this morning i went for my first couch-to-5k run/walk/fail in over a year. wayyyyy over. i say fail, even though the app told me i burnt 199 calories (262 if we include the warm-up and exclude the fact that the last three 60-second running intervals - out of eight - were ignored and i just started the cool-down early). i shouldn't say fail...but it keeps flashing in my head like an old neon sign, "FATTY...FATTY...FATTY..."
SIGH.
according to my grandfather's scale (traditional wheel-type, which requires me wearing corrective lenses to read, because my digital gave out on me) i'm about four pounds below the weight i was when i started this blog, about two years ago. overall, isn't that technically a win? heh.
i've bounced around. i was thirty-something pounds down...life happened, i coped with food and laziness, and here i am.
my youngest son went with me on the run - i didn't listen to music, because he's a talker, and i'll pretend like that's what contributed to my fatty fatigue. ok it's true, if i have some music to drown out the sound of my out-of-breathedness, the experience is a little better. running down a street in our neighborhood, i said to him, don't get fat. heading down our own street, i said, don't get fat. "i know, mom, you already told me."
sigh. *pant pant* sigh.
i know i can get better. i know i can get back in shape, maybe even better shape than the last time i was "in shape". the boyfriend and i were discussing this earlier in the week - by our next vacation, i want to be in the kind of shape where i'm comfortable doing some real hiking, not just the (lovely, wonderful) nature trail walking we do now. i want to not have to worry about whether my knees are going to shit out on me. i want to not have to anticipate a week(month)-long recovery for my hips.
i've been in a kind of dark, cloudy funk lately. i know it's because i'm just laying around, giving too much room in my head to all of the crappy things going on, letting them take over instead of showing myself how beautiful life can be. feeding them with processed bullshit instead of loving my body with natural goodness and common sense.
i have to get back on track. i refuse to let this awesome part of my life become dimmed with mediocrity. kale and bananas for the win!
and running and yoga and hiking and love love love.
Saturday, June 14, 2014
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
your shrink would be proud (because i don't have one) (or something like that)
"how do you eat so fast?" he asked from across the table. his plate sat in front of him, a third full...mine was empty, except for a few swipe marks from the last scrumptious bite. she can't do much, but the girl can cook.
(yes me)
"how do you eat so fast???"
a question no one has ever asked me. ever. in my whole existence. because i, zanna, am queen of the pokey eaters. i'm always the last one with food on her plate (yes i'm gonna eat that!) and am not sure exactly how this metamorphosis into scarfing like a scavenger came about without me noticing sooner...but it's beginning to dawn on me why.
the last several months i've been shoveling disgusting fast food grease bombs into me with some sort of hopeless desperation. the cheesier the better. is the bottom of the box dripping and waxy with rendered animal fat? yes please. and i'll be back tomorrow. and when i get to my little parking place with my 27 minutes left, it's a feeding frenzy. the fries i didn't really want somehow disappear. if it's been an extra shitty day, they're dipped in mayo before the final act. once, i dredged them in a chocolate shake. because why the fuck not?
i always end up with a surprising number of minutes to spare.
actually, with just the right fry and just the right shake, that's really good. try it. just not every goddamn day, every goddamn time you want to punish yourself for whatever it is that you've done or for whatever loss you've perceived or for whatever it is you're replacing or hiding or cowering from or for whatever debt you owe that is beyond your means so you may as well spend that last seven bucks on something that very well may kill you before the next statement comes due.
and how aware am i that this shit will kill. i mean seriously. aside from throwing yourself headfirst into a sealed room being pounded with a mega-super-radiation ray from hell, there's not a much surer way to commit serious health kamikazi.
so i ask myself, Self, why are we punishing us?
i love good food, healthy raw food, real whole good for me food. it makes me stop feeling bad. and no not really about being fat - everyone always says, you're not fat. and if i were looking at me from the outside, i would probably say, no, you're not fat.
ok maybe a little, but not too terribly blimpish.
but it's not about looking fat. it's oh so much about how i actually physically feel. and i feel old. sluggish. my knees hurt again. the aches are back, the overall shittiness is back. i have actually experienced heartburn again for the first time in literally years. sometimes i think i do this to myself purposely, for the cycles, because i start to think maybe i've forgotten just how awful it really is. surprisingly, i haven't been ill, and the previous three octobers have been devoted to ingesting antibiotics, so it seems i'm doing something right - but overall i feel like hell and i know better.
the amazing boyfriend and i love food together. :) we cook together, we cook for one another while the other drools with expectation, and fuck if everything isn't better with cheddar. and bacon. and sour cream.
EVERYDAMNTHING.
yummy.
i'd probably have been ok with just the new relationship awesomeness celebration in the kitchen thrice weekly (at least) - but the fast food got me. and my enormous thighs. or, my thighs enormous? ...either way... i've gained back almost every single pound now. holding steady at a weight i refuse to type. it's not denial, it's embarrassment. i was never going back to this number...never...never...
i am going through a lot of bullshit. i am not able to write AND publish about the bullshit. yet. but one day, oh, one day, something something in mariah carey's voice inside my head DAMN YOU WISH YOU WERE IN HERE....
gah. not really.
the point is, there's a lot of bullshit that makes me think, you deserve this. take it. take more of it. take it all and go back for seconds you dirty...
yeah.
not as a reward. usually. almost always, i think, i must be punishing myself. for putting up with the bullshit, for waiting out the bullshit, for squashing what i really want to say and do about the bullshit and for being a decent human being when in fact i really, really want to be just like all the nasty bottomfeeders shoveling out the bullshit.
