lifetimes. So all you skinny bitches eating air and drinking your flat tummy teas for the sake of a "thigh gap", have at it. I will keep saving lives with these thick thighs, and the occasional cell phone.<br />
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Another phrase that cracks me is being someone's "ride or die". Like, where are we riding and why do we have to die? It seems really aggressive and extreme. Can I just be someone's "cruise and live"? I mean in the end, I'll still be there for you, and in the meantime we can eat pizza and drink whiskey and take the back roads home, and when we get home we can watch some Netflix and fall asleep on the couch and no one has to give up their life. I say that sounds way better than riding and dying. <br />
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I feel like the older I get, the older I realize I am. I am always using the phrase "when I was a kid", or "kids these days". The next thing you know I will be telling my kids I had to walk to school in the snow with no shoes, uphill, both ways while carrying my siblings on my back. Speaking of my back...my poor aching back....<br />
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Ok, that's it. Simply UnFlabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09303983788740577695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8645372729044571901.post-26723831756112762172017-07-13T11:39:00.000-04:002017-07-13T11:39:11.495-04:00I'm back, Bitches.Ok, so it's been a hot minute....or a long year since I have last posted. To be honest, although I have a lot to say, I haven't had the words in me to say them. I'm not even the same person I was last year, or even last month or last week for that matter, so it's hard to know where to begin when starting over. They say the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. So here I am, taking that first step - or as it were that initial thud back into real life. Because the place where I have been stuck - in my head, on my couch, in Season 5 of Pretty Little Liars, in my sweatpants - isn't the place I want to be anymore. It isn't the place I can afford to be anymore. My mental health, my marriage, my family, and the button on every pair of pants I own counts on me becoming a better version of who I currently am. And I think the reason I am ready to become whoever she is, is because I have stopped comparing myself to everyone else, and to the person I once was, and realized that the only real competition I have is with myself.<br />
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So here I stand, a little more wrinkled around the edges, a little harder, a little heavier around the middle, and a little too knowledgeable about four teenage girls on the run from other teenagers without parents and with unlimited resources and hacking skills. <br />
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So, today it's raining, and the air is cool (which means my hair is cooperating and I don't look like a human troll doll), and my eyebrows are extremely "on fleek" for the second day in a row, and I am sitting here with my pants unbuttoned (at work - oh please, like you've never done it), and I have made the decision to let Hanna, Spencer, Aria, Emily and Alison figure out who "A" is for themselves for awhile while I get back to the art of yoga, being less of an oompaloompa and reclaiming my life. After all, being lapped in the mall by a 65 year old woman with pink hair, wearing Lululemon's and rocking out to 21 Pilot's is all the shame this 42 year needs, thank you very much.<br />
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I refuse to go back to the me from 7 years ago, regardless of how "cute" or "sexy" people still tell me I was. Being 317 pounds and barely squeezing into a size 26 jeans, and asking for seatbelt extenders on airplanes is not the life I will ever return to. I may never be able to run again, but that won't stop me from sweating it out and building up some bangin' biceps in downward dog, or lapping the old lazy me by walking a few miles after work.<br />
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Watch out world, I'm back and I'm taking no prisoners. Unless those prisoners are a size 10 peep-toe booties with a 5" heel in nude suede. Then, you can consider me -A. And if you don't get that reference after reading this, we can't be friends.<br />
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Kisses,<br />
-LSimply UnFlabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09303983788740577695noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8645372729044571901.post-68676991393330628892016-02-25T10:08:00.001-05:002016-02-25T10:08:23.289-05:00I'm Bi-polar. And so aren't I.I have decided that I am bi-polar. I haven't been officially diagnosed by a doctor or a therapist or anything but one Friday night while partaking in a glass (or three) of pinot I extensively googled my symptoms and bookmarked some very pertinent pages on WedMD so I'm pretty sure I self diagnosed myself accurately. Who needs this ObamaCare bullshit and co-pays when you have the internet and a ton of neurosis to entertain yourself with, right?<br />
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Why do I think I am bi-polar, you ask? I'll tell you. Or maybe I won't. Get it? Because I'm bi-polar. I crack me up. Anyway....<br /><br />
After a very long winter filled with lupus flares and migraines and rashes and basically wishing I was a bear that could just find a nice pot of honey and a cave to hibernate in until it was all over, I started to see the light at the end of a very long autoimmune filled tunnel. I was finding my energy again. The rashes were subsiding. I didn't feel like throat punching someone every time they told me I "looked tired" or want to rip my ears off at the sound of even the slightest hint of human movement because of my migraines. I was starting to feel less Charles Manson-ish and more like my usual smart ass, hyper, OCD self.<br />
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But then.....the body, self love, bi-polar thing started happening out of nowhere. Because for all of these months that I couldn't work out I wasn't gaining weight, but I was obviously losing muscle and strength because I wasn't able to work out and I spent much of my time on the couch, in my sweats, taking my meds and watching the days roll by hoping that the next one would be the day that I didn't hate my body and the world. The only marathons I was a part of were the Netflix marathons where I watched all four seasons of Girls in three days or where me and my daughter watched Mad Dogs in one sitting on a gloomy, shitty, pain killer filled day when I was questioning my life and whether it was worth living it (but that's a story for another day).<br />
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So, when I was able to put down the Amazon Fire Stick, take off the sweatpants, put on my big girl pants and start living life again, I had mixed feelings about the person that remained after what I considered to be the lowest point of my life - including that time I went through the Big C. (Hey, remember when I went through cancer for 12 years and I was all fat and in a bad marriage and then had all my lady parts ripped out and had radiation and met my now husband and got my shit together and lost 160 pounds and got all healthy only to find out I had FUCKING LUPUS and fibromyalgia and hypoglycemia and they wanted to take out my pancreas too basically rendering me a fucking diabetic because HEY WHY NOT TAKE ANOTHER BODY PART YOU ASSHOLES and then I throat punched all the cunts that were pissing me and THE END).<br />
<br />
ANYWAY.......<br />
<br />
Back to my story.<br />
<br />
Somedays I feel beautiful and amazing. I am grateful for this body and happy that six years later I have managed to keep the weight off despite all of the crap that has happened. I have battled my depression and anxiety in silence and still not turned to food or alcohol or drugs as a comfort. I have held steadfast to the goals I set for myself and remained in control like a FUCKING ROCKSTAR (cue self back patting). I can get dressed and make it through the day living all 41 years of my life on earth like a beautiful, valuable human being.<br />
<br />
But then here come those self diagnosed, WebMD, googled bi-polar days where I literally feel like the StayPuff marshmellow man in the Ghostbusters movie waddling in slow motion through the streets of Manhattan knocking over towers and buildings, eating everything in sight. I feel like a round, blimpyity, sludge filled, disgusting, saggy, fat piece of dog shit. I want to give up and become one of the People of Walmart wearing flesh colored leggings and Winnie the Pooh t-shirts with my Crocs and my trucker hat. Fuck it all and pass me the Twinkies.<br />
<br />
But instead, I went out and bought an elliptical. And started my 30 day yoga challenge again. And stopped leaving candy in my desk drawer. And took yogurt to work instead of going to Tim Horton's everyday for the broccoli cheddar soup (YUM). Some days it makes me feel like a total bad ass. Some days I hate it, but I do it anyway because I know that in the end I will thank myself for it. I look back at the old pictures of when I got down to my lowest weight and I just want to get there again SO BADLY, but it seems like a million elliptical miles away. However, the saying goes that the journey of a million miles starts with a single elliptical step. Or some stupid shit like that.<br />
<br />
I guess the long and the short of it is that it's time to shut down the laptop and get off Google and WebMD and get my fat ass into gear instead of complaining about the things that can only be changed by actually doing the things that need to be done to change them. I still think I rock at this self diagnosing thing though.<br />
<br />
<br />Simply UnFlabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09303983788740577695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8645372729044571901.post-17821574627371190252015-10-02T13:20:00.000-04:002016-02-10T14:34:35.313-05:00The Bittersweet HomecomingI haven't had the motivation to write in a long time. Sure, I've had ideas pop into my head. I've even given thought to a post or two, but nothing has inspired me to write. Until today. Because today my mom moves home. <br />
<br />
I know what you're thinking....THAT'S WONDERFUL! HOW GREAT TO HAVE YOUR MOM HOME AGAIN!<br />
<br />
And you're right. To have my mother right where I can reach her is a blessing 7 years in the making. To not have to wait months on end, put a countdown planner on my phone, count my sleeps, or wait for a windfall to afford a trip to go see her is something that I can't put a price on. To be able to hug her, laugh with her, have dinner with her, see her facial expressions when we have a conversation is something I never knew I would miss until she was 2,000 miles away.<br />
<br />
But all this joy comes with a great price. All this magnificent, overwhelming, heart bursting happiness also comes with an extreme sadness. Because her reasons for coming back are because someone we love isn't where she was to be with her anymore. The place she called home for seven years doesn't feel like her home without him anymore, so she is coming back to the only place that ever did without him. And the thought of sharing all this joy without him is sad.<br />
<br />
We would be remiss to let this day, and this happiness, go by without letting him know that we are thinking of him. That there hasn't been a day in the last three months that we don't think about him, laugh with him, cry over him, share our anger because of him, or miss him with every fiber of our being. There hasn't been a moment that so many lives haven't been affected by his absence. <br />
<br />
Pieces of him never left. Pieces of him will never return. And with the return of my mother a new journey in her life will begin and we will all take it with her. We will hold her hand, hug her shoulders, cry her tears, walk her footsteps, make new memories, share old stories - but we can never take away her pain. We can never replace him no matter how many miles distance you put between her and the place they made a home.<br />
<br />
My mom comes home today. Whatever "home" is or will be. I am happy and sad and angry and feeling all the same emotions I felt the day he died, so I can only imagine that as she packs up her things and turns around one last time to say goodbye to the home they shared, closes the door and walks out, she is feeling so much more, and I only wish I were there to help her say those goodbyes. <br />
<br />
I sit here pissed off that he is making me cry at work. That he keeps popping into my head at the most inopportune moments. Like when driving in my car and a song comes on the radio that reminds me of him. Or when I randomly flip through Facebook and see his granddaughter, who is his spitting image and will never get to know him. Or when I talk to my mom and I can hear the pain and the exhaustion in her voice. I am angry that this is one thing in my family I cannot step in to fix. I can be strong for myself and my family when it comes to my illness, but I can only be so strong for her and what she is feeling and it makes me hate him sometimes. <br />
<br />
And I hate that I hate him sometimes, because I love him so much. And sometimes....I hate that I love him so much. Because if I didn't love him so much, I wouldn't have to feel all of these emotions. And if I didn't feel all of these emotions, I wouldn't spend so much time thinking about how everyone else must be feeling at the same time.<br />
<br />
Have I mentioned my mom is coming home today? Because she is. And I think we are all ready to put the worst of this pain behind us and move forward into the healing part that everyone keeps talking about. The part where "they" say it "gets easier". I hope "they" are right. Because if they aren't I will hunt them down and cut a bitch. For real.<br />
<br />
Hurry home mom. Your family is waiting with open arms. It's been a long time coming.<br />
<br />
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<br />Simply UnFlabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09303983788740577695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8645372729044571901.post-11442040059505234412014-11-10T14:42:00.002-05:002014-11-10T22:00:54.913-05:00We All Have Secrets<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We teach our children not to keep secrets because secrets
are bad. We acquire friendships so we
have someone to tell our secrets to. We
pay therapists to listen to our secrets without judgment or reserve. We do all of this because secrets are
toxic. They are like a cancer that eat
you from the inside out. They start with
your soul, and eat their way through your heart, and they continue through your
body until they make their way to your mind, and then they eat their way
through your thought process until you are incapable of making a rational
thought. You canât close your eyes
without seeing that thing that haunts you.
