What a wonderful Saturday this is! And it’s raining! Good steady rain… beautiful, cleansing, cooling rain.
We got up early this morning… not by choice (Beulah knows when the alarm clocks should be sounding and when they don’t she comes to check on us. How in the world does she know it’s 5:30 in the AM?) but it was probably the best thing.
Coach and a few of his coachie friends had a date at the gun range this morning. This is their last weekend off for the next 270 +/- days. Football kicks into gear on Monday with two-a-days and team meetings. The first game is on the 29th… just around the corner! Immediately after football is baseball. And now there is the opportunity for wrestling too – maybe. I can’t believe the off-season has gone by so quickly. I guess what they say is true… the older you get, the faster time goes by. Why is that I wonder? At any rate, I’m glad he had a chance to do what he enjoys before he returns to the 7 day work weeks.
While the boys were playing shoot ‘em up, I went shopping. Bad bad bad. I despise shopping, and most especially for clothes which is what I had to do today. More specifically, I needed to buy a dress for my upcoming speaking engagement. I’m not really a dress kinda girl. I like dresses. I just don’t like me in dresses so much. And these days it’s even worse. You see, tummy two has taken over. It is completely out of control! I guess the hormone-menopause-change of life shit is here and it’s having a massive impact on tummy two.
My gauge has always been my boobs. As long as my gut didn’t stick out further than my boobs, I was good. Well guess what? Tummy two has outgrown the boobs. Shit.
So back to dress shopping.
I really, really… REALLY wish the people who make up dress designs would get it through their thick skulls that a rubenesque woman DOES NOT look her best in a dress with a band or other enhancement that sits just below the boobs. It makes us look pregnant.
I found several dresses that I liked. The fabric, the designs, the colors… but when I put them on I resembled a tent… or a large older woman in a mu-mu. Or an older woman who accidentally got knocked up and is now learning to accept her mid-life crisis baby.
So depressing. Incredibly depressing.
I try to tell myself it doesn’t matter. There’s no way to truly hide the fact that I AM FAT. But still, I try to find a dress that is complimentary to my rotund proportions and strike out each & every time. So I end up going back to the same old shit…. A long black skirt with a white pin stripe sorta pattern, and a black fat girl blouse. The classic outfit. For a fatty. Of course I’m always careful to make sure the stripes aren’t horizontal but instead are either vertical or diagonal…. Still seeking camouflage for the flab.
By the time I settled on the skirt/blouse outfit, I was depressed, disgusted, and really put out with myself and dripping wet with sweat (think hot flashes, Tecfidera flush, 192% humidity, and trying on 18 dresses). How did I ever allow myself to get to this weight? Again? Why did I not keep tabs on every 5 pounds and deal with it right then? Why did I not love myself enough to stay on top of it all?
The next internal conversation is one of seeking acceptance. So I’m fat. So what. I’m still cute – sort of. Not the same sort of cute I was a few years ago, but a more mature saggy kind of cute. I’m smart, I’m nice, I’m compassionate. Don’t those things matter more? And I think about the other fat girls, famous and not famous. I think about the outfits they wear and how put together they look, and how pretty they are. I really like the wardrobe of Penelope Garcia (Criminal Minds)… she is a big girl. She is a nerd, she is smart, she is kind… in many ways, I relate to that character. And she looks so pretty… her wardrobe is very complimentary to women of our size.
I look at lots of images of her on the internet paying close attention to the cut of the dress, the accessories, and such. Then I go to the stores with Penelope in mind. And I search for similar things. When I find them (like I did today) and try them on, I’m disgusted. Because I just can’t get to the point of acceptance. I just can’t get to that place of being comfortable in my skin… of knowing I’m a pretty person… that place of loving all of me and just getting over it. Who really pays attention to the circumference of my arms? Most likely, only I do. No one else has the time or cares enough to stop and look at my upper arms.
You would think that with all this going on in my mind… sadness and disgust and anger at myself… well, you’d think I have plenty of motivation to change it. I want to look pretty and I want Coach to be proud of me. I don’t want his buddies to rag on him about being married to a big girl (men do that shit). But you’d be wrong. I start… and then I stop. I start… and stop again. And that doesn’t help matters at all. In fact, it tends to make them worse.
I’m very grateful there are no full-length mirrors in our tin can. I can continue to live in ignorance about the whole body appearance when all I see in my mirror is my face.
The trouble with reality is there’s no background music.