and sometimes it IS a reward. sometimes i justify it that way - you've worked hard and you're very tired and you shouldn't deny yourself that 800 calorie fat-filled coffee by-product.
and sometimes i just don't care and am fully aware that i hate myself in this moment and i hope i die of a heart attack in the parking lot.
i mean i don't really want to die. but at least then i wouldn't have to deal with the tidal wave of bullshit. hey i didn't promise it wasn't gonna get morbid.
no i am not "suicidal." (i just air-quoted that in my head.) look at me. i'm spectacular.
besides, i have a million paintings inside me waiting patiently to get out.
the point is, somehow, somewhere not too deep down in my psyche, i don't think i deserve to live life to the fullest. i should feel guilty for even wanting to, and certainly for trying. and so, fill myself with self-hatred in the guise of a cheeseburger. (one not lovingly made by TheCook Man of My Dreams, but one slapped together by an angry, toothless, gray woman in a sloppy hairnet with shattered dreams and a chapped ass.)
damn, if that image doesn't put me off the fast food sludge, nothing will...
right about now, the shrink (had i not scared them all away) would be laying down her pen, looking at her watch, and saying noncommitally, "i think we've made a real breakthrough here. same time next week."
for the record, i've skipped dinner, but that's a whole different story.
fin.
(yes me)
"how do you eat so fast???"
a question no one has ever asked me. ever. in my whole existence. because i, zanna, am queen of the pokey eaters. i'm always the last one with food on her plate (yes i'm gonna eat that!) and am not sure exactly how this metamorphosis into scarfing like a scavenger came about without me noticing sooner...but it's beginning to dawn on me why.
the last several months i've been shoveling disgusting fast food grease bombs into me with some sort of hopeless desperation. the cheesier the better. is the bottom of the box dripping and waxy with rendered animal fat? yes please. and i'll be back tomorrow. and when i get to my little parking place with my 27 minutes left, it's a feeding frenzy. the fries i didn't really want somehow disappear. if it's been an extra shitty day, they're dipped in mayo before the final act. once, i dredged them in a chocolate shake. because why the fuck not?
i always end up with a surprising number of minutes to spare.
actually, with just the right fry and just the right shake, that's really good. try it. just not every goddamn day, every goddamn time you want to punish yourself for whatever it is that you've done or for whatever loss you've perceived or for whatever it is you're replacing or hiding or cowering from or for whatever debt you owe that is beyond your means so you may as well spend that last seven bucks on something that very well may kill you before the next statement comes due.
and how aware am i that this shit will kill. i mean seriously. aside from throwing yourself headfirst into a sealed room being pounded with a mega-super-radiation ray from hell, there's not a much surer way to commit serious health kamikazi.
so i ask myself, Self, why are we punishing us?
i love good food, healthy raw food, real whole good for me food. it makes me stop feeling bad. and no not really about being fat - everyone always says, you're not fat. and if i were looking at me from the outside, i would probably say, no, you're not fat.
ok maybe a little, but not too terribly blimpish.
but it's not about looking fat. it's oh so much about how i actually physically feel. and i feel old. sluggish. my knees hurt again. the aches are back, the overall shittiness is back. i have actually experienced heartburn again for the first time in literally years. sometimes i think i do this to myself purposely, for the cycles, because i start to think maybe i've forgotten just how awful it really is. surprisingly, i haven't been ill, and the previous three octobers have been devoted to ingesting antibiotics, so it seems i'm doing something right - but overall i feel like hell and i know better.
the amazing boyfriend and i love food together. :) we cook together, we cook for one another while the other drools with expectation, and fuck if everything isn't better with cheddar. and bacon. and sour cream.
EVERYDAMNTHING.
yummy.
i'd probably have been ok with just the new relationship awesomeness celebration in the kitchen thrice weekly (at least) - but the fast food got me. and my enormous thighs. or, my thighs enormous? ...either way... i've gained back almost every single pound now. holding steady at a weight i refuse to type. it's not denial, it's embarrassment. i was never going back to this number...never...never...
i am going through a lot of bullshit. i am not able to write AND publish about the bullshit. yet. but one day, oh, one day, something something in mariah carey's voice inside my head DAMN YOU WISH YOU WERE IN HERE....
gah. not really.
the point is, there's a lot of bullshit that makes me think, you deserve this. take it. take more of it. take it all and go back for seconds you dirty...
yeah.
not as a reward. usually. almost always, i think, i must be punishing myself. for putting up with the bullshit, for waiting out the bullshit, for squashing what i really want to say and do about the bullshit and for being a decent human being when in fact i really, really want to be just like all the nasty bottomfeeders shoveling out the bullshit.
and sometimes it IS a reward. sometimes i justify it that way - you've worked hard and you're very tired and you shouldn't deny yourself that 800 calorie fat-filled coffee by-product.
and sometimes i just don't care and am fully aware that i hate myself in this moment and i hope i die of a heart attack in the parking lot.
i mean i don't really want to die. but at least then i wouldn't have to deal with the tidal wave of bullshit. hey i didn't promise it wasn't gonna get morbid.
no i am not "suicidal." (i just air-quoted that in my head.) look at me. i'm spectacular.
besides, i have a million paintings inside me waiting patiently to get out.
the point is, somehow, somewhere not too deep down in my psyche, i don't think i deserve to live life to the fullest. i should feel guilty for even wanting to, and certainly for trying. and so, fill myself with self-hatred in the guise of a cheeseburger. (one not lovingly made by The
damn, if that image doesn't put me off the fast food sludge, nothing will...
right about now, the shrink (had i not scared them all away) would be laying down her pen, looking at her watch, and saying noncommitally, "i think we've made a real breakthrough here. same time next week."
for the record, i've skipped dinner, but that's a whole different story.
fin.
