Homeless.
On Monday I found out that my condo is being foreclosed on because the owner didn't pay the lease for over a year. I've lived here for five years and never paid my rent late, keep the place in great condition and don't run a meth lab (clearly that is what the warehouse at work is for).
It has been the week of hell and it took days just to get tentative answers. I still don't know if the bank is going to give me 48 hours to vacate or if they'll let me stay til I find a new place.
What with losing my job I figured one of my options would have to be renewing my apartment lease when it came due in three months. I mean, I've lived here for five years and I was really ready to move on but I don't have the funds for first, last, a security deposit and moving. It was just more economically feasible for me to continue to try to live here than find a new place in light of the job loss I'm facing.
Worse yet it has been the week from hell. No one has answers, no one is helpful. I did find one free advocacy group in town that at least lead me in the right direction but they also scared the wits out of me; apparently (like we all didn't know this) this is happening all over the country. Families that pay their rent and are responsible are being tossed out as owners default. I'm lucky I don't have kids or even a house plant to take care of so I can't imagine what this would be like for a family.
Needless to say the week has been...bad. And I'm sorry to report that I gained six pounds.
Six.
Pounds.
I'm not kidding. This isn't water weight either, it's real weight. When I wasn't calling my sketchy property rental place for the twentieth time in one day (I'm not kidding) or tracking down any renter lawyer that would talk to me I was shovelling food in my face by the bucket-full. My caloric intake could have fed a heavily populated island for a month.
When I know what I'm going to do I'll update you.
In the meantime I'm fat, jobless and pretty soon homeless.
And testy. Don't give me motivational crap about pulling through and rainbows and the power of happy thoughts. I'm tired from fighting with clueless and worthless bureaucracy and trying to find another job in a hellacious economy. I'll be Pollyanna later, right now I'm Jabba the Hut.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Friday, March 6, 2009
Layoff Chic
I'm losing my job in 116 days.
It is fabulous to finally be with the "in" crowd, you know?
Today when I rolled out of bed I had a tough time choosing what to wear. It has been a hell of a week and I'm not ashamed to tell you that I haven't handled it well at all. Whereas I probably haven't gained any weight I haven't managed to drag myself out of bed for any workouts, instead using the extra morning hour to lay awake contemplating misery, so I certainly haven't lost any weight. Which means I'm still limited to two pairs of pants. Both of which accumulated stains of some kind this week and hadn't yet been washed (I've been spending my evenings a bit distraught too, if you must know, and have let the laundry slide.). I picked the lesser of two evils, pulled an undershirt out of the laundry pile as well and went with a big, bulky, navy blue cable knit deal I've had for years to complete the ensemble.
The cable knit was left over from a house party in which I lost my favorite grey fleece, as though the universe had taken my wonderful zip up and as a consolation gave me a heap of yarn that was even then, 8 years ago, beyond it's appropriate wearing years. The thing keeps unravelling on me and I just keep stitching the sleeves and hems up with navy blue thread. The yarn itself is disintegrating and bits are sticking out everywhere, which I just trim with scissors when I have time, like today while I listened to the woe and misery of my co-workers I sat and trimmed the sleeves while the item was still on me.
The heavier bits of the cable knit are pulling from the regular knit creating uneven wear and if, like today's omission, I don't put a long sleeve shirt underneath, bits of my shoulder and arm flesh are exposed. I have thought, on more than one occasion over the years, "oh dear, this thing is beyond wearing to work anymore", a thought I've had right before shrugging and throwing it on. I'd sometimes regret the choice at work when I'd notice that the thing was dying on me in a most unflattering way but promptly forget such troubles when I got home. Plus I've been working on a limited wardrobe my entire adult life (we won't even get into the hand me downs and follies of youth) so the thing had to, by necessity, always make its way into the winter rotation.
Today I complimented the beauty with my ugliest scarf, doubled socks with holes in them over to protect my heels, threw my dirty hair up in a bun and was off. I may not be the shining beacon of fashion, never up on the current trends and lacking in any designer pieces what so ever but I do believe I have a flair for accessorizing important life events. Depression coupled with being overweight and losing my job in just over three months? Oh I worked it. I worked it good. I was the queen of the ball. These other bitches don't even know what competition they are entering, they may try to throw a cardigan on or scuff their shoes up a bit but I KNOW this baby, I work it. It is mine. They just can't compete with my layoff chic. They don't have years of wherewithal coupled with decades of poverty experience.
They may whimper about losing their house or going on food stamps but I ask you, how will they look doing it? They won't have the haute couture air of having been beat down by every circumstance in every conceivable way for years, they won't be able to pull off ratty sweaters and two dollar button downs from an estate sale like I will, and I know the jealously will kill them. In the new era of frugal being in, designer being out, reuse being in, new being out, I will reign queen. The holes in my faux leather, eleven year old shoes that I keep alive with brown sharpie and hope will lead the way.
