Most 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 I’m all WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH MY BODY AND WHY WON’T IT GIVE ME A MOMENTS PEACE???
Lately, I can’t 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 it’s really starting to piss me off.
I have been trying to shed the 10-ish pounds I gained for what seems like all of eternity. That’s really tough to do when the only thing that my body doesn’t 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 5” stiletto.
ALL 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.
Which leaves me two options:
Eat the fruits, veggies and carbs and suffer through the pressure and pain
OR
Eat nothing but soup and protein shakes until the day I die. This would be, like Friday because that just isn’t how I function.
I don’t 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 “no-no’s” is as follows:
Whole grain bread
Salad
Salad dressing
Marinara sauce
Bagels
Cucumbers
Strawberries
Cantaloupe
Red Meat
Yogurt
Granola Bars
Oatmeal
Tomatoes
Carrots
Apples
Pasta
The list is longer, but gets depressing and just makes me hungry.
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.
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?
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 Brach’s conversation heart candies that need to be available to me more than just at Valentine’s Day, and being told the only thing I can eat is the cardboard boxes they were all delivered in.
It’s like, wait….so, I did all of this work to learn to live healthier and eat better and now I don’t get to do any of that. Seriously? Like, for real? 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 punk’d. 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.
Oh yeah, ice cream is on the “Do Not Eat” list too. I’m 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.
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 (YUM!), then fine – I’m a fat ass by choice. But the fact remains, that while I may not be everyone else’s definition of a “fat ass”, 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 team player, Life.
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 it’s a Red Robin’s A-1 Peppercorn burger and get out of my head for awhile. The silver lining is, I am still alive.
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
Weight 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. I’m still not sure why, or what I thought I would learn that I haven’t 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.
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.
In reality, I only end up more confused, always hungry and very gassy. Like seriously, after 2pm don’t even think about walking by my office without a gas mask and a can of Febreze.
Don’t 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 “eat-all-the-fruit-and-veggies-you-want-as-if-they-carry-no-nutritional-value” thing for two reasons:
1) When I was tracking my diet on Livestrong.com, you had to count fruits and veggies. And even though their caloric value wasn’t 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.
2) If the whole point of a “diet” or “lifestyle change” is to learn how to eat smarter, and fruits and veggies don’t “count” as far as WW is concerned, then shouldn’t we fill ourselves with something that has more nutritional value? Oh wait, you can’t without using your fucking points.
According to WW, for my old age, my short stature and my current weight, I am A-OK. 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. Riiiiiigggghhhhttt. If it were that easy, don’t you think I would have already lost it without having to pay $55 for a three month membership??
At this point, I have two incentives to drop the 10 pounds that only I apparently think I need to lose. (Ya’ll haven’t seen me naked, so don’t judge!). First, I won’t 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.
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 “extra” 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). It’s become a game. A challenge, 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.
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.
In reality, I only end up more confused, always hungry and very gassy. Like seriously, after 2pm don’t even think about walking by my office without a gas mask and a can of Febreze.
Don’t 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 “eat-all-the-fruit-and-veggies-you-want-as-if-they-carry-no-nutritional-value” thing for two reasons:
1) When I was tracking my diet on Livestrong.com, you had to count fruits and veggies. And even though their caloric value wasn’t 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.
2) If the whole point of a “diet” or “lifestyle change” is to learn how to eat smarter, and fruits and veggies don’t “count” as far as WW is concerned, then shouldn’t we fill ourselves with something that has more nutritional value? Oh wait, you can’t without using your fucking points.
According to WW, for my old age, my short stature and my current weight, I am A-OK. 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. Riiiiiigggghhhhttt. If it were that easy, don’t you think I would have already lost it without having to pay $55 for a three month membership??
At this point, I have two incentives to drop the 10 pounds that only I apparently think I need to lose. (Ya’ll haven’t seen me naked, so don’t judge!). First, I won’t 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.
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 “extra” 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). It’s become a game. A challenge, 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.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
It's Fat Tuesday and it's just my size
Generally 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.
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 “You’re too skinny, you need some meat on those bones”. To which I replied (in my head, of course) FUCK YOU. I mean really? I shed 180 pounds of “meat” and worked damn hard to do so.
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 didn’t 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 didn’t have a ‘2’ in front of it. I was no longer considered plus size, but the all American, average sized woman. I felt amazing.
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:
1) It’s relevant to the whole “people speak with good intentions” theory
2) I am going to use it as my platform to get off my fat ass and do something about it
Weight gain is a slippery slope. You start out gaining a couple pounds and thinks it’s 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.
Then you gain a few more and think it’s still ok. As long as you don’t go past that weight. That magic number that makes you give up and say fuck it, pass me the Ben and Jerry’s, throw out all of my skinny jeans, and load up the sweatpants and baggy shirts.
That’s where I am ya’ll. In the land of loose khaki pants, Victoria’s Secret oversized sweatpants and “flowy” 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.
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.
Because I can’t stand for one more second to hear something tell me I look “fine”. Or for them to say “You look perfect now. You were way too skinny before.” Because, this tells me they can tell I have gained weight. And while I appreciate the support and enthusiasm, it’s 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.
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 envy 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.
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.
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 “You’re too skinny, you need some meat on those bones”. To which I replied (in my head, of course) FUCK YOU. I mean really? I shed 180 pounds of “meat” and worked damn hard to do so.
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 didn’t 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 didn’t have a ‘2’ in front of it. I was no longer considered plus size, but the all American, average sized woman. I felt amazing.
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:
1) It’s relevant to the whole “people speak with good intentions” theory
2) I am going to use it as my platform to get off my fat ass and do something about it
Weight gain is a slippery slope. You start out gaining a couple pounds and thinks it’s 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.