Friday, May 3, 2013
curvy me in the mirror
as of today, the weight loss total is 38.4 pounds since the highest weight recorded in august.
38.4!!!
last night i ate an entire frozen pizza.
shut up.
with ranch sauce.
SHUT UP!!!
sigh.
the loss can only be attributed to being conscious of what i'm putting in my mouth. i swear. and not being COMPLETELY lazy. yes, i do my yoga (not all the time) and i even started training for a 5k at the urging (bullying? just kidding...) of my lovely future wife (we're both mostly straight but hey) - but some weird unexplained hip pain has slowed that to a halt (because i'm still somewhat lazy). when life is complete hell, i wrap up the hands and head to the basement to beat up the heavy bag. none of this is as consistent as i'd like, and time management being the skill i lack the most, life jumps in the way all the time. i'm fine with that, because i like life a lot. ;)
i also started guided meditation around the end of last summer, thanks to another friend who took all of the scary out of it by sharing a youtube video with me. i'm a stress eater, so that had to be part of what helped me not eat every tastykake in sight. (it's ok if you take the empty box to the register, right?)
thinking that starting this blog has had a hand in the weight loss as well, only because it's not all in my head anymore. some people even subscribed, which is always an ego boost, and it seems the larger the ego, the smaller the pants size? no? heh...
anyway. yesterday the loss was marked at 34 pounds. i have no idea where another 4.4 went, especially in light of that delicious pepperoni thin crust pizza, except that i had a cup and a half of chai in the morning and peed ALL DAY LONG...
the thing about having an hourglass figure is, you're curvy. (duh) so, even at the teeniest ever, you're never rail-thin. and if you let yourself, you'll look in the mirror at those round hips and round thighs and round arms and enormous tits, and think, i. am. fat.
111 pounds, kids, and i thought i was the size of a house.
i'm shooting for a healthier weight now (not that i'm doing a lot about it, but it does seem to be going in that direction and i'm not arguing!), and more than that, just, healthy.
says the girl who chowed down on god knows how many calories and fat grams at 6pm last night...
;)
38.4!!!
last night i ate an entire frozen pizza.
shut up.
with ranch sauce.
SHUT UP!!!
sigh.
the loss can only be attributed to being conscious of what i'm putting in my mouth. i swear. and not being COMPLETELY lazy. yes, i do my yoga (not all the time) and i even started training for a 5k at the urging (bullying? just kidding...) of my lovely future wife (we're both mostly straight but hey) - but some weird unexplained hip pain has slowed that to a halt (because i'm still somewhat lazy). when life is complete hell, i wrap up the hands and head to the basement to beat up the heavy bag. none of this is as consistent as i'd like, and time management being the skill i lack the most, life jumps in the way all the time. i'm fine with that, because i like life a lot. ;)
i also started guided meditation around the end of last summer, thanks to another friend who took all of the scary out of it by sharing a youtube video with me. i'm a stress eater, so that had to be part of what helped me not eat every tastykake in sight. (it's ok if you take the empty box to the register, right?)
thinking that starting this blog has had a hand in the weight loss as well, only because it's not all in my head anymore. some people even subscribed, which is always an ego boost, and it seems the larger the ego, the smaller the pants size? no? heh...
anyway. yesterday the loss was marked at 34 pounds. i have no idea where another 4.4 went, especially in light of that delicious pepperoni thin crust pizza, except that i had a cup and a half of chai in the morning and peed ALL DAY LONG...
the thing about having an hourglass figure is, you're curvy. (duh) so, even at the teeniest ever, you're never rail-thin. and if you let yourself, you'll look in the mirror at those round hips and round thighs and round arms and enormous tits, and think, i. am. fat.
111 pounds, kids, and i thought i was the size of a house.
i'm shooting for a healthier weight now (not that i'm doing a lot about it, but it does seem to be going in that direction and i'm not arguing!), and more than that, just, healthy.
says the girl who chowed down on god knows how many calories and fat grams at 6pm last night...
;)
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
trivius maximus
the other day at work we had a trivia contest. they released a video of several associates doing exercises in the office, and asked that we guess how many calories the group burned. i spit out a number, a co-worker looked at me like i was nuts and suggested about 200 calories higher. we each submitted our answer.
today they announced the winner. my answer was 20 calories below the actual calculated amount.
my formerly skeptical co-worker was surprised.
"hey, recovered anorexic over here," was all i had to offer.
today they announced the winner. my answer was 20 calories below the actual calculated amount.
my formerly skeptical co-worker was surprised.
"hey, recovered anorexic over here," was all i had to offer.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
my name is zombie anorexia and i am a beautiful whale.
(just read the first post here, and loved that sentence, and decided it totally deserved to be said again.)
(also, just want to point out that most of the time, i do not actually feel like the fat girl who needs to make food confessions. when i'm not writing here, i feel mostly normal. it's when something like *this* comes up, that suddenly i freak out and have a crazy urge to have my BMI measured and enlist in some sort of insane boot camp for fatties.)
somehow, in the months since some time this past summer, i've lost over twenty pounds. it fluctuates (and i check the scale too often), but considering, it's pretty awesome.
i'm still fat.
i stress eat.
and lately, baby, have i been stressed. (hence the fluctuation.)
i hate talking about it, especially when the stressor isn't present, and when it is, i can't really talk about it... sometimes i do, but mostly i just sputter and seethe. and eat carbs. crunchy ones. and fast food, even though i hate it while i eat it. (it's a little like angry sex: i fucking LOATHE you, but it feels so GOOOOD....) there are distinct phases: the i have no choice phase. the i have a choice but fuck it i deserve something greasy and smothered in fake cheese sauce phase. the holy shit how could you treat yourself this way, get a salad! phase, the WHY THE HELL didn't you pack your lunch phase, and the fuck it, i've wasted so much time arguing with my fat cells that i really do have no choice now phase.