You canât hear a song on the radio without remembering that person who
damaged you. You canât watch the scene
from your favorite movie without remembering how inept you are at feeling real
love because itâs been stolen from you.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Secrets are the monster under your bed when youâre a
child. They are the stranger walking
behind you in an empty parking garage late at night as an adult. They are the eerie background music of your
horror movie of a life, because at one point in your life someone you trusted
put a secret so deeply in your soul that it is tangled and weaved and buried,
and nothing and no one can ever remove it.
It sits there and festers and blisters and causes nothing but pain and
infection. There are periods in your
life where a happiness or a moment of forgetfulness almost acts like a
momentary antibiotic, and for a brief period you have some relief from that
pain. But eventually it always comes
back. Throbbing and pulsating and
reminding you that you will never be normal.
You will never be ok. Because
this thing that grows inside you will never, could never, go away. Itâs a part of you, like your skin or your
hair or your fingernails. You could cut
your hair or lose a nail, but inevitably it always grows back. Just like this secret that you are always
running from.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It is an unfortunate fate that I happen to share my secret
with someone I love. We bond over this
pain and this break in trust in a way that no one should. It creates a closeness, and at the same time
a distance. Sometimes the beauty you see
in a person is so beautiful because itâs actually the deepest pain you can ever
see behind someoneâs eyes. You are
seeing the vulnerability of their soul on the very surface of their being and
you donât even know it. You are laughing
with them when they want to cry. You are
sharing in a secret that you arenât even aware of. Take the time to look closely, love deeply,
show compassion for those with these unknown secrets, for they need the most
love in this world, even though they act like they want it the least.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I have a secret.
Maybe you do too. Iâll try to
love you despite yours. Can you say you
can do the same?</span></div>
Simply UnFlabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09303983788740577695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8645372729044571901.post-44654055989198345312014-10-07T11:54:00.000-04:002014-10-07T11:54:02.614-04:00I'm Fine. Sort of.<div class="MsoNormal">
Everyone keeps saying I need to accept my body the way it
is. Stop obsessing over the number on
the scale and listen to the way my clothes fit.
And my clothes have basically fit exactly the same for the last few
years â with the exception of a brief freak out period where I gained 25 pounds
thanks to the helping hand of a hormone replacement pill that I quickly flipped
off and threw in the garbage can. It
took me a good <b>SIX</b> months to shed that weight, along with all the self hatred I
gained along with it. And somewhere
along the way, I feel like things <i>shifted</i>.
My body never regained that slender âskinnyâ that I had when I
originally lost all my weight. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I managed to stop stepping on the scale multiple times a
day. Ya know, after I showered. After I pooped. After I ate.
After I pooped again. Before I
went to bed. In the middle of the night
after I peed. Counting and cringing over
every single ounce gained and lost. Now
the only time I know when to take accountability for an overdose of late night
wine drinking is every three months when I go to the doctorâs office for my
follow up visit. And nothing ever
changes. The scale says the same thing
every single time, plus or minus a few ounces.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yet something about the way I feel just feels <i>off</i>. Something doesnât feel as proud. Or as strong.
Or as confident as it used to.
Something in me feels every bit as large and uncomfortable as it did at
317 pounds. Maybe itâs the ever
plaguing illnesses that never seem to give it a fucking rest. I mean <b><i>seriously</i></b> universe, kiss my expanding,
middle aged ass already!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
People always ask how I am feeling and I die a little inside
because I never know how to answer. I
mean, do they <i>really</i> want to know, or do I give the standard, â<b>Iâm fine</b>â answer
because no one really wants to hear how Iâm really feeling most days? If you donât count the hole in my heart, the
never ending blood work and doctors appointments, the lupus, the fibromyalgia,
the daily pain, the recent bout of shingles <i>ON MY FACE</i> (thank you very much
Karma, that was <b>really</b> funny), and the unending depression and anxiety that is
my everyday life, I am <b><u>Jim-Fucking-Dandy</u></b>.
Pop a lollipop in my mouth and dance me over a rainbow Iâm <b><i>so fucking FINE</i></b>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Except that Iâm <b>not</b>.
I mean, <i>sometimes</i> I am.
Sometimes, I have days when I wake up and get dressed and put on a scarf
or some jewelry and look in the mirror and think that I donât look like a
middle aged mom who is faking her way through being just OK. But to be honest, and maybe this is just me
fooling myself, I have been trying to lose these last ten pounds that were
always my long term goal <b>FOREVER</b>. Maybe
they wonât solve everything, but <i>maybe</i> I would feel like I was finally able to
control something. I canât make the
lupus go away. I canât take back the
fibromyalgia. I canât super glue shut
the hole in my heart. But I <b>CAN</b> lose 10
stupid pounds. Ten stubborn, stuck to my
ass and thighs and stomach pounds that would just make me feel like I took
control of something in my life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then in three months when I go back to the doctors to
deal with the things I canât change when I look in the mirror, I can at least
find a little bit of peace knowing that at least I accomplished taking back
some small bit of control in my life. Itâs
strange how something that seems so small and insignificant to most seems like
the most unattainable to me. There doesnât
seem to be any amount of downward dogging or 5kâing or trampolineâing or kettle
bell swinging that I can do that will make that asshole of a scale say anything
different. There are no detox pills or
stomach fluâs or bouts of face leprosy (aka shingles) that will change anything
other than a couple stupid ounces. My weight
is that stubborn kid in the middle of a toy story laying on the floor, rigid
and stiff and unmoving and there is nothing you can do but stand there looking
at it until it decides itâs ready to move.
The metaphorical part of me wants
to kick that stupid kid and tell it to stop being a little asshole, but I know
that if I did Karma would only come back and bite me harder than it already
has. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I want to find peace with myself
exactly the way that I am. Maybe if it
were 20 or 30 pounds it would seem more reasonable. Like I was further away from a goal that wasnât
meant to be met. But 10 pounds is like
hanging off of a cliff and being a fingers reach away from a cliff hold that
could be the difference between climbing
back to safety or falling further down.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the end of the day, I know this wonât make or break me,
it wonât define who I am or who I can become.