Then you gain a few more and think it’s still ok. As long as you don’t go past that weight. That magic number that makes you give up and say fuck it, pass me the Ben and Jerry’s, throw out all of my skinny jeans, and load up the sweatpants and baggy shirts.
That’s where I am ya’ll. In the land of loose khaki pants, Victoria’s Secret oversized sweatpants and “flowy” 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.
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.
Because I can’t stand for one more second to hear something tell me I look “fine”. Or for them to say “You look perfect now. You were way too skinny before.” Because, this tells me they can tell I have gained weight. And while I appreciate the support and enthusiasm, it’s 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.
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 envy 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.
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.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Let 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 gif’s, eCard emails, flowers, cards and presents. Lots and lots 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.
This year is different. Both because I dyed my hair blonde:
And, because I feel content with myself for the first time, well…ever. I don’t need the accolades (although they are GREATLY appreciated), and I don’t need a cake full of candles (do we really need to have that fire hazard??), nor do I need a mantle full of cards, flowers or expensive gifts.
WAIT, if anyone is reading and you want to send me an expensive gift, I guarantee I won’t say no.
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 don’t take a single one of them for granted.
My cousin posted on my Facebook that 38 is the new 28. To that I say, AMEN. I would never want to be 28 again. That was not my finest hour. But 38….that’s a whole different story. At 38 I am finally starting to feel like I really have my shit together. I feel…grown up. But in a good way.
People try to placate me by telling me that I don’t look my age, and that’s 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 it’s all a part of my story, and it’s a story I am proud to tell.
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 don’t 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, crow’s feet, a bigger ass and a slower metabolism, but those are all small and insignificant in the grand scheme of things.
So bring on 38, 39, 40…hell, 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 life’s 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.
And in the words of Queen Marie Antoinette, “Let them eat cake”. And eat cake I shall.
This year is different. Both because I dyed my hair blonde:
And, because I feel content with myself for the first time, well…ever. I don’t need the accolades (although they are GREATLY appreciated), and I don’t need a cake full of candles (do we really need to have that fire hazard??), nor do I need a mantle full of cards, flowers or expensive gifts.
WAIT, if anyone is reading and you want to send me an expensive gift, I guarantee I won’t say no.
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 don’t take a single one of them for granted.
My cousin posted on my Facebook that 38 is the new 28. To that I say, AMEN. I would never want to be 28 again. That was not my finest hour. But 38….that’s a whole different story. At 38 I am finally starting to feel like I really have my shit together. I feel…grown up. But in a good way.
People try to placate me by telling me that I don’t look my age, and that’s 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 it’s all a part of my story, and it’s a story I am proud to tell.
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 don’t 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, crow’s feet, a bigger ass and a slower metabolism, but those are all small and insignificant in the grand scheme of things.
So bring on 38, 39, 40…hell, 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 life’s 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.
And in the words of Queen Marie Antoinette, “Let them eat cake”. And eat cake I shall.
Friday, December 28, 2012
Does 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 “them”, 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 “resolution” I am making this year:
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.
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 Jerry’s eating ass into a size 28. I have to stop with the self deprecating jokes about my “fat ass”. 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 don’t deserve to feel that way.
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 doesn’t mean I don’t still want to be a flab free size 6, but I need to work with what I got, ya know?
I need to do these things for several reasons:
• 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.
• I will never have a healthy relationship if I don’t stop being a whining, sniveling control freak who doesn’t want to get undressed with the lights on, or who spends every second wondering if I look “fat”. 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 I’m hot, I don’t have to believe it, but I have to believe that he believes it.
• I don’t 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 shouldn’t.
• 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 “happy pills” do indeed make you less psychotic, I would rather have a little rage that will instill some fear into their tiny teenage hearts.
So in short, in 2013 I will make a steadfast attempt to be less of an asshole. I can’t 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, it’s still 2012.
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.
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 Jerry’s eating ass into a size 28. I have to stop with the self deprecating jokes about my “fat ass”. 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 don’t deserve to feel that way.
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 doesn’t mean I don’t still want to be a flab free size 6, but I need to work with what I got, ya know?
I need to do these things for several reasons:
• 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.
• I will never have a healthy relationship if I don’t stop being a whining, sniveling control freak who doesn’t want to get undressed with the lights on, or who spends every second wondering if I look “fat”. 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 I’m hot, I don’t have to believe it, but I have to believe that he believes it.
• I don’t 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 shouldn’t.
• 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 “happy pills” do indeed make you less psychotic, I would rather have a little rage that will instill some fear into their tiny teenage hearts.
So in short, in 2013 I will make a steadfast attempt to be less of an asshole. I can’t 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, it’s still 2012.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Haters Gonna Hate, Ya'll
I 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.
And to those people I say:
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.
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.
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.
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.
And to those people I say:
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.
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.
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.
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.
Friday, November 23, 2012
A case of the Gimme Gimme's
There 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:
I want a small ass. This will never happen. I’m just not built to be “small”.
I want a smaller forehead. Because bangs to cover it up on a hot day is not a good look for anyone.
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.
I want a tummy tuck. Without having to spend the $5,000.
I want to own a mirror that allows me to look into it and see no flaws.
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.
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.
But most importantly, I NEED to know why in the name of all that is holy does this monster called Black Friday exist?
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 really 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?
And that giant TV you just had 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.
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.
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.
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!).
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!
I want a small ass. This will never happen. I’m just not built to be “small”.
I want a smaller forehead. Because bangs to cover it up on a hot day is not a good look for anyone.
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.
I want a tummy tuck. Without having to spend the $5,000.
I want to own a mirror that allows me to look into it and see no flaws.
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.
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.
But most importantly, I NEED to know why in the name of all that is holy does this monster called Black Friday exist?
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 really 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?
And that giant TV you just had 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.
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.
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.
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!).
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!
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