I borrow that title from irene_adler’s blog, which I quite enjoy.
My fellow Americans, remember back in the day, waaaay back like, what was it, four years ago, when I turned 32 and said, “you know what? Ima lose me some weight?” Remember that? And I did! And you were there for it. Or at least you can go back and read about it. And that was all very special. I lost me 45 pounds. And I was wearing smaller sizes. And feeling better. And lo, it was nice.
And remember also the part about me saying I would never gain it back?
Yeah.
Well.
I have. All of it. I’m not going to lie. Why would I? I mean, why would I lie? I would only be lying to myself. I’m the only one who reads this so it would be like saying, “dear diary, I am thin. I AM, DAMMIT.” That’s just pointless, and a little bit scary. I am a realist, and I realist-ize (master wordsmith, am I not?) that I gained back all that I lost.
Plus 3 pounds.
Did I say that? I mean did I actually just put that in writing? On the innernets? Well, I hear that journaling about things can help you achieve them. I suspect it’s a load of crap as this journal is never gonna reach out and slap those bread sticks out of my hands. Although that would be so very helpful. Because you know a lot of people eat at their computers.
My mother and my aunt have broached the topic of lapband surgery. As in, suggesting that I should get it. Lapband. Surgery. So it has come to that, has it? I informed my mom that I wanted no more of this talk. Family isn’t supposed to realize or care one way or the other how I look or what I weigh, right? I mean, RIGHT? But that’s just delusional, isn’t it? Anyway, the quasi-intervention isn’t what did it. Not what drove me back to the Diet Chronicles to start again. Nor was it the number on the scale. Nor the fact that I don’t sleep well because I can’t breathe properly at night. Not even the fact that I can’t wear many of the new clothes I bought. No. What was it, you ask?
I’ll tell you what did it. The realization… that I AM NOW BIGGER THAN MY MOTHER. Y’all. Y’ALL.
Now, mama is not hugely obese. Well, not anymore anyway. But she’s always been bigger than ME. In the South, we are not bigger than our mamas. Older ladies = frumpy. Younger women = trim. <shame>I cannot… *ahem*… I cannot wea….. *breathe* I can do this….. I… cannot wear… my mother’s…. clothes. They. Are. Too. Small. </sha… actually I’m gonna leave that tag open for now>
People, I wish to Our Lord that I had a chaise lounge upon which I could throw myself, wrist to my forehead, and beat my breast and wait and gnash my teeth and rent my frumpy, old lady, size 28 garments asunder. I do.
Why can’t I do this? WHY?? Oprah and Dr. Phil told me that there must be some underlying emotional reason. That I must not be happy with me. That I need to get in touch with my inner child but that’s not true because OHGODIATEMYINNERCHILDWHATHAVEIDONE?! Actually though, I feel pretty happy. I wish someone would just regress me back to whatever former life was the problem, tell me what went wrong, and then I could think on it and then breathe it out through my vagina or whatever the hell you’re supposed to do for that and then I could ZOMG lose some weight.
*sigh* Okay. Well. So. What am I gonna do about this? What I always do, America. Start again. Somehow. I am NOT paying another 800 bucks to go back to LA Weight Loss. Excuse me, I need a moment to take that in here. I actually spent… 800… of my PARENTS’ mone….. seriously, how can I look myself in the eye? *station break for self loathing and the beatings* Aaaand we’re back.
So. Maybe I’ll write some more in the next week or so. Or maybe I will decide that a motorized scooter at age 36 is perfectly acceptable and will get me to Lane Bryant in comfort. Wish me luck.
With the diet. Not the scooter.
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