Beer goggles or a social disease?
My friends, I have a confession to make. I think I’ve figured out what happened to my TNT pattern, the infamous B5147. Let’s recall the travesty that was tweed, shall we?
Notice anything besides my pajamas strewn willy nilly on the floor behind me? Look closer. First there’s the embarrassment of riches in the bust region and then there’s the just plain embarrassing stomach bulge. OMG! You guessed it. Yep, you’re right.
I’m now pleasantly plump. If I had one of those turkey pop up indicators inserted into my abdomen, it would be popped. I’m done people. I’ve reached critical mass if not my personal
best ahem, bottom.
How could I have not noticed the weight gain you ask? Well, yes, I have been stepping on the scale occasionally, but those extra pounds were just water weight; they didn’t represent real weight gain. C’mon! Yeah, I look in the mirror occasionally when I get ready in the morning to put on my make up or when I forget to avert my eyes when stepping into the shower nude. But, I’m here to tell you that nothing tells you the truth more than a beloved TNT pattern. Not your mom, not your best friend. And not, apparently, your own eyes.
How did I realize that my eyes were not being truthful with me? Obviously my tweed dress was the first hint (let’s ignore the scale for now, shall we?). But there were others if I’m being all honest and such, like the first date that never turned into a second date (the guy actually yawned, several times), the fact that no man under the age of 70 looks at me. You know, stuff like that.
The clincher though was when I received the proofs from our recent photo shoot. I was appalled by what I saw in those pictures and none of it had to do with the actual photography (which was amazing by the way). I had double and triple chins. I had a torso with no waist and a bulging tummy. No wonder the tweed B5147 didn’t fit. I must have gained weight in the bust area too and they must be hanging a little lower as well lately, which is why those darts looked like they were on crack.
You know how there’s an epidemic of body dysmorphia among pre-teens and teens in the U.S.? These kids think they’re fat when they are anything but. Well, there’s a little known disease of the exact opposite phenomenon, called body eumorphia. It’s a common ailment that usually afflicts only men. I’m sure you know of it: it’s when you think you’re hotter than you actually are. That’s gotta be what’s wrong with me.
Seriously though, I’ve gained some weight lately, despite the running. I guess the daily white chocolate bars and salt & vinegar chips might not be the smartest diet. And since I am only 5’4″, even a 5 lb weight gain can be dramatic on my frame.
Part of my shock is from me not going gently into that dark night which is aging. I still feel
immature young. I still have high energy and joie de vivre. But my metabolism believes I am old and just need to sit on the couch crocheting granny squares or something. It doesn’t help that I don’t get a lot of sleep due to late night sewing binges.
So I have decided that, at the worst possible time of the year to do so, at the holidays, I have to go on a crash diet. No more white chocolate (except for that one bar today) and no more salt & vinegar chips. I don’t know what real people eat other than those two important food groups, but I’m sure it’s probably green and bitter. 😉 I’m just kidding, I actually love veggies. I do think the key is sleep though. I’ve heard that people who don’t sleep well or enough get fat really easily because they are substituting food for rest to get the energy to make it through each day.
The bottom line is not whether you think I’m overweight or not, but what I think. Because it’s me who has to live with myself. It’s me who has to look at myself in the mirror every morning as I get ready. It’s me that has to be happy. I’m not saying I want to look like a starving runway model. I just want to look like me again. The me that was happy with my body and didn’t think about it. The me that felt good about myself. I was never model worthy, always carrying a couple of extra pounds, but I was ok with that. Heck, I was better than ok with that, I was happy. I don’t want someone else’s ideal. I want mine. I feel encumbered by my body right now, like I’m wearing someone else’s skin and weight.
I have no idea how I’m going to do this, but something’s got to be done. I want to feel like me again. Wow, I’ve really kind of ranted when all I meant to do was be funny. I think I’ll just press publish before I lose my nerve.