Do Not Feed The Bears
It took me all of 3 minutes to eat my lunch today. One of my nasty Lean Cuisine pizzas. I could seriously eat 3 of them for lunch, but I limit myself to one.
In May, I weighed 112 lbs. (I am barely 5 feet tall.)
A couple of weeks ago, I weighed in at 122. It wouldn't be so bad if not for the fact that I'm barely 3 apples tall and don't have a torso on a good day. Ten pounds on a tall chick is unnoticeable. On a short chick, it's a spare tire.
But dammit, I love to eat. Even when I'm not stressed to the gills and mildly depressed (as I have been both lately), I LOVE to eat. My favorite thing to do with friends? Go to dinner. Or lunch. Or breakfast. I don't really care, as long as there's food involved.
I don't have deep psychological issues associated with food. I don't have a love/hate relationship with food. I don't use food to make myself feel better when I'm upset--well, I do, but I eat just as much when I'm happy and content (possibly more). I just really, really like to eat. And it's showing.
And I just don't consider a 350 calorie Lean Cuisine pizza "lunch." I consider it "a snack."
But I know it's a matter of getting accustomed to eating less. I did it a year ago. I cut my calorie consumption in half (or more) and started eating what a female my size should eat. And for the first 2-3 weeks, it was hell. I constantly felt like I was starving, even though I was eating plenty. I was grumpy because I wanted to eat. But once I got used to not eating as much, it came naturally--if I tried to eat more, I felt stuffed and nasty. So I know this can be done--I just have to do it.
I'm planning to go shopping tomorrow night for a "wedding" dress. If I can find something cheap enough, I'd like to get two--one for the actual wedding and one to wear when we go out to celebrate tomorrow night. The plan is to try a store I've never been in that has a reputation for Cute and Cheap--my two favorite styles. As if, at 33, I have any business shopping in a store called "Forever 21." They'll probably laugh my old fat ass right out of the store. But I don't care--I want a dress, dammit, and I'm not leaving without one. Or two.
But this is the wierd part--I've actually been having dreams about being unable to find anything to wear Saturday and they're really disturbing. Like those go-to-school-naked dreams.
I'm sure I'll find something fabulous that doesn't make me look like the Pilsbury Doughboy and even if I don't, Ben doesn't give a shit what I wear as long as I show up and say "yes" at the appropriate time. Which is one of the many reasons I will say "yes" without hesitation.
So last night, I started attacking my face. Not with a razor blade, though I might as well. I was just taking care of a small, inobtrusive zit, and noticed some clogged pores along my upper lip and to the right. So I went for them. And my nails have grown quite a bit lately, so I was squeezing more with my nails than with my fingers. The end result--four vertical, hickey-like bruises on my face. Hell, I didn't even think I was squeezing that hard. The moral of the story--listen to your dermatologist, people. Keep your fucking hands off your face.
I need help.
In May, I weighed 112 lbs. (I am barely 5 feet tall.)
A couple of weeks ago, I weighed in at 122. It wouldn't be so bad if not for the fact that I'm barely 3 apples tall and don't have a torso on a good day. Ten pounds on a tall chick is unnoticeable. On a short chick, it's a spare tire.
But dammit, I love to eat. Even when I'm not stressed to the gills and mildly depressed (as I have been both lately), I LOVE to eat. My favorite thing to do with friends? Go to dinner. Or lunch. Or breakfast. I don't really care, as long as there's food involved.
I don't have deep psychological issues associated with food. I don't have a love/hate relationship with food. I don't use food to make myself feel better when I'm upset--well, I do, but I eat just as much when I'm happy and content (possibly more). I just really, really like to eat. And it's showing.
And I just don't consider a 350 calorie Lean Cuisine pizza "lunch." I consider it "a snack."
But I know it's a matter of getting accustomed to eating less. I did it a year ago. I cut my calorie consumption in half (or more) and started eating what a female my size should eat. And for the first 2-3 weeks, it was hell. I constantly felt like I was starving, even though I was eating plenty. I was grumpy because I wanted to eat. But once I got used to not eating as much, it came naturally--if I tried to eat more, I felt stuffed and nasty. So I know this can be done--I just have to do it.
I'm planning to go shopping tomorrow night for a "wedding" dress. If I can find something cheap enough, I'd like to get two--one for the actual wedding and one to wear when we go out to celebrate tomorrow night. The plan is to try a store I've never been in that has a reputation for Cute and Cheap--my two favorite styles. As if, at 33, I have any business shopping in a store called "Forever 21." They'll probably laugh my old fat ass right out of the store. But I don't care--I want a dress, dammit, and I'm not leaving without one. Or two.
But this is the wierd part--I've actually been having dreams about being unable to find anything to wear Saturday and they're really disturbing. Like those go-to-school-naked dreams.
I'm sure I'll find something fabulous that doesn't make me look like the Pilsbury Doughboy and even if I don't, Ben doesn't give a shit what I wear as long as I show up and say "yes" at the appropriate time. Which is one of the many reasons I will say "yes" without hesitation.
So last night, I started attacking my face. Not with a razor blade, though I might as well. I was just taking care of a small, inobtrusive zit, and noticed some clogged pores along my upper lip and to the right. So I went for them. And my nails have grown quite a bit lately, so I was squeezing more with my nails than with my fingers. The end result--four vertical, hickey-like bruises on my face. Hell, I didn't even think I was squeezing that hard. The moral of the story--listen to your dermatologist, people. Keep your fucking hands off your face.
I need help.
posted by Mitzi Green at 12:16 PM
1 Comments:
aw, shucks, girl--i wuv you, too. :)
maybe it makes one feel older to have a small child to constantly remind one that one is of "the old people." which he seems to really enjoy doing.
and honestly, i wish i had a fat ass. i'd like some junk in the trunk. as it is, all the junk's around my waist. there's no differential between my 3 measurements. i'm like a sausage on legs. which means IF i can button my pants, i got dunlap disease.
but where o where did you visualize me as a tall buxom blonde??? :P
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