Lately my cat Gravey has been hitting the catnip hard. Here is after one of his marathon sessions…
I read a lot of diet blogs. These people are all going through the same things I am, and it helps to know that we’re all in the same boat, and to touch base with everyone’s struggles and triumphs. I love looking at progress pictures and seeing someone shrink before my very eyes as the months go by and the pounds fade away. Following someone else’s journey makes me feel less alone.
Lately in the diet blogging world I’ve noticed that you’re not supposed to say that you wanted to lose weight so you could fit into cute new clothes. It’s not as cool to be excited about wearing a pair of size four pants as it is to be able to run farther and faster or to lift more. We’re all just supposed to be in for the sake of being healthy and loving ourselves and wanting a great glowing sense of fitness or something.
And while I understand and admire that sentiment, I really do, I have to admit, that even though I love the fact that I can run five miles without stopping, I would be lying if I said I didn’t also care about the size 4 pants I’ve got hanging in my closet that actually fit me. A lot.
For me, it’s like this. The other day, I tried on an outfit I wore to a fancy Christmas party years ago. When I was at my largest, I KNEW I would never wear that outfit again. It might as well have been hanging on a distant shelf marked “Not For You, Fatty” instead of in the back of my closet. The only reason I kept it because it was really expensive, and I just couldn’t justify getting rid of it. And also because I think I wanted to hold on the feeling of being the girl who put on that outfit and wore the hell out of it and just felt FABULOUS. Even if I didn’t have that feeling anymore, ever, maybe that Christmas dress reminded me that once, I had known what it felt like to look GOOD, and to feel great. It reminded of what it was like to really love how I looked.
And now, that same outfit is too big. And I’m not sure what to think about that fact. It makes me proud of how far I have come, but it makes me sad that I was so firmly convinced I couldn’t do something, when obviously I could. I did. And it makes me feel a little disoriented, to be honest. I feel like I missed out.
The damn dress still doesn’t fit, but now it’s too big, and I still can’t let it go.
If only I could somehow get that girl back, the one who felt beautiful, no matter what size, maybe I could let the dress go.
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When Russell Baker took over from Alistair Cooke as the host of Masterpiece Theater, my mother wrote him a letter informing him of the enormous responsibility he had now been given. She needed to let him that in her opinion, Masterpiece Theater, and her weekly Sunday night viewing of it, was no ordinary hour of television. Rather, it was a sacrosanct hour, sacred. It was, for my mother, no less than a shot at redemption. Redemption for chores not completed, homework not started until too late, errands not run, recycling overlooked, trash never taken to the curb. By Sunday night, we were sure to have failed at something, and she felt was Russell’s job,nay, his duty, to make that ok. (He never wrote her back, and I don’t think she ever forgave him for that).
I think fondly of those Sunday nights at my house, my mom with one eye on the tv while she polished everyone’s school shoes and idly drank a glass of wine, Alistair or Russell crisply chiming in in the background, knowing I was too tired to finish my homework but not wanting to go to bed. Now, in my own house, with my own tiny family, and no shoes to polish, I have my own form of redemption, a reward for running early and far, and it’s an hour of Gray’s Anatomy, accompanied by a footrub, a bowl of sugar free jello, and a cup of decaf tea. If things get really crazy, I might just paint all ten of my toes in the shocking hues of OPI’s Far East Fuschia. But while I do it, I’ll think of my mom, and be redeemed.
This morning I got up at 7:30, sucked down a Power bar, and went on my five mile run. I really really really did not want to do it, and in fact I was a little nervous that I COULDN’T do it. But I did it anyway, and even though parts of it really sucked, I am so so so proud of myself. I can’t help thinking about that first day I started running two years ago and how hard it was and how I was convinced that I just couldn’t do it. I wasn’t the sort of person who COULD run and so I’d have to just do Pilates or something.
Well, it took two years, and endless quantities of bitching, and moaning, and planning, and working, and begging runinng shoes off richer members of my family, and figuring out what to eat and when to run and where to go and two Pilates tapes later, here I am. I am a RUNNER. WOO HOO!
In other news, when I was done with my run, I came home and baked this for Mr. E:
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And my official aproximately 128 pounds picture.
13 to go!
I absolutely adore my new table. But holy crap, it’s HUGE! When we bought it they asked us if we had a large family. I just laughed.
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I was all set to write this big post about how I’ve become such a better person lately through my karmic realizations about life and how I’ve let go of trying to control everyone else and blah blah blah wonderfulcakes but then this morning just GOT TO ME.
The good, followed by the bad:
G: I lost another two pounds, yeah!
B: My “new” pants are already too big, and have the worst ass gap in the back ever. I could fit a small ham in there. My thighs are totally out of proportion with my waist, so this always happens, but for some reason it annoys the shit out of me.
G: I did my three mile run last night, and it was totally doable, even though I had psyched myself out about it ahead of time way more than was necessary.
B: Because it was super late when I started, I ignored every cell phone call I got, and all the people I felt like I needed to talk to. It sucks even more because my step dad is in the hospital right now, and even though I talked to my mom about it, I should also have talked to him and my brother and my cousin and let everyone know how he was doing, but I just wasn’t up to it. I feel like I’ve been a very bad friend lately, not returning phone calls, not making an effort. I know I have to concentrate on ME for a change, because if I don’t make my running a priority, it doesn’t happen. But being selfish makes me feel really really guilty sometimes.