And finally, my time has come. I'll try not to be too distant and aloof and forget about all of you but let's face it; I'm of the elite now. I get what made the rich so special, they didn't just think they were better than us, clearly they were better than us. And now they're just fashion road kill, their relevancy lost in the tidle wave of what is hip and new, life's wonderful irony making that which made them special now make them total outcasts, unable to gain any of their footing back.
I have arrived mah peeps, this is my game now.
It is fabulous to finally be with the "in" crowd, you know?
Today when I rolled out of bed I had a tough time choosing what to wear. It has been a hell of a week and I'm not ashamed to tell you that I haven't handled it well at all. Whereas I probably haven't gained any weight I haven't managed to drag myself out of bed for any workouts, instead using the extra morning hour to lay awake contemplating misery, so I certainly haven't lost any weight. Which means I'm still limited to two pairs of pants. Both of which accumulated stains of some kind this week and hadn't yet been washed (I've been spending my evenings a bit distraught too, if you must know, and have let the laundry slide.). I picked the lesser of two evils, pulled an undershirt out of the laundry pile as well and went with a big, bulky, navy blue cable knit deal I've had for years to complete the ensemble.
The cable knit was left over from a house party in which I lost my favorite grey fleece, as though the universe had taken my wonderful zip up and as a consolation gave me a heap of yarn that was even then, 8 years ago, beyond it's appropriate wearing years. The thing keeps unravelling on me and I just keep stitching the sleeves and hems up with navy blue thread. The yarn itself is disintegrating and bits are sticking out everywhere, which I just trim with scissors when I have time, like today while I listened to the woe and misery of my co-workers I sat and trimmed the sleeves while the item was still on me.
The heavier bits of the cable knit are pulling from the regular knit creating uneven wear and if, like today's omission, I don't put a long sleeve shirt underneath, bits of my shoulder and arm flesh are exposed. I have thought, on more than one occasion over the years, "oh dear, this thing is beyond wearing to work anymore", a thought I've had right before shrugging and throwing it on. I'd sometimes regret the choice at work when I'd notice that the thing was dying on me in a most unflattering way but promptly forget such troubles when I got home. Plus I've been working on a limited wardrobe my entire adult life (we won't even get into the hand me downs and follies of youth) so the thing had to, by necessity, always make its way into the winter rotation.
Today I complimented the beauty with my ugliest scarf, doubled socks with holes in them over to protect my heels, threw my dirty hair up in a bun and was off. I may not be the shining beacon of fashion, never up on the current trends and lacking in any designer pieces what so ever but I do believe I have a flair for accessorizing important life events. Depression coupled with being overweight and losing my job in just over three months? Oh I worked it. I worked it good. I was the queen of the ball. These other bitches don't even know what competition they are entering, they may try to throw a cardigan on or scuff their shoes up a bit but I KNOW this baby, I work it. It is mine. They just can't compete with my layoff chic. They don't have years of wherewithal coupled with decades of poverty experience.
They may whimper about losing their house or going on food stamps but I ask you, how will they look doing it? They won't have the haute couture air of having been beat down by every circumstance in every conceivable way for years, they won't be able to pull off ratty sweaters and two dollar button downs from an estate sale like I will, and I know the jealously will kill them. In the new era of frugal being in, designer being out, reuse being in, new being out, I will reign queen. The holes in my faux leather, eleven year old shoes that I keep alive with brown sharpie and hope will lead the way.
And finally, my time has come. I'll try not to be too distant and aloof and forget about all of you but let's face it; I'm of the elite now. I get what made the rich so special, they didn't just think they were better than us, clearly they were better than us. And now they're just fashion road kill, their relevancy lost in the tidle wave of what is hip and new, life's wonderful irony making that which made them special now make them total outcasts, unable to gain any of their footing back.
I have arrived mah peeps, this is my game now.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Important Weight Loss Note
When working on weight loss do not , I repeat, DO NOT, weigh yourself more than every two weeks. If you can go longer that is much, much better, but in the very least WAIT TWO WEEKS.
Your weight varies so much day to day that you will drive yourself crazy and wind up miserable and even sabotage yourself.
I didn't take my own advice, weighed myself yesterday, saw that I was up FIVE POUNDS and basically ruined my whole day. Today? Those five pounds? Totally gone. Idiot. From henceforth I am only weighing myself on the two week weight in day and at NO OTHER TIME. It would be craziness to do otherwise.
Your weight varies so much day to day that you will drive yourself crazy and wind up miserable and even sabotage yourself.
