I don’t want you to get excited or anything, but since starting my diet this week, I’ve lost a pound and two ounces. I should totally do before and after pictures where I hold out m’pants.
I think it’s because I was already seeing a trainer, but I’m vv motivated this time around. I am so sick of looking like a sausage. And I want to see the results of my workouts under my yards of Queen Victoria in her later years flesh.
Yesterday evening, I saw said trainer. And by the way, driving over there at 5:20 p.m. differs from driving over there at 6:00 a.m. as I used to do. Mother of god. Apparently an obscene lines of cars at all the lights at 5:20 p.m. is the fashion.
Back when I had my tiny blue roller skate car, I’d put the top down and watch the sun come up while I drove the empty roads to her place. Remember how I saw those two dogs in a field? And a house in said field with its kitchen light on? It was like driving through 1940. It’s different at 5:20.
Then I was bashed in the rear, so to speak, and got off the trainer’s early-morning roster, and I just now noticed that roster and rooster are very similar in spelling, which is funny because on my way to her house each morning, the rooster in my neighborhood would cockadoodledoo at me as I would head to my car at 6:00 a.m. I love that rooster.
Anyway. So last night I’m on the elliptical, there, at the trainer’s house. She has a whole gym on her first floor, which is a garage converted to a gym, a den and a bathroom. Then there are stairs to her next level. It’s a townhouse. It’s like the perfect setup, really.
MY POINT IS, oh my god, that I was on the elliptical last night, and I said, “In my mind, I’m just a thin person who’s having a rough patch. …For the last 27 years.”
And it’s true. I DO think that. I just assume you all know I’m actually thin, I’m just a little bloated right now.
For exactly half my life, I was rail thin. I was the “Where do you PUT it all?” girl. Then one day everyone was able to see where I put it all. And I can’t even say my weight has yo-yo’d much. I just progressively gain a pound or two each year.
There were times it’d go down like 10 pounds. When I first did Tracy Anderson. When I first moved in with Ned. When I stuck with Weight Watchers for a summer.
When I moved in here, the weight just fell off me in buckets. It was quite a sight. “What was that?” “Oh, just some fat off my hip.”
I was packing and throwing stuff out and moving furniture and lugging goods to the curb and shoving that chair into the next room FOR TWO MONTHS EVERY DAY. Maybe I should quit this high-powered career and go into working for a moving company. I’d look fantastic.
But then life went back to normal and I gained that 10 pounds back. And went back to thinking I really was a thin person in a bad stretch.
Once, I was fighting with a boyfriend. It started out innocently enough–I’d wanted to talk about something I was worried about with his family. To say he took it the wrong way is an understatement. He leaped from the couch.
“I am so sick of you,” he screamed. This didn’t bother me. He’d always had a temper.
“You are such a stupid bitch,” he gritted, pacing the room. I may as well have been filing my nails, so little did this bother me. “If you could stop yelling at me and listen to what I’m trying to–” I began.
“You’re a stupid, fat bitch.” He cut me off.
And I burst into tears.
I know I’m not stupid. And I know I’m sort of a bitch. So, eh, those hurls didn’t land. But fat? Once he said it, I knew it was true. It hit hard. Oh my god, I AM fat. He’s right.
And why do we think this is the worst thing in the world? And why are 27 of you poised at your computer to say, “You’re not fat, June.” Like I need to hear that in order to go on living or something.
Technically, I am fat. BMI-wise. I had someone at work get rather angry at me once for calling myself that, like I had no right to say I was a member of the club or something. I found myself, at work, saying what my BMI is. So I could say what I wanted to about myself. So I could get into the club.
I’m 9 pounds from having an acceptable BMI (“Those are so SUBJECTIVE,” 96 of you are poised at the keyboard to say) and I’m almost 40 pounds from my goal. And while I think weight and the “fat” label are almost as touchy of a subject as money, I’m still gonna talk about it.
Years ago, some women who used to read this blog got furious with me for talking about my weight. Not theirs. Mine. On my blog. They spoke openly about it on their social pages, then sent me scathing emails about what a terrible person I was. For talking about my weight. On my blog.
Disapproval like that used to bother me, but I’ll always be grateful for that time. They showed me that a lot of what bothers people is more about what’s going on inside of them than anything I did. I mean, I know grammatical errors bother me more than most because it’s what I do all day. And I know calling me “ugly inside and out” because I mentioned my weight on my own blog is indicative of how that person feels about herself. Since then, disapproval rolls off me, most times. Sometimes it gets stuck in my hips.
Also, I think I don’t get as down on myself about it as other people might. When that guy called me fat, I felt bad about myself for about an hour, then went back to the “thin person in a rough patch” denial. Even now, I assume I still look okay even though I’m 40 freaking pounds from where I want to be. The thing is, I want to look more than okay. I want to be all, Heyyyyy. Look at YOU, Miss Thing. I think we should worry more about the part where I wish to call self Miss Thing.
So. Anyway. That’s what’s going on over here. I’m on this diet, and I have a RIDICULOUS day at work today so I won’t be able to respond a lot today (I worked till after 8:00 last night, post trainer, just to feel more in control of work today. Man, did I go from one extreme to the other. Remember before my accident, things were insane, then
I get hit by an SUV and had the quietest month I’ve had since infancy. Maybe the quietest month ever. I probably got to do more when I was three months old. At least I could glance over at Days of Our Lives or whatever. Anyway, now I’m back at work and
absurdly busy again.)
(Longest parenthetical ever.)
I think it might not matter which diet you choose or how you go about it. I think what matters is you really have to decide. I think I’ve really decided. Then again, I could be hitting the vending machine for a Payday by 10 a.m. today.
But I don’t think so.
Thanks for chewing the fat with me.
P.S. Obligatory pet pictures