Itâs just another chapter in the Archieâs comic book that is my life. I hope to achieve this goal someday soon, but
if I donât Iâm sure I will find something new to obsess over. Iâm sure life will throw me new curveballs
and I will be standing here with my catcherâs mask and glove ready to catch
them all.</div>
Simply UnFlabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09303983788740577695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8645372729044571901.post-24709966948684035012014-09-25T15:06:00.000-04:002014-09-25T15:06:05.913-04:00LIfe is Funny, in A Really NOT funny way!I have been a participating member of society for 39 long and functioning years, so I am not sure why it still surprises me that people are self entitled <b>MORONS</b>, who feel like they can walk in and take over shit like they own it. And furthermore, I have no idea why I feel like I need to be the bigger person who makes it ok for this to happen so that tsunami waves of shit don't roll in causing mass chaos everywhere for everyone else.<br />
<br />
They say shit rolls downhill, right? Well some days, I feel like if that's the case than I am at the bottom of that hill, in a hole dug at the bottom of said hill, being covered in shit. If I'm not at work trying to mind my own business and not bury a pair of scissors in some self entitled morons forehead for their ignorance and all around rudeness, I am sitting in an urgent care facility thinking I have a sinus infection and a spider bite, only to be told I have shingles. <b><u>ON MY FACE</u></b>. Which ya know, just <b><i>HAPPENS</i></b> to be the most dangerous kind of shingles someone can get because it's all like near my <b><i>FUCKING EYE AND BRAIN</i></b> and stuff so now I have to worry that I will go blind and start slurring my words even when I'm not drunk - which isn't much lately because of the aforementioned self entitled morons and all the scissor stabbing that needs to take place.<br />
<br />
I'm trying to be all unicorns-and-rainbows-coming-out-of-my-ass-happy ya'll....really, I am. But life is having a really good time fucking with me and seeing how many things it can throw at me before I finally flip my shit and go all sniper coo-coo on top of a 7-Eleven taking out tailgating drivers and people that still bump Snoop Dogg out of the sub-woofers in the trunk of their beat up Hondas. It's gonna happen. <br />
<br />
Let's take inventory of the last two years. <br />
<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>I spent <b>EIGHT</b> long months being tested to find out why I was in pain all the time. I was poked, prodded, violated, de-blooded, medicated, shocked with nerve conductors and cat scanned to death to find out why my vision was blurry, my feet/hands/mouth were numb and why I had a never ending migraine. These were just on the non-Muscato days, mind you. My husband isn't a Doctor, no matter how often he likes to play that game.</li>
<li>I received a diagnosis of MS. Not something anyone wants, but at least it was a diagnosis. Over the course of six months I would try several different medications and treatments, each one making me more sick than the next, NONE of them bringing me any relief or comfort.</li>
<li>After another round of testing (<i>over two more months and several more doctors</i>), it was determined that I did <i>NOT</i> in fact has MS, but I had my original diagnosis of Lupus and the cherry topping to that would be another diagnosis of Fibromyalgia. OK, then. You're funny, life. <b><i>Real fucking funny</i></b>.</li>
<li>Just as I start to get my shit together and find the right combination of meds (and also regulate a severe B-12 neuropathy), I happily head off to my nieces 2nd birthday party only to <b>BLACK THE FUCK OUT</b>, trip and fall <b><i><u>IN A WALGREENS PARKING LOT</u></i></b> and break my arm. <i> HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!</i></li>
<li>Arm heals. Life resumes. Things are starting to get back to normal once again. I harmlessly go in to see the GYN for a yearly exam and some hormones. What does she find? Why a lump of course!!! So, let's schedule a mammogram in TWO MONTHS and a BRCA test and then you can decide whether or not you would like to live in fear of <i>WHEN</i> you may or may not get breast cancer, or just have them puppies cut right off and take a brand new pair for a spin. Who wouldn't like a brand new pair of perky titties for their 40th birthday courtesy of their health insurance provider, right? I mean hell, that lump could have just saved me $5k!! Oh look, a silver lining! *<b><i>insert sarcasm here</i></b>*</li>
<li>And then......shingles. <i> On. My. Face</i>. Because why would I get it on my stomach like a normal human being?</li>
</ul>
<div>
I am pretty sure that in a past life I was the office bitch who tortured everyone. Or I pulled the whiskers off of small kittens. Or kicked crippled kids. Surely, I have done <b>SOMETHING</b> to deserve this much aggravation. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
They say God never gives you more than you can handle. And the joke is that God must think I'm a badass. Am I mean, <b><i>I AM.</i></b> But for reallies God, can you let someone else be a badass for awhile because like, I'm really, really tired and my face is sore from fake smiling for people.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But until then, I will drink and be merry. And I will keep looking for that fucking silver lining everyone talks about. And if anyone wants to go digging up my ass for those unicorns and rainbows I was talking about, go right ahead, but be warned, my sarcasm may or may not smell alot like refried beans today so Happy Hunting!</div>
Simply UnFlabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09303983788740577695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8645372729044571901.post-18625500997343140012014-09-12T10:57:00.000-04:002014-09-12T10:57:14.855-04:00If you only knew...<div class="MsoNormal">
They say you have to crawl before you walk. Four years ago when I made the decision to
change my life, I had to learn to do everything. I had to learn to sit up, roll over, crawl,
stand, take my first stepsâŚwell, you get it.
But after some time, I was in a full on sprint all the time. Nothing could stop me. I had the world in the palm of my tightly
clenched fist and nothing was going to unravel it from my fingers. Or so I thought.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My once brightly lit star is slowly dimming against the
night sky that is currently my everyday life.
The days pass by so fast that I seldom notice the rays of the sun on my
face, because Iâm always wishing for the darkness to come so I can close my
eyes and shut out the noise of the world around me. The rumbling is like thunder in my ears all
the time. The tears like a never ending
rain shower all around me. The things
that once made me so happy are now the things I avoid. My daily runs replaced by evenings in front
of the TV mindlessly ignoring the glare of the TV in front of me. My once loved yoga practice now a distant
memory as I stretch and yawn myself into my yoga pants, only to count down the
hours until I can crawl under my blankets and rest my aching head on my pillow. My once able body is now on fire, screaming
in agony, fighting my every movement, forcing me through every second of every
day. A moment of reprieve doesnât seem
to be anywhere in sight. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The people I love â theyâre supportive. But, I can almost hear the sighs and
eyerolling as each new doctorâs appointment reveals some new annoyance, yet
they remain supportive nonetheless. I
wake up every day hopeful that it might be better than the last, but the
moments of joy come few and far between.
I avoid social situations, anything that requires me to force a smile,
anything that requires me to answer the everyday question âHow are you
doing?â I would rather engulf myself in
some TV reality series so I can invest myself in someone elseâs life and ignore
my own, even if only for a little while.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Iâm not sure what I spend more time doing these days â
reflecting on what my life has become or deflecting from the reality Iâm too
afraid to face. I want to feel normal
again. I want to be happy again. I want to remember why I lost all this weight
and got âhealthyâ. I want to be a good
wife, and mother and friend and daughter and sister. I want to be ME again. But I am lost behind this porcelain mask with
a painted smile that is quickly fading against the sunlight. Iâm becoming almost non-existent.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If my life were the directions on a shampoo bottle it would
read:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wake up. Shower. Remember to nod and pretend to pay
attention. Smile. Go to sleep.
Rinse and repeat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some days I can barely walk.
Some days my eye balls hurt to even be in my skull. Some days I want to rip my head off my neck
and throw it in the garbage disposal because it hurts so badly. And no one seems to be able to fix me. No one seems to LISTEN to me. And every time they fix one thing, something
else is fucked. It makes it hard to find
the light at the end of this very long tunnel.
Iâm driving on a thruway in a broken down jalopy of a vehicle, running
out of gas and there are no rest stops or exits in sight. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This pity party is lonely.
Depression is the devils mistress.
She is a wretched bitch who only takes and never gives anything in
return, aside from more pain and depression.
Fibromyalgia is like a jackhammer that never stops vibrating against
your body. And aside from the physical,
the emotional aspect is what cripples you the most. In the words of Ron Burgundy: Anchorman, âIâm
stuck in a glass cage of emotion!!â.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Itâs time to break the glass.</div>
Simply UnFlabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09303983788740577695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8645372729044571901.post-19961137771315265622014-03-07T13:10:00.000-05:002014-03-07T13:10:08.769-05:00Societal Distortion<div class="MsoNormal">
I used to have a love/hate relationship with my body. There were parts that I really loved, like my
voluptuous, full breasts, or my somewhat thin ankles. But lately, I have developed a very unhealthy
loathing of every aspect of my physical self and it is neither healthy nor
tolerable. Like, why do I have to layer
and dress and accessorize this <i>âthingâ</i> that deceives me just to reluctantly
display it to a public that doesnât see it the same way that I do. Why do I have to justify my feelings of
hatred to people who look at me and tell me I look <b><i>âfineâ,</i></b> and to those who say
<i>âI wish I looked like youâ</i>? I mean,
really? <b>DO</b> you? Do you wish to carry around the extra skin,
stretch marks and wrinkles of a woman 160 pounds ago? Because I dare you to. No, <b><u>I triple-dog-dare you</u></b>. And then I triple-dog-dare you to <i>infinity</i> to
wear a bikini while doing it. And when
you take the bikini off and shit is flapping around like a wounded bird, I want
you to fuck your husband. <b>With the
lights on</b>. Challenge accepted? I didnât think so.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know most of this self loathing is self induced. I know some of it comes from this very
plastic Kardashian/Victoriaâs Secret/airbrushed â<i>not real-suck-the-fat-from-my-ass-and-inject-it-into-my-lips</i>
world we live in, but some of it â most of it â just comes from the reality of
what I have done to myself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I lived a wonderfully cake and ice cream filled life for a very
long time where Ben and Jerryâs and Little Debbie allowed me to wallow in my
troubles. I wrapped a bad marriage and a
deep depression inside a Taco Bell Wrapper and washed it down with a double
chocolate shake. I held it in with
girdles, and disguised it with laughter.
And then, I took the easy way out and had most of my stomach removed,
almost as though I were ashamed of it being there, like I couldnât control itâs
mere existence, and left myself with a body that is as foreign to me as those
menstrual cups that women walk around wearing nowadays. (I mean <i>really</i>? Youâre bleeding into a solo cup all day and
dumping it into random toilets throughout the day, and <b>Iâm</b> weird for having my
stomach removed??). <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I just donât know how to stop looking at the magazines and
comparing myself to these genetic freaks of women who push a baby out of their
cookie, and then wear a bikini the following week as if nothing happened. I pushed a baby out of my cookie and had one
cut out of my stomach and I look like I just went 7 rounds with a baby tiger
and a tractor trailer. And lost.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I need to find a way to stop looking through these distorted
eyes, and into all these fun house mirrors.
I need to find a way to see what is beautiful about myself again. If for no other reason than so that my
daughter can always see herself that way, and never, <b>EVER</b>, carry these burdens
as an adult like I do.<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;">Youâre too skinny,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;">Youâre too fat.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;">Donât eat this.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;">Donât eat that.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;">Put on that girdle,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;">Squeeze into those Spanx.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;">Put on those heels,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;">A thicker belt will cinch that waist.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;">Itâs picture time?</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;">Go paint your face.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;">Make sure to stand at an angle,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;">One knee bent, One hand on your waist.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;">Eat kale and fish,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;">No apples or grapes.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;">Thatâs too much sugar,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;">You need protein intake.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;">Get on that treadmill,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;">Put down those weights,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;">You want to tone, not muscle,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;">It's sexy to look emaciated.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;">Youâre beautiful</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;">If the world tells you so.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;">Never let anyone down,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;">Never say no.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;">You can never be too pretty,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;">You can never be too skinny,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;">You can never be too perfect,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.940000534057617px;">In a world without pity.</span></div>
Simply UnFlabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09303983788740577695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8645372729044571901.post-83193621895709265502013-09-20T13:26:00.000-04:002013-09-20T13:26:19.025-04:00Faddy Fatty 2x4As most of you know I am a former fatty. And I can say that because to this day I was bigger than anyone that I knew personally. And most times, when I watch other women struggle with their weight, I donât give my opinion on anything unless I am asked because I did have gastric bypass and I feel like people judge me for it. Some say I took the easy way out. Because physiologically altering your entire body FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE, and foregoing all things delicious like milkshakes and chocolate cake, and appetizers and desserts for the sake of being able to eat even a Âź of your dinner is totally my idea of living it up, yaâll. And THEN, when you say fuck it, and decide to indulge anyway so you can feel normal for just ONE SECOND and you have that tiny piece of cake, or that delicious Jamocha shake from Arbyâs, you find yourself curled up in the fetal position, sweating like a 2-ton sumo wrestler, crying and begging for death while feeling like someone is repeatedly stabbing you in the gut with rusty shears. Thatâs my idea of partying down, Miley Cyrus style, foam finger shoved into my vagina, face down, ass up, making a fool of myself for all the world to see.