G: It’s FRIDAY!
B: We have NO money, and there aren’t any good movies out right now. Should be a fun weekend!
G: I am actually looking forward to my four mile run on Sunday. I definitely plan to eat some bacon afterwards.
B: It’s still hot as hell and humid here, which means I will have to get up at the ass crack on Sunday to do my four mile run, if I want to run outside, which I pretty much have to, because hi, even though Netflix says the DVD of Laguna Beach is close captioned, well, they LIED to me, people. LIED.
G: Everyone at work loved my cupcakes.
B: This caused me to let my anti social guard down and put me in a happy friendly mood, wherein I got suckered into agreeing to go to a work party. I know I am going to regret this decision.
G: My outfit is very French! At least in my mind.
B: My cute shoes are giving me terrible blisters and I have a mosquito bite on my FOREHEAD, and my skin is totally broken out. Crazy me, I always just assumed that eventually I’d stop having crappy skin, like, someday, and uh, hi, could that start NOW please? Jesus. I’m going to be the only 40 year old on earth with acne. Enough for Christ’s sake!
The just plain annoying:
What is with everyone on Ebay lately? I have had two auctions canceled in the past three days because the bidders fucked up somehow. How is that my problem? It’s a total pain in the ass for me. It just doesn’t seem like it should be that complicated. Don’t bid on something you don’t want! If you do bid on something, freaking pay for it! God.
I suspect that it is CRAZY of me to be annoyed by this, but the very loud breathing person who sits across from me at work is eating food out of her backpack, which is sitting on the floor, one tiny piece at a time, all sneaky like. Just plop your M and M’s down on your desk and eat them, for christ’s sake! Don’t fish them out of your bag one at a time, look around the room, and then stick it furtively in your mouth. No one cares WHAT you eating, for god’s sake. Unless it’s, like, 400 oxycontins or something, why are you TRYING TO HIDE YOUR FOOD? It’s driving me NUTS.
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3 entries found for skinny.
skin·ny ( P ) Pronunciation Key (skn)
adj. skin·ni·er, skin·ni·est
Very thin. See Synonyms at lean2.
Of, relating to, or resembling skin.
Inside information; the real facts: learned the skinny on their falling-out.
adj : having unattractive thinness; “a child with skinny freckled legs”; “a long scrawny neck” [syn: scraggy, scrawny, underweight, weedy] n : confidential information about a topic or person; “he wanted the inside skinny on the new partner”
When I first started trying to lose weight, I told myself over and over that I didn’t want to be skinny. I loved my curves, dammit! I still wanted to look like a woman when I was done losing weight, and not like a little girl. And I wanted to avoid getting back on the anorexia train to skeletonville. But the more and more weight I lost, and the closer I got to my goal, the more and more unsatisfied I became. I started to hate the curves I had been so proud of before. I started to CRAVE skinny. Maybe part of me had been afraid to begin with such a lofty goal, so when I actually did start to lose weight, when it turned out I wasn’t a complete failure and I COULD do it, maybe that was when I started to let myself dream the skinny dream.
Skinny is such a loaded word. It conjures up images of perfection. To me it sounds clean, and neat, and crisp. Ironically, I can practically taste skinny in my mouth. It tastes like apples, or clean snow, or sugar free strawberry popsicles. Clean, pure, but with a tart edge. Snappy and precise. All the things that being fat means you are not.
If you let skinny get ahold of you, you can lose sight of all the other reasons you wanted to lose weight to begin with. I’m toying with the idea of banishing skinny from my vocabulary forever. If you read the definition of it from the dictionary, it doesn’t sound like such a great thing to be. And the truth is, unless I stop eating all together and really go off the rails to a place I never want to be again, I’m just never going to be Nicole Richie skinny. And I shouldn’t want to be. The reality is that skinny is a pipe dream for me, and dieting makes me feel like maybe that dream could be achieved. It is really really hard for me to come to terms with the fact that I’ll never ever be tall and thin and blond, with those ridiculously long coltish preadolescent legs and short shorts and a swinging ponytail and perfect skin and blue eyes and a tan. That’s not the body I got. I’m 5’2″. That’s just not my reality. But that’s partially why it seems all the more wonderful to me. And it’s hard to let that skinny fantasy die. It’s hard to let go of the idea that if I work hard enough I could at least get CLOSE to that ideal. I know I need to learn to love myself. But sometimes I get so tired of having to love the body I got.
I think it’s ok to want to be normal. But I’ve come far enough to know that wanting to be so skinny that my bones stick out and people comment on it isn’t right, isn’t normal. Some days, that doesn’t stop me from wanting it. Maybe if I banish skinny from my vocabulary, I can stop thinking of it as something so desirable. I’m just sort of confused as to what to replace it with. Saying “I just want to be small” feels wrong as well. As if I’m giving into pressure to be cuter, and younger, and to take up less space in the universe. And saying “I just want to be healthy” sounds like a failure to me.
I suppose this is like anything else. You learn to love yourself, for who you are, one day at a time. So I practise. I will say it right here. I am NOT skinny. And that is ok. Even more, that might be GOOD.
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