looks like i'm planning a trip to a sunny, sandy spot in the near future. i got the ok for time off today. my first thought - oh my god my thighs.
thought #2 - it's ok, you can cover them.
thought #3 - oh my god my arms.
i'm all good until my twisted psyche shines a spotlight on my pasty white wobblies.
i have good intentions. i do get (some) exercise. i do eat really good for you food, and i enjoy it. i don't chart anything because i get totally anal, and it awakens my inner anorexic. (she's in there now, saying, shut up you fat bitch, you could stand a little anorexia.)
i am so exhausted (from the stress, mainly) that it takes all i have to make a trip to the store between work and home. ridiculous. i know the signs, i usually overcome the inner objections and just power through. some nights all i can do is come home, wah wah wah you don't want to hear it.
the point is, you can know all the right answers, and still do something else.
i'm fat, and the popular thing to say now is, deal with it. get over it.
i'm not sure that's the healthiest attitude to have, but i guess it's whatever works, whatever really makes you happy, for however long it lasts.
for now, i'm thinking i'll take serious advantage of the upcoming kidless weekend, do some cleansing physically and spiritually, go buy those running shoes i keep promising myself (and a sarong), and start applying some sunless tanning lotion on the down low. except now i've told you about it, so, it's not...it's not really down low. whatthehellever, it's a service to the retinas of anyone else on the beach. zombie anorexia is a humanitarian, who knew!
*sigh*
it'll be fun.
wish me luck :)
(also, just want to point out that most of the time, i do not actually feel like the fat girl who needs to make food confessions. when i'm not writing here, i feel mostly normal. it's when something like *this* comes up, that suddenly i freak out and have a crazy urge to have my BMI measured and enlist in some sort of insane boot camp for fatties.)
somehow, in the months since some time this past summer, i've lost over twenty pounds. it fluctuates (and i check the scale too often), but considering, it's pretty awesome.
i'm still fat.
i stress eat.
and lately, baby, have i been stressed. (hence the fluctuation.)
i hate talking about it, especially when the stressor isn't present, and when it is, i can't really talk about it... sometimes i do, but mostly i just sputter and seethe. and eat carbs. crunchy ones. and fast food, even though i hate it while i eat it. (it's a little like angry sex: i fucking LOATHE you, but it feels so GOOOOD....) there are distinct phases: the i have no choice phase. the i have a choice but fuck it i deserve something greasy and smothered in fake cheese sauce phase. the holy shit how could you treat yourself this way, get a salad! phase, the WHY THE HELL didn't you pack your lunch phase, and the fuck it, i've wasted so much time arguing with my fat cells that i really do have no choice now phase.
looks like i'm planning a trip to a sunny, sandy spot in the near future. i got the ok for time off today. my first thought - oh my god my thighs.
thought #2 - it's ok, you can cover them.
thought #3 - oh my god my arms.
i'm all good until my twisted psyche shines a spotlight on my pasty white wobblies.
i have good intentions. i do get (some) exercise. i do eat really good for you food, and i enjoy it. i don't chart anything because i get totally anal, and it awakens my inner anorexic. (she's in there now, saying, shut up you fat bitch, you could stand a little anorexia.)
i am so exhausted (from the stress, mainly) that it takes all i have to make a trip to the store between work and home. ridiculous. i know the signs, i usually overcome the inner objections and just power through. some nights all i can do is come home, wah wah wah you don't want to hear it.
the point is, you can know all the right answers, and still do something else.
i'm fat, and the popular thing to say now is, deal with it. get over it.
i'm not sure that's the healthiest attitude to have, but i guess it's whatever works, whatever really makes you happy, for however long it lasts.
for now, i'm thinking i'll take serious advantage of the upcoming kidless weekend, do some cleansing physically and spiritually, go buy those running shoes i keep promising myself (and a sarong), and start applying some sunless tanning lotion on the down low. except now i've told you about it, so, it's not...it's not really down low. whatthehellever, it's a service to the retinas of anyone else on the beach. zombie anorexia is a humanitarian, who knew!
*sigh*
it'll be fun.
wish me luck :)
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
post two, day whatever, i'm icky and craving italian pastry.
it's gonna be a short one, i think, because somehow my superhuman immune system has collapsed and my awesome curvy earthshell has been cursed with bronchitis, and i'll start whining about chicken soup and being single any moment now.
(the good thing about being single is, there's no one to bitch at for not taking care of you.)
my ass.
no, really.
i only love my ass when i'm heavy.
that, or when i'm exercising so much that my ass has no choice but to become round and adorable, but let's face it, with my muscle structure, that really does mean three times a day, and i haven't had the time for that since i only had one very young child, and the serious help and support of my whole family. plus there was a whole lot of running involved then, and i've been using (extreme) knee pain as an excuse. for yeeeears.
or, when i'm pregnant, but i've never been pregnant without getting/staying fat, so i could just get adorable pregnant ass by default. plus, no more kiddies for me, three is just perfect.
genetics. my father's side of the family has predominantly flat butts. of course they all look like supermodels, so. my mother's side carries the bubblebutt gene, but (heh), based on my own observation, the dominant gene here is the flat one. out of five kids, only one of us, my lucky sister, got the bubblebutt. and, she's pregnant, so it's even more awesome. damn.
there was a moment, a few months ago, that i was in my room getting changed out of my work clothes. paused to stretch and happened to glance in the direction of the mirror. HOLY CANNOLI. (mmmmm.)