But, I digress.
Hereâs the thing. Three years later, surgery or no surgery, I find myself struggling right along with the rest of you again. I too shimmy, shake, jump and wiggle my way into my skinny jeans. I Spanx, tuck, belt and suck in every ounce of every fat just like you. I battle daily with getting my pants to close without the aid of rubber bands and safety pins. I lie on the bed with my legs outstretched, sweating like a pig and sucking in my gut until my belly button touches my spine and my ribs fracture just to button my favorite pair of jeans fresh out of the dryer.
But one lesson I have learned â and one thing I refuse to every do again â is fad diet. There is a reason itâs called a fad ladies. And that is because itâs not meant to last forever. And neither is the weight you will lose from it. Because while that pill or shake or eat-kale-mixed-with-laxatives-and-water diet seems like the cure all to your weight loss nightmares, itâs sure to come back to bite you in your skinny little ass the first time you go off the plan and splurge on some yummy spinach artichoke dip at a party, or my person favorite, an entire (oversized) bottle of Barefoot Muscato on a Friday night while watching reruns of Americaâs Next Top Model.
If you want something that will last forever, do something that will change your outlook forever. Donât look at that ânaughtyâ food as being your enemy. Look at it as a reward to work towards. Instead of saying no, say how can I get to a point where I donât have to feel guilty about eating that? If you have time to sit on the couch reading about the newest weight loss plan, surely you have time for a few extra lunges or a walk around the block with the dog.
And if you choose not to do anything at all, then learn to love who you are. Because you ARE beautiful exactly as God made you. For the longest time I found myself striving for this unattainable perfection. I beat myself up daily to the point that I would have rather been fat again because I was happier then. And while my body is far from perfect now, itâs the body I have worked hard for. It carries me, and sustains me, and allows me to live a healthier life and I am grateful for it every single day despite its physical imperfections. Think how boring this world would be if we all looked exactly the same! I think a woman with curves is just as beautiful as a woman without any. Maybe more so!
Long story short, stop spending your kidâs college funds on overpriced organic bullshit from a store. Go buy fresh from a goddamn market and support a farmer. Stop buying ridiculously over priced diet pills that promise miracles that will never happen and make your own miracles happen through healthy eating and exercise. You donât have to spend hours in a gym or live off of kale and almonds. Chase your dog and kids around the yard. Play basketball at a nearby park. Take a long walk by a river at sunset. Enjoy a delicious grilled chicken and fresh veggies and sweet potatoes. Living healthy doesnât mean living boring. Like all things in life, itâs all in your perception of it.
The day we die, no one is going to stand over us whispering about how amazing we were because we were so thin. They will talk about who we were as PEOPLE. And I for one donât want to be a thin, DEAD asshole who was only remembered for being a THIN, DEAD asshole. Put down the diet pills. Wash that stupid shake down the sink. Enjoy a piece of cake for fuck sake.
And smile.
Then get to the gym fat ass.
Just kidding.
But no really, if youâre eating cake, go to the gym. Simply UnFlabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09303983788740577695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8645372729044571901.post-8041154154514143142013-03-25T14:17:00.000-04:002013-03-25T14:17:04.505-04:00The skinny on the not so skinnyI made a decision today. A very scary, mind numbing, ridiculous decision, and I'm not sure how I feel about it yet. I had to sleep on it, think about it, eat some ice cream cake while I pondered it, and drink a glass (or three) of wine in order to come to terms with it.<br />
<br />
I am throwing out my scale.<br />
<br />
I think I just threw up in my mouth a little. Thankfully, it still tasted like ice cream cake and Muscato.<br />
<br />
I have spent the last year <strong>OBSESSING</strong> over the number on the scale. I could literally put on an outfit, look in the mirror and think I looked good, then stepped on the scale, saw the number, took off my clothes and put on a nice stretchy pair of yoga pants. And <em>why</em>? Because although my mirrored perception labeled me as anything <strong>BUT</strong> fat, the scale said otherwise. The scale....the stupid, black, plastic, <strong><em>LYING bitch</em></strong> of a scale told me to stop eating ice cream cake and drinking wine and thinking I can wear skinny jeans or leggings. The scale judges me, taunts me and calls me names like Heifer, Fatty and Lard Ass. The scale tells me that all of my decisions are bad one. That all the hours I log running, gym-ing and yoga-ing aren't enough. That <strong><em>I'M</em></strong> not enough. And these judgements are <strong><u>not</u></strong> the things I want to teach my blossoming, easily influenced teenage daughter. <br />
<br />
I have to allow myself to love who I am. No matter the weight or the size. I have to accept my curves, my "love handles", my thighs and my big butt. I have to accept that I have given birth, grown a little older, survived cancer, and sometimes eaten a few too many chocolate, macadamia cookies. I have to step off the scale, grab a sledge hammer and beat that bitch down, the same way that she has beaten me down for the last year.<br />
<br />
I'm ok. No really, I am. A little rounder. A little less guilty over that ice cream cake and wine. A little more accepting of my short comings. A little bit stronger. A little less afraid to chase my dreams (and the occasional ice cream truck). <strong>I. Am. Ok.</strong><br />
<br />
Or at least I will be once I smash that damn scale to pieces. And then I will toast to it with a nice glass of Muscato as I wear my skinny jeans while sitting in front of a full size mirror. Suck on that you judgemental, digital bitch.Simply UnFlabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09303983788740577695noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8645372729044571901.post-62591185156172071892013-03-13T09:11:00.001-04:002013-03-13T09:11:32.046-04:00Not lean, Just meanMost days, I am very grateful for the opportunity that was given to me when I received the gastric bypass surgery, and in return when I received my life back. But some days Iâm all <span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH MY BODY AND WHY WONâT IT GIVE ME A MOMENTS PEACE???</strong></span><br />
<br />
<br />
Lately, I canât seem to find a system that works for me. Not eating regular meals with small snacks in between. Not eating 6-8 meals throughout the day. Not eating every two hours. Not Weight Watchers. Not fruits and veggies and lean protein. Not overpriced colon health pills or bottles of Philips. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. And itâs really starting to piss me off.<br />
<br />
I have been trying to shed the 10-ish pounds I gained for what seems like all of eternity. Thatâs really tough to do when the only thing that my body doesnât rebel against are protein shakes. It hates veggies and fruits, breads or carbs of any kind and basically anything warm and delicious. A woman (especially this one) can not live on protein shakes alone without losing her mind and stabbing someone in the face with a 5â stiletto. <br />
<br />
<strong>ALL</strong> fruits and veggies make me bloated and uncomfortable and create a complete aversion to anything with a button and zipper closure. Carbs load me down and cause me pain. There is no amount of Beano, Philips Colon Health, Miralax or Tums that sooth me. <br />
<br />
Which leaves me two options:<br />
<br />
Eat the fruits, veggies and carbs and suffer through the pressure and pain<br />
<br />
<em>OR</em><br />
<br />
Eat nothing but soup and protein shakes until the day I die. This would be, like Friday because that just isnât how I function.<br />
<br />
I donât mind eating healthy, but I could never be one of these girls that survives on cigarettes and the tears of small children. I need food and sustenance, people. The more time that passes by, the more my body starts rejecting food that was previously just fine. So far the list of <strong><em>âno-noâsâ</em></strong> is as follows:<br />
<br />
Whole grain bread<br />
<br />
Salad<br />
<br />
Salad dressing<br />
<br />
Marinara sauce<br />
<br />
Bagels<br />
<br />
Cucumbers<br />
<br />
Strawberries<br />
<br />
Cantaloupe<br />
<br />
Red Meat<br />
<br />
Yogurt<br />
<br />
Granola Bars<br />
<br />
Oatmeal<br />
<br />
Tomatoes<br />
<br />
Carrots<br />
<br />
Apples<br />
<br />
Pasta<br />
<br />
The list is longer, but gets depressing and just makes me hungry.<br />
<br />
I find myself asking more and more lately, if I could go back, knowing what I know now, would I still make the decision to have the surgery. I used to be 80/20 in favor of having it done. The more time that goes by, the more that number changes in favor of not having it done.<br />
<br />
I knew that over time I would have to make adjustments. I have repeatedly had to fight the demons that drive me towards eating out of emotion and boredom and my unending love of all things food (does all that fighting count as a workout??). I research and learn ways to become better, to eat better, to make better choices, to deal with my vices and insecurities. But how can I make better choices if I have none?<br />
<br />
Everyday of my life lately is like being 5 years old, having the best birthday party ever, complete with bounce houses, baby horses, balloon animals and purple unicorns that take you for rides over the rainbow, and being told the only thing I am allowed to do that day is to mow the lawn. Only instead of bounce houses, balloon animals and imaginary animals that take you for rides over rainbows, my life is a 5,000 sq ft warehouse packed with brownies and cakes and candies, and those amazing Brachâs conversation heart candies that need to be available to me more than just at Valentineâs Day, and being told the only thing I can eat is the cardboard boxes they were all delivered in.<br />
<br />
Itâs like, <em>wait</em>âŚ.so, I did <strong>all</strong> of this work to learn to live healthier and eat better and now I donât get to do <strong><em>any </em></strong>of that. <strong><em>Seriously? Like, for real?</em></strong> Somewhere, Ashton Kutcher is hiding behind a bush with a camera crew and they are all going to jump out and tell me I have been punkâd. And they will laugh and laugh and laugh, until I junk punch them all with a pointy toed shoe, take all of their money and go buy myself a fucking ice cream cone.<br />
<br />
Oh yeah, ice cream is on the â<strong>Do Not Eat</strong>â list too. Iâm like a fucking polar bear behind the glass watching some sticky handed little shit stand there licking his triple scoop, double fudge ice cream cone while some asshole zoo employee tosses smelly fish at me.<br />
<br />
The inability to eat and still not lose weight only frustrates me more everyday. If I were eating ice cream and candy and Doritos dipped in chip dip (<strong>YUM</strong>!), then fine â Iâm a fat ass by choice. But the fact remains, that while I may not be everyone elseâs definition of a âfat assâ, I am not comfortable with where I am or how I look. So, I am trying to make the conscious and healthy decision to do something about it, but life keeps knuckle punching me in the gastric pouch and adding cellulite to my ever expanding ass. Way to be a <em>team player,</em> Life.<br />
<br />
All this talk of food and unicorns has me starving so I guess the only rational thing to do is to go make yet another protein shake, close my eyes, pretend itâs a Red Robinâs A-1 Peppercorn burger and get out of my head for awhile. The silver lining is, I am still alive. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Simply UnFlabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09303983788740577695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8645372729044571901.post-83974907160742833002013-02-20T09:11:00.002-05:002013-02-20T09:11:28.098-05:00Weight Watchers, Count Me In.So, in my infinite state of crazy obsessive-ness in regards to my body and my weight, I joined Weight Watchers. Iâm still not sure why, or what I thought I would learn that I havenât already implemented in my life, but my tax refund was burning a hole in my bank account and half a bottle of wine told me this was the way to go.<br />
<br />
<br />
I thought maybe counting points rather than calories would help me rationalize my food intake. I thought the fact that I could chow down on fruits and veggies all day and not have to use the points I was saving for that piece of cake after dinner would make this more palatable. <br />
