Friday, May 27, 2011

Safe Zone

The dog likes to play with the cat.
The cat does not like the dog at all.

Thursday, May 19, 2011

Does this extra weight make me look fat?

Once a woman told me she had been on a diet since she was 18. Considering she was in her 50s at the time, this made me incredibly sad. I hadn't been on a diet ever. (This was several years ago. I was 20.)  It wasn't very long after that I came to understand what she was talking about. I'm sure that when I'm in my 50s, I'll be that woman making bitter comments about being on a diet for more than half my life, too.

Me and food? We have a love-hate relationship. I love food; food hates me.

I could get into a long drawn out history of my weight, but God, what a boring story. Here's the gist. I've never been thin, but I was active. Well, "active" might be a stretch (I've always been the introverted, nose-stuck-in-a-book, rather-be-at-home type) but I've been working since I was 14 and didn't have a car until I was 18. I never realized how much all that walking helped until I started driving. Between 18 and 20, my weight skyrocketed. At my heaviest I was just over 200 pounds.

Oh, wait, I seem to have forgotten something. Like exclamation points. 200 pounds!!!

People have asked me, "How did you not know?" I just didn't. I never thought about it, never stepped on a scale or watched what I ate. I was a happy girl. I was happy enough with my appearance. It never occurred to me to be otherwise. Which, I suppose, could be considered a healthy frame of mind except that I was getting fatter and fatter every fucking day.

So, there I was. 200+ pounds. It was the first time I'd stepped on a scale in I don't know how long. I was planning on getting married in just under a year. And that was the day, that day in December, that I started watching my weight for the rest of my life.

It took a while. 3-4 years, I think, but I'd have to go back and review a calendar and probably do something crazy like count if I wanted to be totally accurate. 3-4 years before I hit my goal. In 2008 I weighed in at 135 pounds. Pretty bad ass if I do say so myself.

Ironically (or not), it was the very next month that my husband and I separated for the first time. I'm sure there's some correlation between my trying to better myself and our marriage falling apart but that's too deep a subject to delve.

I kept the weight off for a while. But I'm sure you can see where I'm going with this. My weight since February of last year (you remember that February, right?) has shot up. And up and up and up. The bad habits crept back slowly... little things here and there to "make me feel better." I wasn't necessarily eating out of depression, but more so just because candy made me happy and after all the shit, I deserved a little happiness, didn't I?

What a fucked up way to think. A little candy here and there turned into candy all the fucking time turned into just plain eating whatever the fuck I wanted. And I kept thinking I could get "back on track" anytime and get right back to 135, but guess what? Not as easy as you'd think. I know... shocking.

So, here's the truth (because, aparently, it'll set me free): I've gained back over 20 pounds.

Oops. Forgot the exclamation points again. 20 pounds!!!

So, I'm basically starting all over again. I have to change my way of thinking, recondition my body to eat less, expect less. When, really, I just wish I could keep eating all the candy I want. Recapturing the motivation I once had has been painfully difficult, but the drive is there. I want to lose this stupid weight (again). And maybe "they" (these so-called "experts" and "nutritionists") are right- actually announcing your intentions will hold you accountable and help you reach your goals.

This is me announcing my intentions. I'm going to lose the effing weight. And you people... (imagine me staring you in the eye, my expression very serious) need to hold me accountable.

Thursday, May 12, 2011

The games we play.

She wanders into my room, stands there, looks at me with those "I'm so innocent" brown eyes of hers. I greet her with a "Hi, pup!" as if she'll talk back. She looks to the right, spots my shoes. She looks back at me. We both know what she's planning. She inches closer... closer still. "Friday," I say in that low warning voice that does absolutely nothing. "Don't even think about it, pup." She looks at me once more. Those eyes... pure love and devotion. It only takes her a split second to snatch my shoe between her teeth and scamper away. I sigh. Chasing is futile. Damn dog is quick. And "drop it!" apparently means "run faster!" Later I'll find a small pile (my shoes, socks, and whatever else she managed to grab) in another room. The shoes with laces untied, but otherwise undamaged. (She cries while chewing on her squeaky toys.) I bring everything back. And we play again.

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Happiness. Now with less slurring.

Last night I met a friend (FRIEND) for a drink. I had three vodka tonics. (Really, it was more like two and a half.) (No, it was three. That, at the bottom of my glass, was mostly melted ice.)

Anyway, those three drinks on an empty stomach and what normally wouldn’t have fazed me all that much kinda kicked my ass a little bit.

I should be proud of myself for not drunk dialing anyone, but to be honest? I DIDN’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT. I think that’s called growth.

However, I’m not so proud of the fact that I got home at nearly two in the morning and promptly began writing a new blog post. I had so much to say! And I wanted to say it RIGHT NOW. It was bursting forth from my fingertips- I’M HAPPY. And I needed the world (or, at least, you three) to know about it.

I woke up later under crushing embarrassment. Maybe you’ve seen the post, maybe you haven’t… maybe you have and you’re thinking there’s nothing to be embarrassed about, but… it was not my best moment. (I actually called someone an inspiration. Ugh.)

As much as I'd love to have left that post published, it would have bothered me... and bothered me... and festered to the point of having to start a whole new blog. I figured you'd rather me just take it down and try writing it again. You know, without the alcoholic mindfuck.

Here's the thing. I meant what I said. I am happy. And content. (Although, I must say, I wish I were a bit less content and more Now's my chance! New life, here I come!) I have to wonder if I didn't cause all (well, most) of my unhappiness by dragging my feet and being unwilling to acknowledge my feelings.

Prior to The Drama with my eventual ex-husband, I often reveled in the fact that I loved him more each year we were together. Our bond only seemed to get stronger. Call me crazy, but I never saw it getting to this point. But then... who does?

Post drama? Post all the lying and fighting and heartbreaking mistrust? I'm no longer in love with him. (Hard to admit, that.) My attraction for him is like a car that's been running on fumes. It lasted as long as it could until it finally wheezed its last breath. And no amount of pleading or cursing or beating on the steering wheel is going to get it moving again.

And like I said during my alcohol-induced euphoria, I would rather be alone than with someone I'm not passionately in love. Settling is for suckers. I don't plan on being one again.