i. was. perfect. i held the pose and wished i could remember exactly, wished someone was there to see what i saw, wondered if anyone ever did see this, knew they did. there are people who go nuts over my body. no, i haven't slept with all of them. it's good to be appreciated, it's good to not always feel the need for improvement.
a big part of my life is just that. just enjoying life, living, all that it entails. i don't obsess about my size. if you don't like it, don't look, right?
vanity. it's a funny thing. too much of it, you're self-involved. not enough - is there a such thing? probably not. vanity and self-esteem are two hugely separate values. i do certainly have my moments of vanity, and i probably go over the top with it from time to time. like when i blog about my awesome fat ass? maybe.
i mentioned in my last post that i really do want to shed some poundage.
last time that happened, right after the separation, i will swear that it was because i just started accepting my body for what it was. loving it. picking out something, anything, that i enjoyed (really strong calves, for instance, or that curve of my belly just below the waist where i like to be kissed, or that no matter what size i am, i have the hourglass shape, lucky lucky girl i am).
i'm sure the correlation here is that i stopped feeding my pain, emotionally and physically. i LIKED me.
also, i was so poor by this point that groceries went mainly to the kids, i lived on a lot of smack ramen (not recommended, at ALL) and whatever fruit and veggies were cheap. cheese was a luxury, milk and peanut butter were avoided to leave more for the kids and stretch my dollar. alcohol was a thing of the past. this was a survival thing, not an anorexia thing. i didn't own a scale, my clothes just started getting bigger and bigger. being broke, i dug into older clothes, and had to alter a lot of the big ones, and being not so awesome at this, just wore a lot of saggy baggy stuff, too. this guy i started seeing (who did buy groceries from time to time, and took me out to eat a lot more than i felt comfortable with, and really did take care of me without making me feel obligated) loved big girls, and teased that if i got any skinnier, he might have to leave me.
ok, so we can't go that way again, but i feel like it's still the place to start.
now somebody get hold of andy garcia and have him come over and feed me chicken soup. none of that fat-free shit either.
*ass squeeze*
(the good thing about being single is, there's no one to bitch at for not taking care of you.)
my ass.
no, really.
i only love my ass when i'm heavy.
that, or when i'm exercising so much that my ass has no choice but to become round and adorable, but let's face it, with my muscle structure, that really does mean three times a day, and i haven't had the time for that since i only had one very young child, and the serious help and support of my whole family. plus there was a whole lot of running involved then, and i've been using (extreme) knee pain as an excuse. for yeeeears.
or, when i'm pregnant, but i've never been pregnant without getting/staying fat, so i could just get adorable pregnant ass by default. plus, no more kiddies for me, three is just perfect.
genetics. my father's side of the family has predominantly flat butts. of course they all look like supermodels, so. my mother's side carries the bubblebutt gene, but (heh), based on my own observation, the dominant gene here is the flat one. out of five kids, only one of us, my lucky sister, got the bubblebutt. and, she's pregnant, so it's even more awesome. damn.
there was a moment, a few months ago, that i was in my room getting changed out of my work clothes. paused to stretch and happened to glance in the direction of the mirror. HOLY CANNOLI. (mmmmm.)
i. was. perfect. i held the pose and wished i could remember exactly, wished someone was there to see what i saw, wondered if anyone ever did see this, knew they did. there are people who go nuts over my body. no, i haven't slept with all of them. it's good to be appreciated, it's good to not always feel the need for improvement.
a big part of my life is just that. just enjoying life, living, all that it entails. i don't obsess about my size. if you don't like it, don't look, right?
vanity. it's a funny thing. too much of it, you're self-involved. not enough - is there a such thing? probably not. vanity and self-esteem are two hugely separate values. i do certainly have my moments of vanity, and i probably go over the top with it from time to time. like when i blog about my awesome fat ass? maybe.
i mentioned in my last post that i really do want to shed some poundage.
last time that happened, right after the separation, i will swear that it was because i just started accepting my body for what it was. loving it. picking out something, anything, that i enjoyed (really strong calves, for instance, or that curve of my belly just below the waist where i like to be kissed, or that no matter what size i am, i have the hourglass shape, lucky lucky girl i am).
i'm sure the correlation here is that i stopped feeding my pain, emotionally and physically. i LIKED me.
also, i was so poor by this point that groceries went mainly to the kids, i lived on a lot of smack ramen (not recommended, at ALL) and whatever fruit and veggies were cheap. cheese was a luxury, milk and peanut butter were avoided to leave more for the kids and stretch my dollar. alcohol was a thing of the past. this was a survival thing, not an anorexia thing. i didn't own a scale, my clothes just started getting bigger and bigger. being broke, i dug into older clothes, and had to alter a lot of the big ones, and being not so awesome at this, just wore a lot of saggy baggy stuff, too. this guy i started seeing (who did buy groceries from time to time, and took me out to eat a lot more than i felt comfortable with, and really did take care of me without making me feel obligated) loved big girls, and teased that if i got any skinnier, he might have to leave me.
ok, so we can't go that way again, but i feel like it's still the place to start.
now somebody get hold of andy garcia and have him come over and feed me chicken soup. none of that fat-free shit either.
*ass squeeze*
Sunday, October 21, 2012
post one, day one
terrible blog title, isn't it? does anyone else remember that book? i want to say it was by beverly cleary, and it was called blubber, but because i always second-guess myself (often with good reason), here's where i pause to look it up. and...
7 seconds later: it was judy blume
i'm not sure if that's the actual quote, but i swear i remember people bullying this fat girl, and they wouldn't let her drink from the fountain unless she said, "my name is blubber, and i am a big fat whale." it got to the point she would just go to the fountain and say it without being prompted.