<br />
In reality, I only end up more confused, always hungry and very gassy. Like <em>seriously</em>, after 2pm donât even <strong><em>think</em></strong> about walking by my office without a gas mask and a can of Febreze. <br />
<br />
Donât get me wrong, this system definitely made me re-evaluate what I was eating and the quantity in which I was consuming things. And when I weigh in tomorrow, if the scale has dropped by even a couple of pounds, I will rescind every horrible name I have called Jennifer Hudson in this past week (being that I hate her, and she is the face of WW, she was an easy target). But I am seriously mind fucked about this â<em>eat-all-the-fruit-and-veggies-you-want-as-if-they-carry-no-nutritional-value</em>â thing for two reasons:<br />
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1) When I was tracking my diet on Livestrong.com, you <strong>had </strong>to count fruits and veggies. And even though their caloric value wasnât substantial, it added up quickly. Especially fruits, which carried at least double the calories of most veggies. I would see every calorie, fat gram, carbohydrate and protein I ate in a day, so I had an overall sense of how I did, and what I needed to do differently tomorrow. With WW, I see how many points I have used, and how many I have left, but I have no true idea of what I actually ate in a day.<br />
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2) If the whole point of a âdietâ or âlifestyle changeâ is to learn how to eat smarter, and fruits and veggies donât âcountâ as far as WW is concerned, then shouldnât we fill ourselves with something that has more nutritional value? Oh wait, you <strong>canât</strong> without using your <em>fucking points</em>.<br />
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According to WW, for my old age, my short stature and my current weight, I am <strong>A-OK</strong>. It says I am the ideal weight. Which is a crock of shit. In any case, if I want to lose, say 5% of my current body weight, I can eat 26 points worth of food per day and I should be able to lose the aforementioned 5% in 7 days. <em>Riiiiiigggghhhhttt</em>. If it were that easy, donât you think I would have already lost it without having to pay $55 for a three month membership?? <br />
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At this point, I have two incentives to drop the 10 pounds that only I apparently think I need to lose. (Yaâll havenât seen me naked, so donât judge!). First, I wonât be able to hide underneath hoodies and bulky sweaters for much longer, so unless I want to hibernate for the summer or sweat my ass off wearing Spanx under my tank tops, I need to drop these 10 pounds. And most importantly, Weight Watchers and Jennifer Hudson conned me out of the $55 that I could have used to buy the Spanx I would need, so I have to see this through and conquer this confusion.<br />
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This whole thing is making me even more annoying and obsessive than I normally am on any given day. I spend hours a day on my mobile app and my computer making up fake meals just to see how many points are in it. I think of the worst thing I could eat, and then see how long I would have to work out to earn the points back, even though I have no intention of eating the naughty food. Last night, after a 40 minute workout, I used the 6 points I earned along with the 44 â<em>extra</em>â points I have for the week to polish off a bottle of Sutter Home Zinfandel/Muscato (they really should make those bottles big enough for two people). Itâs become a game. A <strong><em>challenge</em></strong>, if you will. I will beat the system and drop the 10 pounds, if only to justify the money I spent to drive myself insane. Game on Weight Watchers, game on.<br />
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<em></em>Simply UnFlabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09303983788740577695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8645372729044571901.post-16946269094465590182013-02-12T14:43:00.003-05:002013-02-12T14:43:47.725-05:00It's Fat Tuesday and it's just my sizeGenerally speaking, most people have good intentions when they make stupid comments. I get this, and try to compartmentalize and rationalize their indirect meaning, but all too often, I dissect them, tear them apart and make them into something detrimental to my overall mental health.<br />
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For instance, when I lost all my weight I was pretty damn skinny. There were bones and excess skin and shoulder bones protruding from everywhere. And everyone was all âYouâre too skinny, you need some meat on those bonesâ. To which I replied (in my head, of course) FUCK YOU. I mean really? I shed 180 pounds of âmeatâ and worked damn hard to do so. <br />
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When I looked in the mirror back then, I felt beautiful and accomplished. I saw all of my imperfections and embraced every single one of them. I wore shorts for the first time in 15 years. I wore a bathing suit that didnât have shorts or a skirt attached for the first time since I was a teenager. I could order a cheeseburger and not wonder if the waitress was silently judging me. I could wear pants whose size didnât have a â2â in front of it. I was no longer considered plus size, but the all American, average sized woman. I felt amazing.<br />
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But as it usually happens in my life, the rain that I thought was watering my flowers in life, was really just the Gods pissing all over my happiness. Over the past year I have gained 10 pounds and gone up a pant size. And there it stuck. For all the world to see and judge. And I tell you this for two reasons: <br />
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1) Itâs relevant to the whole âpeople speak with good intentionsâ theory<br />
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2) I am going to use it as my platform to get off my fat ass and do something about it<br />
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Weight gain is a slippery slope. You start out gaining a couple pounds and thinks itâs no big deal. You can lose that by taking a morning constitution. You think you can put in a few more laps on the treadmill or make that extra loop on the digital display on the elliptical machine and work it off. Eazy peezy.<br />
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Then you gain a few more and think itâs still ok. As long as you donât go past <strong><em>that</em></strong> weight. That magic number that makes you give up and say fuck it, pass me the Ben and Jerryâs, throw out all of my skinny jeans, and load up the sweatpants and baggy shirts.<br />
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Thatâs where I am yaâll. In the land of loose khaki pants, Victoriaâs Secret oversized sweatpants and âflowyâ shirts. Because I am on the verge of giving up and giving in, but still not so far gone that I could stop making excuses for myself, get my shit together and do what I know needs to be done. <br />
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I need to throw out the comfort clothes, the comfort foods and the backup clothes that hide my stomach, and take my ass to the gym. I need to sweat and swear and hate it all, and then put on a pair of skinny jeans and know that I worked my way back into them. I need to set my pride aside for a minute and remember where I came from and what a shit storm it was to get to where I am. I need to stop making excuses for myself, cork the wine (and the whine), put down the latte and make a change.<br />
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Because I canât stand for one more second to hear something tell me I look âfineâ. Or for them to say âYou look perfect now. You were way too skinny before.â Because, this tells me they can tell I have gained weight. And while I appreciate the support and enthusiasm, itâs these half truths that got me to 317 pounds in the first place. No one wants to tell their sister/daughter/wife/best friend that her ass is spreading like the continental divide. And I appreciate that to an extent, but fortunately for me, I know the harder truth to swallow and I need to digest it and move on with life.<br />
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I think what bothers me most is that when I look at women who look just like me, or my more curvy and voluptuous friends, I <strong><em>envy</em></strong> them. Because I think their bodies are beautiful. I think they look like women and mothers and human beings with a story and that is magical to me. So, why can't I see myself that way? Why can't I accept this body that I have been gifted? I think it's because I am afraid the minute I stop obsessing and worrying is the moment I let it all go and end up right where I began. And to me, that was not beautiful or magical. <br />
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So, where is the balance between sane and insane? Where do I draw the line between acceptance and criticism? When will I look in the mirror and see myself the way others see me? I guess I will have plenty of time to figure that out as I strap on my sneakers and begin my next chapter.<br />
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Simply UnFlabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09303983788740577695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8645372729044571901.post-4188051626201896502013-01-17T11:17:00.001-05:002013-01-17T11:17:27.536-05:00Let them eat cake!I have always been the type of person who judged her value and worth by how many friends, loved ones and Facebook acquaintances remembered my birthday. I wanted birthday gifâs, eCard emails, flowers, cards and presents. <em>Lots and lots</em> of presents. And I had a mental checklist of who remembered and who forgot. I never called out the people who forgot to wish me Happy Birthday, but I compartmentalized it to use at a later date. <br />
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This year is different. Both because I dyed my hair blonde:<br />
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And, because I feel content with myself for the first time, wellâŚ<strong>ever</strong>. I donât need the accolades (although they are <strong><em>GREATLY</em></strong> appreciated), and I donât need a cake full of candles (do we really need to have <em>that</em> fire hazard??), nor do I need a mantle full of cards, flowers or expensive gifts.<br />
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<strong>WAIT</strong>, if anyone is reading and you want to send me an expensive gift, I <em>guarantee</em> I wonât say no.<br />
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I just feel like the mere fact that I am here is celebration enough. My life is as perfect a life as one could ask for. I have an amazing family, supportive friends, smart and healthy children, a good job that helps support my shopping habits, a nice home, my health, a body full of tattoos and a clear conscience. How many people get all of these things at once? I have blessings in spades, and I donât take a single one of them for granted.<br />
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My cousin posted on my Facebook that 38 is the new 28. To that I say, <strong>AMEN</strong>. I would never want to be 28 again. That was not my finest hour. But 38âŚ.thatâs a whole different story. At 38 I am finally starting to feel like I really have my shit together. I feelâŚ<em>grown up</em>. But in a good way. <br />
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People try to placate me by telling me that I donât look my age, and thatâs all fine and good, but if I wore every wrinkle and laugh line and butt dimple of my 38 years, that would be ok too. Because itâs all a part of my story, and itâs a story I am proud to tell.<br />
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Does it freak me out that I am inching closer to 40? It should. I should be having a pre-midlife crisis and wearing mini skirts and listening to boy bands and trying to recapture my youth. But I donât feel the need because I am happy to be moving forward on my journey. With age comes wisdom and experience. It also comes with spider veins, crowâs feet, a bigger ass and a slower metabolism, but those are all small and insignificant in the grand scheme of things.<br />
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So bring on 38, 39, 40âŚhell, bring on the golden years. I will relish in and enjoy every single one of them. And just for today, I will forget the size of my jeans, my incessant need to go to the gym and the guilt I feel if I allow myself to enjoy a cookie or a glass wine. Today I will indulge in lifeâs simple treats. I will drink wine and the cookie cake my co-worker brought in. I will have a delicious dinner with my family and not count the calories or the carbs.<br />
