TWO STEPS FORWARD...
DAY 16. I’ve gained BACK a pound. Except for that ice cream cone, I haven’t had one dessert, one fucking thing off my list. Last night I went to a reception which was also my dinner: five small pieces of watermelon, some grapes, a bunch of cheese, a bit of crudité. And a small glass of rosé. The dessert table beckoned but I said “Get thee behind me, Satan.” I didn’t even have one of those homemade cookies with the big Hershey kiss in the middle like my mom used to make once in a blue moon. I contributed a Boston Coffee Cake to this event, choosing that specifically; I knew I wouldn’t eat any because it has nuts in it and I don’t do nuts Solidarność! because someone I love can literally die from eating the wrong thing.
Wait, wait, I’m not trying to get perspective here, dammit! I’m trying to complain! I hate it when that happens.
This shit would have been a whole lot easier thirty years ago. Actually, no. It wouldn’t. I wasn’t me then. I was her. Stupid bitch. Poor me. I’m not good at anything. Why don’t boys like me? I’m so ugly. SHUT THE FUCK UP ALREADY!
Love thyself. I kind of feel like that means you have to kill the younger you. Stab, stab, stab! You’re done. I’m tired of listening to you whine. I’m tired of you feeling sorry for yourself. I’m tired of admitting that I used to be you. You’re the skeleton in my closet.
Hey, is that you? That much thinner, pimpled, sad-looking girl?
You din’t see nuttin, capiche? Now beat it!
Of course I can’t kill the other me. I’m not a split personality, although I often feel like one. What I was, I am. It’s all part and parcel of the older, wiser me. So how do you let go of the regret and the shame (I’m sure you’ve noticed those words crop up a lot)? How do forgive yourself for being…yourself? You’ve probably also noticed by now that I pose a lot of existential questions and offer few or no solutions. This can’t be good for my readership…
So. Back to my original theme. If dietary changes alone don’t cut it…I may have to start…exercising. Apparently working two jobs, raising two daughters, gardening, walking, going to the dump, clearing brush, mowing the lawn, cleaning, doing laundry, and all the other day-to-day crap I do – and if you know me, you know I do everything at hummingbird speed – apparently that’s not enough. So in the allotted 24 hours, which are already stuffed to the max, I have to set aside time to sweat, wheeze, push my aching, arthritic joints to their limits, dehydrate, and then have a good cry. Sounds like a plan.
I need a rallying song...
Do you hear the fatty sing?
Singing a song of angry hens?
It is the music of a woman
Who will not be slave (to food) again.
When the beating of my heart
Equals the beating of the heart of a healthy woman of my age,
There is a life about to start
when tomorrow comes!
Onward! Fuck...
