Thursday, January 8, 2015

Blogging 2015: 42.5 down, 1972.5 to go

I started today in an avalanche of self hatred, and I'm going to finish it (well, not finish it, because I still have to go to work tonight) in a huff.  Sneaky hate spiral achieved.

I had a great week this last week, feeling very body positive, lots of endorphins coursing through my veins and plenty of good clean food giving me energy to burn.  Then I got on the scale.  That was a huge mistake.   I've been consciously avoiding it because that number can make or break me for the day...sometimes for the week.  But the damn thing calls to me "We've been soooo gooooood, Preciousssss, eating like good little Hobbitses, doing our exercisssssessssss.  Sssstep on the scale, Precioussssss, it will be ssssuch good newsesss." So this morning I thought "I'll just hop on and get an idea!  It doesn't really matter at all!"

And then I got on.  And the number was an unhappy one.  171.  One hundred and seventy one goddamn fucking pounds. How the FUCK does that even happen?  How the FUCK to you gain 4 pounds in a week of perfect fucking behavior?  And where the FUCK do I get a box of donuts to cram into my face since NONE OF THIS FUCKING MATTERS AT ALL SO I MIGHT AS WELL EAT A CHEESECAKE.

I should never get on the scale, ever.  It's bullshit, and even though academically I know it's bullshit, I'm still a female American.  This means I'm still bombarded on a daily basis by images of super slender women and weight loss product ads and fad diets.  I still bemoan the fact that my big man legs won't fit in the currently fashionable boots/jeans combo.  I still fantasize about a day when my thighs won't touch (newsflash: they always will).  Part of me says "Keep fighting!  You can achieve a size 6!  You've done it before!" and part of me says "Just accept your fat-assedness!  Have a pizza!" because why does any of it matter.

Oh, and the whole "go by how your clothes fit" doesn't work for me.  My entire wardrobe consists of elastic waist pants.  That shit always fits.


But I didn't eat a box of donuts.  I ate this instead.
Small portions. 

Then I did laundry and cleaned the floors because that is my life.  Servitude to a bunch of ungrateful little vultures.

Lunch with children who have been begging for the leftover pizza for days, but felt the need to bitch and complain about it today, the day I finally served it to them.  I had a Scotch egg and some peppers and guac because they were there and I hate myself.


Then I took the ungrateful vultures to 4K, came home and got on the treadmill for 4 miles.  I don't know why.  It's not like it helps.

Look at my jacked up hair.  I have winter hats to thank.

Then I came upstairs and knitted a sock because my feet are always the same size, no matter how much of a fatass I am.

I ate a snack. 
I swear I'm going to eat all 13# of these things.

And then another.


And then another, because sneaky hate spiral.


Picked the kids up at school in the driving snow, walked them back so I could give them a snack they would bitch endlessly about.  Then I folded some laundry and put the finishing touches on the dinner the ungrateful vultures would refuse to eat.  So I ate their portions, because I wasn't about to throw it away.  So this isn't paleo.  It's Wildtree slow cooker beef stroganoff with whole wheat noodles, and it was quite good.  The kids whined about their peas and oranges and I tuned them out.

This was from a kid focused Wildtree workshop.  Fail.

So now I'm blogging in the living room while the demon spawn run around like a bunch of goddamn zoo animals because I refused to let them play in the basement playroom and watch cartoons.  I'm punishing them for behaving so poorly at the dinner table.  In reality I'm only punishing myself.  I haven't slept, I have to go to work in 2 and a half hours, and I still want to eat a box of fucking donuts.  I packed myself a healthy lunch and snacks for work, and I'll be getting my miles in the morning when I get home come hell or high water.  

So today was a big giant pity party.  I'm going to let myself wallow until midnight, and then I'm done.  The sneaky hate spiral can be very satisfying, but if you don't break out of it quickly it really fucks up your life.  I don't need that. Tomorrow it's back to striving toward the impossible goal. Tomorrow the scale gets hidden in a closet. Tomorrow it's back to trying to accept myself for what I am.  

Why is that so hard?

Oh, and the Sneaky Hate Spiral isn't my thing.  I borrowed it.  Please go read the original.

No comments:

Post a Comment