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And in the words of Queen Marie Antoinette, âLet them eat cakeâ. And eat cake I shall.<br />
<br />Simply UnFlabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09303983788740577695noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8645372729044571901.post-41047254429929384002012-12-28T12:26:00.003-05:002012-12-28T12:28:46.132-05:00Does this blog make me look fat?Usually I am right on board with the rest of the delusional idiots who vow to work out more and eat better in the new year. I am normally right there with the rest of âthemâ, hogging treadmills and grunting while I use the free weights. I endure the nasty glares from the regular gym junkies for the whole two weeks that I stick to my new years resolutions. This year, I am not going to vow those things. I am going to vow to continue to live my life just the way it is - with a healthy balance of family, friends, fitness and happiness. And in doing so, this is the only âresolutionâ I am making this year:<br />
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I am resolving to allow myself to be more than a number, whether it be the number on the scale, on the tag of my jeans or the label inside my shirt because, I deserve to stop beating the hell out of my ego and self esteem. For three years I have been my harshest critic. I have never stood back and just allowed myself to really see how far I have come. I have been lost in my own head, and most of the time, my head has been trapped up my own ass. <br />
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Whether I am an 8 or a 10 or a 12, I am still better than I was when I was stuffing my Ben and Jerryâs eating ass into a size 28. I have to stop with the self deprecating jokes about my âfat assâ. I have to stop hating the person I see in the mirror. I have to learn to be more gracious when I receive compliments. I have to love myself more and stop believing that I am in competition with everyone else. When I look in the mirror and feel even the slightest bit of pride in what I have accomplished, I have to stop thinking that I donât deserve to feel that way.<br />
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I want to try to see myself the way others see me. I want to borrow the eyes of the people who love me most, and see myself the way they see me. It doesnât mean I donât still want to be a flab free size 6, but I need to work with what I got, ya know?<br />
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I need to do these things for several reasons:<br />
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⢠I want to give my children a healthy perspective on their bodies. My son battles with his weight on and off, and I feel like sometimes my insecurities and my issues have affected his self image. My daughter is naturally thin and strong, but struggles with the fear of getting fat when she gets older. I want them to work hard, and enjoy their childhood in a healthy, nondestructive way. I want them to love their bodies in a way that I have never been able to.<br />
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⢠I will never have a healthy relationship if I donât stop being a whining, sniveling control freak who doesnât want to get undressed with the lights on, or who spends every second wondering if I look âfatâ. If he is with me, says he loves me, and brags about me to his friends then I need to believe in what he says. If he tells me Iâm hot, I donât have to believe it, but I have to believe that he believes it.<br />
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⢠I donât want to be burned at the stake like Joan of Ark by my family and loved ones for going on for one more second about my flabby skin, my gut, my ass or my deflated arms. No one cares. Except me. And I shouldnât.<br />
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⢠And mainly, because I need to preserve my sanity. I have two teenage children who like to test my patience and their boundaries, and I need to have my wits sharp and undeterred. Rather than worrying about how to remove the excess skin with a rusty scalpel and some Tylenol, I need to have laser focus on things like teenage boys who want to touch my teenage daughter, or my teenage son who has already *gasp* kissed a girl. Probably with tongue. And how to prevent my babies from making babies, smoking pot, snorting Smarties (yes, this is a real thing), or sneaking out late at night. And while I am keenly aware that most of these things will eventually happen anyway, I at least want to be fast enough and alert enough to chase after them once I have caught them doing it. And while âhappy pillsâ do indeed make you less psychotic, I would rather have a little rage that will instill some fear into their tiny teenage hearts.<br />
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So in short, in 2013 I will make a steadfast attempt to be less of an asshole. I canât make any guarantees, but I will try. Now, I am going to get my fat ass off of this computer and get to the gym! Hey, itâs still 2012.<br />
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<br />Simply UnFlabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09303983788740577695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8645372729044571901.post-24559906185065077942012-12-20T12:22:00.000-05:002012-12-24T09:43:21.777-05:00Haters Gonna Hate, Ya'llI am pigeonholed into a conundrum that doesn't allow people to quite understand my daily dilemma. No, I am not as stick skinny as you would expect me to be considering you always see me with a banana, or yogurt or veggies being shoveled into my pie slot. I am not a size 4. I do not have exposed ribs or pelvic bones. I have an ass. I have a womans rack (and a nice one, if I do say so myself!), rather than the flat chest of a 12 year old girl. I have curves and wrinkles of skin and flabby knees. And yet, I workout 5-6 days a week. I run, I kettlebell like a mother fucker, I yoga like a true yogi, I elliptical and treadmill and circuit train with the best of them. So, clearly I am a conundrum and people don't know how to interpret me. I am not what you expect me to be, and that is ok. <br />
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And to those people I say:<br />
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I'm sorry I am no longer your fat friend. I'm sorry that I can't make you feel better about drowning your sorrows in an entire peanut butter pie by joining you. I'm sorry that I would rather go to the gym than hang out on your couch eating Doritos and drinking vodka/tea's. I'm sorry that you don't understand why I won't have "just one cookie" or why I choose to take the bread off of my sandwich and just eat the protein filled turkey and cheese that is actually good for me. I'm sorry that I made a vow to change my life and I tricked you all by sticking to it. I'm sorry that when you look at me waiting for me to gain my weight back, instead I work harder and build more muscle. I'm sorry that we can't share clothes anymore. I'm sorry that you couldn't be a real friend who was truly happy for me. I'm sorry that I stopped feeling sorry for myself, and started valuing my life and all that it had to offer. <br />
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I'm sorry you don't take the time to see inside my soul. I'm sorry that you are missing out on someone who is worth more now because she isn't ashamed to leave the house, or try to buckle herself into your car, or eat in a restaurant without thinking she is being criticized. I'm sorry that you are missing out on someone who is stronger, happier and healthier. I'm sorry that you are to small minded to see past my outsides, and realize I am the same funny, loud, loving, big hearted person that I was when I was just...well, a big person. I'm sorry that you don't take the time to recognize that I work hard to be a better person for the people that truly support me. My mother, my father, my sisters, my true family, my husband, my children. The people who really matter. I'm sorry you will miss out on all of that. I'm sorry that you neglect to remember all the years I hated myself. How quickly you forget all the times I cried on your shoulder, telling you I would rather be dead than fat. How easy it was for you to erase the memories of me being too embarassed to enter a store that wasn't "fat people friendly" for fear of being judged. I guess it was easier to love me when there was, literally, more of me to love. Shame on you for such conditional acceptance.<br />
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But on the flip side, thank you. Thank you for not believing in me. Thank you for doubting me. Thank you for showing me your true colors. Thank you for being jealous and envious and bitter and mean. Because you are the reason I put down the cookies and pick up the free weights every, single day. You are the reason I may not be a size 4, but I will never be a size 24 again. You are the reason I make myself go to the gym or roll out the yoga mat when I would rather sit on the couch, watching reruns of Full House. You are the reason I now know the people I can really trust. Thank you for being the reason I wake up everyday sure of knowing who I can turn to, who really supports me, and who loves me just the way I am. Thank you for allowing me to look myself in the mirror and love me in spite of my flaws.<br />
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To all the people who don't know where I belong, it's probably because I don't belong in your life. But, thank you for being part of my journey, because all of the stumbles and falls of yesterday have led me to walk stronger and taller today. And maybe, just maybe, tomorrow I will run. But you won't be there to see it, and that is ok, because you don't deserve to be a part of my joy, anymore than I deserve to be a part of your self hatred.<br />
<br />Simply UnFlabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09303983788740577695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8645372729044571901.post-50843734844208468572012-11-23T15:21:00.002-05:002012-11-23T15:21:46.897-05:00A case of the Gimme Gimme'sThere are a lot of things I want an explantion for. I want things, and I want to know why I either can't understand them, or can't have them happen. For example:<br />
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I want a small ass. This will never happen. Iâm just not built to be âsmallâ.<br />
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I want a smaller forehead. Because bangs to cover it up on a hot day is not a good look for anyone.<br />
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I want the black studded-red-bottomed-rock-my-world-and-create-spontaneous-orgasms Christian Laboutins. I will shower, run, sleep and work in them. For real.<br />
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I want a tummy tuck. Without having to spend the $5,000.<br />
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I want to own a mirror that allows me to look into it and see no flaws.<br />
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I want to own a haute couture dress that costs an obscene amount of money. Because if I can own something like this, it pretty much means I can afford to pay my cable bill BEFORE the shut off notice comes.<br />
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I want chocolate and wine to be fat and calorie free. And while we are at it, those two things alone should be able to cure cancer, middle age acne and cellulite.<br />
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But most importantly, I NEED to know why in the name of all that is holy does this monster called <strong>Black Friday</strong> exist?<br />
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I don't get the reasoning behind ditching your family in the middle of the night to freeze your ass off waiting for a store to open to buy things you probably wouldn't buy if it wasn't on sale on this wretched, God forsaken day. Is it <em>really</em> worth getting up at 2am to wait in line for a toy that you saved $5 on, and that your kid will probably play with for 10 minute before he ditches it to play in the box it came in?<br />
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And that giant TV you just <em>had </em>to buy because it was sale? Jokes on you, cause that bitch will still be on sale tomorrow. And the day after that. And next Black Friday. Just because it's on sale today, doesn't make it special.<br />
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It's like retailers are screwing with you making you think you're getting a sale when all you're really getting is frostbite and a nasty cold.<br />