(now i'm thirsty.)
i don't know about a lot of things, but i know about being the fat girl.
oh, i'm not the biggest fat girl, i'm the one that most people say, "you're not fat!" and i disagree, because i know they just want to not talk about it, i know they're just trying to make me feel better, even when i don't need to feel better, even when i'm just saying it because it's true. because according to the scale and numbers and studies, i could be anywhere from perfectly normal in some foreign country, to chunky, to morbidly obese. ok, morbidly obese was thirty pounds ago (lost about sixty, gained about thirty back, lost fifteen, gained five back, i like math and all but this shit's fucking depressing...wait, was that thirty or forty or twenty?). my thick wobbly arms, that won't fit in shirts that fit my waist, prove to me that i'm fat. my thighs scare small children and attract carnivores.
*sigh*
i try really hard not to focus on the numbers, because i get real anal real quick. anorexia was beaten with a stick and then deep-fried for a midnight snack, but in my world, that bitch could come back as zombie anorexia any day now.
zombie anorexia. now see, THAT would have been a cool blog title. fuck.
my ex-husband once told me that if i got saggy elbows, he would divorce me.
how's that mindfuck for ya?
all of this crankiness is probably due to the fact that 1) i've been eating nothing but fast food and packaged snacks for DAYYYYYYS. i've not cooked all week - i was on vacation! the closest thing to cooking i did, aside from heating up a frozen pizza (and not eating ALL of it, yay me - just kidding, it's not that bad), was zapping several cups of chai. with soy milk and real sugar (fuck artificial sweeteners in the morning); 2) i can't remember the last time i had sex. ok, it might have been thursday, but the point is, it wasn't within the last two hours, so it's been too long; and 3) in the back of my mind, nobody really wants to be with me because i'm a fat hog.
oh nevermind the fact that i don't actually want to be with anyone, the issue here is that someone should want to be with me, and just deal with the fact that i don't necessarily want anything but their adoration from afar. and maybe vacations to faraway places (my fingers keep wanting to type "palaces", so, those too).
this blog really is going to center around my fat ass.
i don't know how long this can last, really, and i'm not sure exactly what i'm doing with it. i know there are a lot of weight loss diary-style (dairy-style? cheese? HELLO WISCONSIN!!!) blogs out there, and maybe i can do something like that without being anal, but, it's embarrassing to say that i'm embarrassed TO say what my number is.
weight, not sex.
no, i'm not telling you that, either. last time i counted, i forgot someone, and hilarious as it was, it made me feel like a slut.
oh, if i had ever actually opened up to one of those shrinks....
all right, so here we are, what will the Fat Anorexic Zombie say next?
this: almost every day now, i look in the mirror and what i see is beautiful.
i love myself. i am super-curvy, i am strong, i am pretty, and if i would bother actually seducing anyone, they would once again be drooling at my command.
two things: seducing ANYONE, even the easy ones, is a lot of work. i'm not saying that the end results aren't satisfactory (they usually are), just that the game takes so much time and concentration, and nobody worth my efforts has come along in a really long time. (wow, in writing, that sounds SO conceited.)
there was a second thing...oh yeah. ego. self-esteem. one of those is severely damaged, and the other is severely inflated, always at least one or the other and sometimes both at the same time.
i'm a basket case, and i'm fat.
i'm a beautiful basket case, and i'm fat.
i'm beautiful, and i'm beautiful.
i'm fucked in the head.
i'm beautifully fucked in the beautiful head.
yeah, we're done now...
sort of.
whales are beautiful, lovely, amazing creatures, who rarely actually eat people, or even nibble on their enormous thighs. at least that's what i choose to believe, and i could probably dig up at least three very expensive government studies to back up my belief.
like i said, i don't do numbers. ok, i didn't do numbers for a very long time, then i found the scale, and before the battery died, i must have weighed myself three hundred times.
my name is anorexic zombie, and i am a beautiful whale.
by the time i was twelve, i'd read too many diet and/or nutrition books for my own mental health, and had put myself on at least two diets. i specifically remember sitting in the bathtub with a book geared toward overweight teens. it suggested that the next time i start eating fast-food fries, i imagine them melting into disgusting goopy yellow fat depositing itself on my thighs.
i bawled.
i was twelve and i was bawling because i weighed more than a book told me i should.
i was twelve and my father had just told me that i used to be the prettiest girl around, but now i'd gained weight and i had competition. (both REALLY fucked up things to say, to anyone, ever.)
i was twelve and could spout facts about calories that would make adults' heads spin.
i was twelve and knew how many times i had to walk around the block/run up and down the stairs/breathe (yes, i'm serious) to burn off an apple.
i was twelve and had read about blubber when i was ten or eleven, and knew because that book about not bullying people and about accepting them told me so, that even if people were not bullying me and even if i was accepted by my peers, unless i was thin i would never really be seen as anything but the fat girl.
i was twelve and learned how to be anorexic from a book about a ballerina who stopped eating. i watched that movie with tracy gold and learned from her too. i wrote my own fucking little charts and counted everything and exercised constantly and lived on lettuce when i could get away with it, and ruined my metabolism, and ruined any love i had for just being a kid, and i was simply miserable. ticking away my life in a weight diary, a food diary, a real diary which never really mentioned the small fact that i was starving myself.
to this day i hate eating in front of people. going out to eat, believe it or not, can still be something that i really have to work my way up to. there's a good reason i always suggest coffee for a first date. food issues are fucking insane. i'm usually able to tell myself, look, everybody eats, everybody looks weird doing it, nobody's going to think you're a hog for just being hungry - but sometimes i'm not. sometimes zombie-an rears her ugly zombie head and howls, and i end up crouching in a corner of my skull hoping i can wait out the inner anorexia apocalypse before i pass out, famished.
