So I’m dieting.
But I’m trying to trick myself into the whole “losing weight” thing as an honest attempt to get healthy.
Yeah. Right. Who am I kidding? I want to fit into my dress up clothes again. That, and I don’t want my ass to scare people when I’m at the beach or the pool.
There. I said it. Vanity.
Since I’ve been in business for myself for over a year now, I didn’t give a hoot what I wore to meetings or whatever. I’d show up in blue jeans, Converse All-Stars, a v-neck t-shirt and hoodie, looking all Mark Zuckerberg minus the bad hair, and make no apologies. Hey. I worked for The Man for too long, following some effed-up dress code that required panty hose and blazers. I own this company (ok - co-own, but still); I can dress however I flipping want to.
Except when I shouldn’t.
I tried to pull on a pair of my goes-with-everything dress pants and - how do you say it, Rootie? - I PLOTZED. Standing in front of the mirror, I looked in horror at the reflection. “Where did THAT come from?” I demanded, pointing at a loaf of bread conveniently wrapped around my middle*. When my upper arm stopped wobbling, I turned to see the reverse view. Mother of God, when did I sprout an ASS a-la-JLo? And what is that! Back Fat? Oh, HELL no!
Of course, I had to complain about it for a while. Then I started feeling sorry for myself, too. But the whole SNAP OUT OF IT hit when my biggest pair of blue jeans got a bit too snug. Enough, already.
I cleaned out the snack cabinet (oh how I miss you, crackers and squeeze cheese, Cheetos, Doritos, CARBS!), stocked the veggie bin in the fridge, and started keeping track of everything I eat. Gone are the days of frozen pizza, home made mac and cheese, and spaghetti with butter. I am hungry. All. The. Damn. Time.
Sigh. I’ve lost eight pounds. Eight. Doesn’t sound like much except that I’m on day number 12.
Of course, I did have an Oreo Blizzard from the Dairy Queen for supper the other night.
*Now - I’ve never had a waist. Even at my lightest, I’ve never had a waist. I remember distinctly the lady at the “Prom Dress” store suggesting a girdle or control-top panty hose to help “define your shape a little bit.” I weighed 130 pounds, stood as tall as I am right now (5’6”) and was 16 years old. I was a multi-sport athlete. Could wrestle my brother into screaming Uncle. Could see my biceps and triceps without flexing my arm. And I needed a girdle in order to fit into the prom dress I wanted. And we wonder why girls/women have body issues.