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I can tell you from 20 years of Christmas shopping experience that I have never been willing to be trampled on at a Super Wal-Mart at 4am because my kid wanted some annoying Elmo doll that was only going to piss me off and make me hide it, and then blame my kid for losing it. If I can't order it online, or find it when I have the time to go to the store without fear of being attached by some psycho mom who needs that toy more than I do, then guess what kid? You ain't getting it.<br />
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And seriously, just because you get up at the ass crack of dawn, doesn't mean you have the right to show up wearing the pajama pants you slept in and funky morning breath. Take a shower and brush your teeth, or stay home and shop Cyber Monday like all the other lazy assholes (like me!).<br />
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Oh, and if someone could also make me look as sexy as I think I do after a few glasses of wine, rather than the sweaty, eyeliner running, spitting when I talk mess that I actually am, that would be great too!<br />
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<br />Simply UnFlabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09303983788740577695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8645372729044571901.post-27841449212150271732012-11-12T18:59:00.000-05:002012-12-24T09:42:28.443-05:00I am a mom.Therefore, I know NOTHING.<div class="yiv766087651MsoNormal" id="yui_3_7_2_5_1352764495367_491" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span id="yui_3_7_2_5_1352764495367_488" style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">I have two teenage children.<span id="yui_3_7_2_5_1352764495367_513"> </span>They are both walking stereotypes. My son is the handsome football/basketball player and my daughter is the super girly, hyperactive, boy-crazy cheerleader.</span></div>
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<span id="yui_3_7_2_5_1352764495367_496" style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">In short, these things equate to me, a 37 year old mother who was once a teenager so many moons ago, to knowing <strong>NOTHING</strong> in my childrenâs opinions.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">I struggle daily with allowing my children enough room to learn to make their own decisions (good and bad) and having to step in to put them back in check and remind them that I am the adult in this house, and therefore I get the last word.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">For instance, my daughter hasâŚshall we say, <em>blossomed</em>âŚover the past year. Which means I am constantly scanning her Facebook page to make sure that her goodies are properly contained within the confines of her Aeropostale t-shirt. So, you can imagine my horror when we started looking for a semi-formal dress for her school dance and she kept pointing out strapless, teeny tiny gowns. After politely telling her a multitude of times that a strapless dress just isnât appropriate for a 14 year old girl, I finally had to go into bitchy mom mode and break it down.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Until you are old enough to pay for anything that might come out of your vagina, I own it. The whole shootinâ barrel. Nothing goes in, nothing comes out, no one sees it, touches it or ponders invading it. Which means no dresses that run the potential for you a) bending over and risking your tiny little ass or your tiny little boobs falling out or b) running the risk of your vagina coming out ala Britney Spears style. I promise that if you decide to go all <strong><em>Teen Mom</em></strong> up in this bitch, I will retaliate by going all <strong><em>Mommy Dearest</em></strong> on your ass.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">I donât want my teenage daughter being gawked at by some pimple faced boy with a perpetual boner, just hoping she will bend over so he can oogle at her teenage boobies as they come out of her strapless dress. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Nuh huh, ainât gonna happen.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">And as exhausting as this argument has been, I am keenly aware of the fact that this is the smallest of all the battles that are yet to come. And that exhausts me even further.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">I donât even want to think about the stains on my sonâs sheets, or the two LONG showers he takes every day. I cringe every time we are watching The Voice and he repeatedly feels the need to tell me that Christina Aguilera is âhotâ. Cue vomiting noises.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">This chapter was definitely not in âWhat To Expect When You Are Expectingâ and I want a fucking refund.</span></div>
Simply UnFlabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09303983788740577695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8645372729044571901.post-32603988455846812082012-10-25T18:04:00.000-04:002012-10-25T18:04:41.075-04:0050 Shades of Cray CrayMost people take getting to know someone <em><strong>WAY</strong></em> too seriously. I donât care how good you are at balancing a checkbook or how quickly you can type a letter for your boss. I want to know the fun stuff. I want to know things about you that you are afraid to say out loud. We need to have a little less shame and humility about the random things that make us each unique. <br />
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Iâll go first. Feel free to follow suit.<br />
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50 things about me that you never knew (and probably could have lived life without knowing):<br />
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1) I secretly fear <em>everything.</em> Car accidents, plane crashes, the roof of my house caving in on my skull while I am quietly drinking wine and watching Full House. I can pretty much guess that when I die, it will be a total WTF moment. <em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">âHow did your wife die?â âShe was doing a backbend during yoga when her spine split in half, causing her body to collapse onto a rusty nail, which punctured a vital artery and she bled out all over the new rug. She would have lived had a plane flying over head not flown too low, taking off the roof of our house and sucking her up into a super human vacuum, flinging her lifeless body across the street into a shallow creek where she drowned because she landed face down and couldnât crawl to safety on account of her busted spine.â</span></em><br />
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2) Christmas decorating in my house <strong>can not</strong> happen unless NKOTB is busting out <strong>Merry, Merry Christmas</strong> on my CD player. My <strong>A Christmas Story</strong> leg lamp must also be lit and I must have ample room to spread out all 6 bins of all the Christmas crap I own so I can plot and analyze the placement of it all. Itâs a variable slew of circumstances that have to happen or the universe will slide off itâs axis and Santaâs sleigh will not fly. If you are shaking your head in amazement, you probably didnât read random fact #1.<br />
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3) As far as I am concerned, the Running Man is still the coolest dance move ever.<br />
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4) I love the sound of horses clip-clopping down the road<br />
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5) If I have to get dressed for anything other than lying on the couch watching Lifetime movies on a Sunday, it starts the new week off on a very bad note for me.<br />
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6) Nothing makes me happier than making someone else laugh.<br />
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7) I have a third nipple on my back. Kind of like Chandler Bingâs ânubbinâ on Friends. I donât know when it got there or what caused it, but itâs a raised piece of flesh that looks like a colorless nipple. And no, it doesnât turn me on if you touch it.<br />
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8) The sound of anyone but me chewing food makes me want to stab myself in the ears with a rusty pair of scissors.<br />
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9) I truly believe in love at first sight and happily ever afters.<br />
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10) I think boobs are the best thing ever created. I am obsessed with them. And if you have a great pair, and I have had a glass of wine, I will ask to touch them.<br />
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11) The sound of a baby laughing is hands down, the best sound in the world. I am convinced that if we could bottle it, it would cure cancer and create world peace.<br />
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12) I love my body, my curves and all my flaws, until I have to show it to someone else. <br />
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13) I really, really like the âaaahhhhhâ feeling after I have picked a really good booger.<br />
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14) When I was younger I used to eat said boogers. <br />
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15) I also used to bite my own toenails.<br />
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16) There is literally <strong>NOTHING</strong> I would change about my life. The good, the bad and the ugly is what makes my story mine, and I am never ashamed to tell it.<br />
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17) I may lie about my weight and my pant size, but never about my age. Because I think I totally <em>rock</em> 37.<br />
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18) I wish I could go back to my 18 year old body that I thought was so âfatâ. And tell her to shut the fuck up, use cocoa butter on your stretch marks while pregnant, and enjoy wearing a bikini while it lasts.<br />
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19) While I would like my 18 year old body back, I would never go back to <em>being</em> 18. I truly believe I have gotten better and wiser with age. Plus I couldnât legally drink wine at 18. And I like wine. A lot.<br />
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20) It makes me cringe to think that <strong><em>âartistsâ</em></strong> like Lil Wayne and Nicki Minaj are going to be âclassic musicâ to our children when they are adults. <br />
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21) I could type partial sentences into Google to see what it suggests for hours without getting bored.<br />
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22) I do not have the patience to follow any recipe that calls for me chopping more than two ingredients or has more than 10 steps.<br />
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23) I could never be a lesbian because I always envision that a womanâs nether regions taste like day old crab cakes.<br />
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24) I want to know who the first woman was that thought it would be âfunâ to suck a dick. Then I want to beat her over the head. With a dick.<br />
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25) Every piece of womenâs clothing should automatically be made with Spanx built in.<br />
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26) I love to say vagina. I donât know why and I donât care. It just makes me happy.<br />
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27) When I was younger, I could make out with a guy for hours. While I still love a good kiss, I have other things to do now that doesnât involve swallowing someone elseâs spit for an hour. Make it good, hard and fast and letâs call it a day.<br />
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28) The most romantic thing a guy can do, in my eyes, is hold my hand when I least expect him to.<br />
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29) I fight dirty. Iâm not proud of it, and I am working on it, but I will work my hardest to make you feel like shit if you piss me off. And then I will apologize later.<br />
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30) I constantly make plans that sound really good in the moment, and then often cancel because it involves a shower and the wearing of pants.<br />
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31) I will never stop trying to make my tongue touch the tip of my nose.<br />
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32) Sometimes I stand in the mirror and make a âbuttâ with my stomach. It should upset me that I have enough stomach to do this, but honestly it just makes me laugh.<br />
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33) Nothing makes my day like a good poop.<br />
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34) I am not a lazy person, but I really hate having to shower everyday. I blow dry and straighten my hair and put on makeup just to have to do it all over again the next day? Thatâs a lot of work.<br />