i still deny that i binge.
i know that i do, but i catch myself denying that, to myself. hello? i might pretend like there's a bunch of us in here, but we're really all me, so...why are we lying to myself again?
bulimia was effective, but sporadic and, thankfully, always short-lived. it turns out, i hate puking more than i hate being fat. at least, i did at fourteen, and fifteen, and twenty, and i'm not willing to check again to see if i still feel the same way.
i'm beautiful.
right?
i got so skinny, after i kicked that ex out, the one who threatened divorce on grounds of fat elbows. skinny for me, that is. i am curvy, there's no denying it, when i'm skin and bones i still wear a ten (i discovered this during one of my counting/exercising crazes). ok, i wasn't skin and bones. i was mostly healthy, even if i felt dizzy all the time and spent endless hours thinking longingly of doritos...the first time, the size ten time, that was after my first divorce. that husband didn't bother threatening me, he just showed me how unattractive he thought i was.
whole different therapy session.
i'm not sure how long i can do this, because i'm not sure how healthy it is to dwell on my weight/size/sagginess/mass. i obsess about few things, but when i do, i do it with fervor and devotion.
this is the thing: i'm still technically wearing the same size i was almost four years ago, when i was at my thinnest post-second-divorce. everything's just...not the same.
so we can't start with real numbers, because somewhere in my imagination i like to think that no one can see the snug sleeves, the bursting buttons, the spillover that happens around the waist area of my work slacks after a real food/alcohol bender, and the number will blow their mind, and no one will want to be my friend anymore, they'll want to hang out with the competition, whoever that is, and i will be stuck reading nothing that ever helps and eating peanut butter from the jar with a spoon, or worse, my finger.
(i haven't done that in ages. at least a month.)
bottom line is this. i do want to lose some weight. i do want to feel more healthy. i want to go back to my fruit-and-veggie-heavy way of eating. i want to not like the taste of fast food anymore (after this week, pretty much there). i want to fit better in my clothes, i want the seat belt to stop creeping up my neck because my tits are enormous and it keeps sliding over them, i want to feel comfortable in a normal bathroom stall, not the extra-big handicap stall. (ok, seriously, it's not like i actually feel comfortable there, don't even get me started on public bathrooms, i routinely have very stressful dreams about public bathrooms, but you know what i mean, don't you?)
i want to feel good because i feel good. that.
i want to ignore EVERY excuse, not just most of them.
i want to dance around my kitchen with a stalk of celery acting as an ever-shrinking microphone.
i just started craving watermelon.
that's a good sign...right?
7 seconds later: it was judy blume
i'm not sure if that's the actual quote, but i swear i remember people bullying this fat girl, and they wouldn't let her drink from the fountain unless she said, "my name is blubber, and i am a big fat whale." it got to the point she would just go to the fountain and say it without being prompted.
(now i'm thirsty.)
i don't know about a lot of things, but i know about being the fat girl.
oh, i'm not the biggest fat girl, i'm the one that most people say, "you're not fat!" and i disagree, because i know they just want to not talk about it, i know they're just trying to make me feel better, even when i don't need to feel better, even when i'm just saying it because it's true. because according to the scale and numbers and studies, i could be anywhere from perfectly normal in some foreign country, to chunky, to morbidly obese. ok, morbidly obese was thirty pounds ago (lost about sixty, gained about thirty back, lost fifteen, gained five back, i like math and all but this shit's fucking depressing...wait, was that thirty or forty or twenty?). my thick wobbly arms, that won't fit in shirts that fit my waist, prove to me that i'm fat. my thighs scare small children and attract carnivores.
*sigh*
i try really hard not to focus on the numbers, because i get real anal real quick. anorexia was beaten with a stick and then deep-fried for a midnight snack, but in my world, that bitch could come back as zombie anorexia any day now.
zombie anorexia. now see, THAT would have been a cool blog title. fuck.
my ex-husband once told me that if i got saggy elbows, he would divorce me.
how's that mindfuck for ya?
all of this crankiness is probably due to the fact that 1) i've been eating nothing but fast food and packaged snacks for DAYYYYYYS. i've not cooked all week - i was on vacation! the closest thing to cooking i did, aside from heating up a frozen pizza (and not eating ALL of it, yay me - just kidding, it's not that bad), was zapping several cups of chai. with soy milk and real sugar (fuck artificial sweeteners in the morning); 2) i can't remember the last time i had sex. ok, it might have been thursday, but the point is, it wasn't within the last two hours, so it's been too long; and 3) in the back of my mind, nobody really wants to be with me because i'm a fat hog.
oh nevermind the fact that i don't actually want to be with anyone, the issue here is that someone should want to be with me, and just deal with the fact that i don't necessarily want anything but their adoration from afar. and maybe vacations to faraway places (my fingers keep wanting to type "palaces", so, those too).
this blog really is going to center around my fat ass.
i don't know how long this can last, really, and i'm not sure exactly what i'm doing with it. i know there are a lot of weight loss diary-style (dairy-style? cheese? HELLO WISCONSIN!!!) blogs out there, and maybe i can do something like that without being anal, but, it's embarrassing to say that i'm embarrassed TO say what my number is.
weight, not sex.
no, i'm not telling you that, either. last time i counted, i forgot someone, and hilarious as it was, it made me feel like a slut.
oh, if i had ever actually opened up to one of those shrinks....
all right, so here we are, what will the Fat Anorexic Zombie say next?
this: almost every day now, i look in the mirror and what i see is beautiful.
i love myself. i am super-curvy, i am strong, i am pretty, and if i would bother actually seducing anyone, they would once again be drooling at my command.
two things: seducing ANYONE, even the easy ones, is a lot of work. i'm not saying that the end results aren't satisfactory (they usually are), just that the game takes so much time and concentration, and nobody worth my efforts has come along in a really long time. (wow, in writing, that sounds SO conceited.)
there was a second thing...oh yeah. ego. self-esteem. one of those is severely damaged, and the other is severely inflated, always at least one or the other and sometimes both at the same time.
i'm a basket case, and i'm fat.
i'm a beautiful basket case, and i'm fat.
i'm beautiful, and i'm beautiful.
i'm fucked in the head.
i'm beautifully fucked in the beautiful head.
yeah, we're done now...
sort of.
whales are beautiful, lovely, amazing creatures, who rarely actually eat people, or even nibble on their enormous thighs. at least that's what i choose to believe, and i could probably dig up at least three very expensive government studies to back up my belief.
like i said, i don't do numbers. ok, i didn't do numbers for a very long time, then i found the scale, and before the battery died, i must have weighed myself three hundred times.
my name is anorexic zombie, and i am a beautiful whale.
by the time i was twelve, i'd read too many diet and/or nutrition books for my own mental health, and had put myself on at least two diets. i specifically remember sitting in the bathtub with a book geared toward overweight teens. it suggested that the next time i start eating fast-food fries, i imagine them melting into disgusting goopy yellow fat depositing itself on my thighs.
i bawled.
i was twelve and i was bawling because i weighed more than a book told me i should.
i was twelve and my father had just told me that i used to be the prettiest girl around, but now i'd gained weight and i had competition. (both REALLY fucked up things to say, to anyone, ever.)
i was twelve and could spout facts about calories that would make adults' heads spin.
i was twelve and knew how many times i had to walk around the block/run up and down the stairs/breathe (yes, i'm serious) to burn off an apple.
i was twelve and had read about blubber when i was ten or eleven, and knew because that book about not bullying people and about accepting them told me so, that even if people were not bullying me and even if i was accepted by my peers, unless i was thin i would never really be seen as anything but the fat girl.
i was twelve and learned how to be anorexic from a book about a ballerina who stopped eating. i watched that movie with tracy gold and learned from her too. i wrote my own fucking little charts and counted everything and exercised constantly and lived on lettuce when i could get away with it, and ruined my metabolism, and ruined any love i had for just being a kid, and i was simply miserable. ticking away my life in a weight diary, a food diary, a real diary which never really mentioned the small fact that i was starving myself.
to this day i hate eating in front of people. going out to eat, believe it or not, can still be something that i really have to work my way up to. there's a good reason i always suggest coffee for a first date. food issues are fucking insane. i'm usually able to tell myself, look, everybody eats, everybody looks weird doing it, nobody's going to think you're a hog for just being hungry - but sometimes i'm not. sometimes zombie-an rears her ugly zombie head and howls, and i end up crouching in a corner of my skull hoping i can wait out the inner anorexia apocalypse before i pass out, famished.
i still deny that i binge.
i know that i do, but i catch myself denying that, to myself. hello? i might pretend like there's a bunch of us in here, but we're really all me, so...why are we lying to myself again?
bulimia was effective, but sporadic and, thankfully, always short-lived. it turns out, i hate puking more than i hate being fat. at least, i did at fourteen, and fifteen, and twenty, and i'm not willing to check again to see if i still feel the same way.
i'm beautiful.
right?
i got so skinny, after i kicked that ex out, the one who threatened divorce on grounds of fat elbows. skinny for me, that is. i am curvy, there's no denying it, when i'm skin and bones i still wear a ten (i discovered this during one of my counting/exercising crazes). ok, i wasn't skin and bones. i was mostly healthy, even if i felt dizzy all the time and spent endless hours thinking longingly of doritos...the first time, the size ten time, that was after my first divorce. that husband didn't bother threatening me, he just showed me how unattractive he thought i was.
whole different therapy session.
i'm not sure how long i can do this, because i'm not sure how healthy it is to dwell on my weight/size/sagginess/mass. i obsess about few things, but when i do, i do it with fervor and devotion.
this is the thing: i'm still technically wearing the same size i was almost four years ago, when i was at my thinnest post-second-divorce. everything's just...not the same.
so we can't start with real numbers, because somewhere in my imagination i like to think that no one can see the snug sleeves, the bursting buttons, the spillover that happens around the waist area of my work slacks after a real food/alcohol bender, and the number will blow their mind, and no one will want to be my friend anymore, they'll want to hang out with the competition, whoever that is, and i will be stuck reading nothing that ever helps and eating peanut butter from the jar with a spoon, or worse, my finger.
(i haven't done that in ages. at least a month.)
bottom line is this. i do want to lose some weight. i do want to feel more healthy. i want to go back to my fruit-and-veggie-heavy way of eating. i want to not like the taste of fast food anymore (after this week, pretty much there). i want to fit better in my clothes, i want the seat belt to stop creeping up my neck because my tits are enormous and it keeps sliding over them, i want to feel comfortable in a normal bathroom stall, not the extra-big handicap stall. (ok, seriously, it's not like i actually feel comfortable there, don't even get me started on public bathrooms, i routinely have very stressful dreams about public bathrooms, but you know what i mean, don't you?)
i want to feel good because i feel good. that.
i want to ignore EVERY excuse, not just most of them.
i want to dance around my kitchen with a stalk of celery acting as an ever-shrinking microphone.
i just started craving watermelon.
that's a good sign...right?
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