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35) I can count to 20 in French and Spanish.<br />
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36) Sky diving and bungee jumping are on my bucket list, but I am afraid to do either, because I am a nervous peeâer and I donât need to add that to my shame list.<br />
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37) When someone yells at me, I cry.<br />
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38) When I was heavier, people always told me I looked like Ricki Lake.<br />
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39) I am really good at taking a song and making it about something funny. Itâs a Weird Al Yankovic talent that I should have capitalized on when I was younger and full of ambition.<br />
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40) I love the smell of Sharpie markers, gasoline and crayons. 37 years of sniffing these things might explain a lot about me.<br />
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41) Even though I love being a mom, I still think a human being coming out of my hoo-ha is icky. <br />
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42) I am horrible about saving money. If I have it, I have a million things I want to spend it on. My kids better either be geniuses and get scholarships, be really good at sports, be really pretty or know how to work a pole. I self medicate with material things and Iâm not proud of it.<br />
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43) I can sing like the Lollipop kids from the Wizard of Oz.<br />
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44) I currently have 30+ tattoos and <strong>YES</strong>, I plan on getting more. They are my form of self expression and I am proud to show each and every one of them.<br />
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45) When I was a kid, we had to go downstairs at night to use the bathroom. At the top of the stairs was a railing with a space behind it that went to the attic. I would always run up the stairs and past that area because I was sure that Freddy Krueger was lying in wait.<br />
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46) The first time I got stung by a bee I was 12. It stung me in the ass. And got stuck in my pants. <br />
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47) I won our 8th grade talent show wearing a one sleeved unitard while doing flips and dancing to Pretty Poisonâs song <strong>Catch Me Iâm Falling</strong>.<br />
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48) My favorite âmealâ is tomato soup and grilled cheese.<br />
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49) I never tried drugs until I smoked my first joint at age 25. And I ate an entire pan of brownies.<br />
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50) My blood type is A+. Just incase you ever need me to loan you some.<br />
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I feel A) accomplished for being able to come up with 50 random facts about myself, and B) a little insecure about just how random I am. Either way, this is me.<br />
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Who are you? What are your 50 shades of cray cray?<br />
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<br />Simply UnFlabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09303983788740577695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8645372729044571901.post-43876368395906078312012-10-23T08:53:00.002-04:002012-10-23T08:53:41.489-04:00Hunger Games<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">There is a fine line between listening to what your body is telling you, and brainwashing your body into feeling something you want it to feel. As children, we are taught to clean our plates. Donât be wasteful. After all, there are starving children in Africa. As we get older, we continue the practice. All too often itâs to the point of gluttony and we spend most of our adult life trying to change those habits.</span><br />
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My lesson for the week: itâs ok to feel hungry. You donât have to indulge every hunger pain with food. Sometimes you may just be thirsty, bored or you want a reason to nibble on that Snickers bar that you shamefully keep hidden behind the bananas in your drawer.<br />
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I have always used the âhungry responseâ excuse to eat. Even now I do it, and I definitely know better. <br />
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<em><strong>Me:</strong> Iâm hungry.</em><br />
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<em><strong>My Body:</strong> No youâre not.</em><br />
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<em><strong>Me</strong>: No really, I feel the rumblies in my tumbly and only a large caramel macchiato and a chocolate chip cookie will make me feel better.</em><br />
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<em><strong>My Body:</strong> Donât you have banana in your purse?</em><br />
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<em><strong>Me:</strong> MaybeâŚâŚ</em><br />
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<em><strong>My Body:</strong> Do you plan on running a marathon today?</em><br />
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<em><strong>Me:</strong> Um, no.</em><br />
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<em><strong>My Body:</strong> Put the cookie down. Back away from the caramel macchiato. Slowly, and no one will get hurt.</em><br />
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<em><strong>Me:</strong> ButâŚ..</em><br />
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<em><strong>My Body:</strong> Exactly, your BUTT will be the one paying for your mid day tryst with carbs and sugar.</em><br />
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<em><strong>Me:</strong> But, Iâm hungry.</em><br />
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<em><strong>My Body:</strong> Eat the fucking banana, asshole.</em><br />
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Sometimes, we have to allow ourselves to be a little uncomfortable. Not every impulse needs an immediate response. Sometimes we have to throw the snickers bar in the garbage, cover it up with ketchup and dog shit, make ourselves a nice cup of tea and wait 30 minutes. If youâre still hungry after your âwaitingâ period, have some fruit. Have some oatmeal. Have <em>anything</em> but that Snickers bar. <br />
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Youâll thank me later. So will your ass. <em>Youâre welcome</em>.<br />
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<br />Simply UnFlabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09303983788740577695noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8645372729044571901.post-22309911481164634692012-09-17T12:06:00.000-04:002012-09-17T12:27:03.148-04:00You gotta know when to fold 'em....It would be a moot point for me to tell you that I havenât written anything in awhile. Most of you have probably forgotten about me, given up on me, or have been reading my old blogs repeatedly while you waited for me to get off my lazy ass and put pen to paper. Or fingers to keyboard, if you will.<br />
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Truth be told, I havenât wanted to write becauseâŚwell, my mother always said if you donât have anything nice to say, donât say anything at all. And I have been a wretched bitch with an acid tongue and a shitty attitude to boot. So I felt it was easier to obey mamaâs rules.<br />
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But today, I am going to lay all of the cards on the table in the hopes that by going all in, and letting you know the good, the bad and the flabby of my last 6 months, that I will allow myself a clean slate so I can go back to the ridiculous, unfiltered and happier posts that you all seem to love so much.<br />
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So, incase you were living under a rock or you were too busy watching a fucking <strong><em>DOG</em></strong> win Americaâs Got Talent, you probably know I lost a little weight. And that I became obsessive about gaining it back. And that I exercise like a hamster on crack. Just in case you had forgot. <br />
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Well here we are, two and a half years and about 180 pounds later and there are days that I feel fatter than I did the day I couldnât buckle my seat belt on an airplane. Ridiculous, right? I mean, if I can be vain for like half a second, Iâm not hard on the eyes. Not skinny, but certainly not fat. My face is holding it down despite 37 rough years on earth. Mind you, I have enough extra skin to make an entirely new human, but despite that I donât look bad in a pair of jeans.<br />
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Most days, I am proud of myself. I accept the extra skin and the stretch marks as parts of my journey. They remind me of where I came from, and where I never want to be again. For awhile I was obsessively thin. Everyone had an opinion.<br />
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<em>âYouâre too skinnyâ</em><br />
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<em>âWhere did your boobs go?â</em><br />
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<em>âDid you forget to eat today?â</em><br />
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I know people thought they were being funny, but seriously, <em>fuck you</em>. And I say that with love because thatâs just how me and the people I love most talk to each other. So I say again, fuck you. Of course I looked too skinny compared to looking like a sweaty sumo wrestler trying to wiggle himself into a clown car.<br />
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Then things started toâŚ.how shall I say this? <em>Settle?</em> My body reached itâs plateau and just kind of â<em>sank</em>â into place. My weight stayed the same but my hips widened a little and I started to get soft around the middle again. So I kicked up the workouts. Gained a little weight thanks to some late night Barefoot Muscato. Put a little junk in my trunk and some oomph in my twin set up front thanks to running and yoga. Finally, I felt <strong>good</strong>. Finally, I felt at peace with myself. Sure, I realized I no longer looked like I was one carrot stick from becoming emaciated. Sure, my cheek bones werenât as prominent and I had to trade in my Juniorâs size jeans for real womenâs jeans (at 37 should I really be wearing juniors clothes of any sort anyway?). But I could finally look in the mirror, see past my kangaroo pouch of a stomach and my flabby legs, and think, âDamn girl, you look <strong><em>good</em></strong>.â<br />
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One day that all changed and Iâm not sure why. One day I walked outside and felt the eyes of the world on me. Judging me. Whispering about me.<br />
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<em>âDid you see Lisa? She put some weight back on, huh?â</em><br />
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<em>"So much for gastric bypass. I guess she should have kept her fat clothes a little bit longer.â</em><br />
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<em>âIs that her ass or two pigs fighting for the last piece of grub?â</em><br />
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Ok, no one was <em>really</em> saying that, but the fucked up little voice in the back of my head made me believe they might be. And it is making me nuts. Because, I know how hard I continue to work. And truth be told, I have a good handle on food and how to enjoy things in moderation. And I would rather be a comfortable size 8/10 and be able to enjoy a glass of wine or a handful of chips once in awhile, than to live on protein based foods and exercise myself to death trying to be what no one else but me really expects me to be.<br />
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I did this so I could live a real life. And now I am and I can. And I have done it because I have an amazing support team. So many people have listened to my bitching and moaning about my insecurities and how âfatâ I am. And how they havenât all lynched me, strung me up by my short and curlyâs and poked me with rusty needles to shut me the fuck up, is beyond me. But I love them for loving me enough to wait for me to love myself. Wow, thatâs a lot of love.<br />
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So, now that I have come clean about all my dirty secrets and darkest thoughts, maybe I can pull my head out of my ass long enough to actually enjoy just being me. Whatever size that might be.Simply UnFlabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09303983788740577695noreply@blogger.com0