I didn't take my own advice, weighed myself yesterday, saw that I was up FIVE POUNDS and basically ruined my whole day. Today? Those five pounds? Totally gone. Idiot. From henceforth I am only weighing myself on the two week weight in day and at NO OTHER TIME. It would be craziness to do otherwise.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Mole
*Please oh please oh please let my skin heal correctly. Please.*
Because nothing says sexy like an oozing face wound
I got cosmetic surgery on Monday.
No, it wasn’t lipo and I didn’t boost my B’s to plastic D’s.
I had a mole removed. From my face. From the area between my lip and nose on the left hand side.
I’ve literally been saving my pennies for this for years. It cost me $114.00 and I’m hoping it was worth every cent. I say hoping because the wound is…a bit bigger than the original offending item, and I’m rather worried. I’ve done years of research and I knew what to expect and I know that it will take at least a month before I really begin to see what I am going to wind up with but that isn’t stopping me from freaking the ever living heck out. Why did she take such a large portion out? Three times the size of the mole? Will any of the scar creams really work? Did I make the right decision?
I just don’t know.
No one says they ever even really notice my moles. They aren't big and hairy. They aren't masses of blackened protruding skin. They are small, petite, workable. But I see them. In every mirror. In every picture. And more are showing up yearly.
My skin is of the mole-d persuasion. Before this removal I had four, now three, prominent moles (or beauty marks as my mom calls them) on my face.I was okay with the current three because I’d had them since I was a toddler. The removed one showed up when I was 9 or 10 which makes it an unwelcome interloper. I’d promised myself for years that when I became an adult I would do something about it. And then, one day a month or two ago, I realized CRAP I am an adult now. I better do something about this.
It is fulfilling a promise to my younger self. I’ve failed in so many ways at so many other promises that I knew I had to do it. So I booked the appointment and did it. It hurt like hell, the shot made me nauseous, and since the mole was right near my nose the smell of them cauterizing the wound made me even sicker. I’ve had chunks taken out for skin cancer that weren’t as painful as this.
I’m keeping the wound moist with Vaseline (I’m allergic to antibiotic ointment) for the next two or three weeks, I can't wear a band aid to cover it because I'm also allergic to adhesive bandages, and crossing my fingers. It wasn’t even so much the mole, really, it was what it represented: I’m an adult now. It is time I started doing all those things I said I would do. Starting with a raw, painful, oozing open wound on my face. To compliment the bout of cystic acne I have errupting on my chin.
Woooooo
Because nothing says sexy like an oozing face wound
I got cosmetic surgery on Monday.
No, it wasn’t lipo and I didn’t boost my B’s to plastic D’s.
I had a mole removed. From my face. From the area between my lip and nose on the left hand side.
I’ve literally been saving my pennies for this for years. It cost me $114.00 and I’m hoping it was worth every cent. I say hoping because the wound is…a bit bigger than the original offending item, and I’m rather worried. I’ve done years of research and I knew what to expect and I know that it will take at least a month before I really begin to see what I am going to wind up with but that isn’t stopping me from freaking the ever living heck out. Why did she take such a large portion out? Three times the size of the mole? Will any of the scar creams really work? Did I make the right decision?
I just don’t know.
No one says they ever even really notice my moles. They aren't big and hairy. They aren't masses of blackened protruding skin. They are small, petite, workable. But I see them. In every mirror. In every picture. And more are showing up yearly.
My skin is of the mole-d persuasion. Before this removal I had four, now three, prominent moles (or beauty marks as my mom calls them) on my face.I was okay with the current three because I’d had them since I was a toddler. The removed one showed up when I was 9 or 10 which makes it an unwelcome interloper. I’d promised myself for years that when I became an adult I would do something about it. And then, one day a month or two ago, I realized CRAP I am an adult now. I better do something about this.
It is fulfilling a promise to my younger self. I’ve failed in so many ways at so many other promises that I knew I had to do it. So I booked the appointment and did it. It hurt like hell, the shot made me nauseous, and since the mole was right near my nose the smell of them cauterizing the wound made me even sicker. I’ve had chunks taken out for skin cancer that weren’t as painful as this.
I’m keeping the wound moist with Vaseline (I’m allergic to antibiotic ointment) for the next two or three weeks, I can't wear a band aid to cover it because I'm also allergic to adhesive bandages, and crossing my fingers. It wasn’t even so much the mole, really, it was what it represented: I’m an adult now. It is time I started doing all those things I said I would do. Starting with a raw, painful, oozing open wound on my face. To compliment the bout of cystic acne I have errupting on my chin.
Woooooo
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Tipsy Blogging
Ah Internet.
I have been hitting the bottle.
So this is bound to be discombobulated rambling.
I don't have an eating problem, I have an emotional problem. I don't face/deal with emotions and instead I eat to cover them up. This is sorta a relief, actually, knowing that food isn't really the issue: my current inability to face issues like an adult is. I bet the majority of adults don't face emotions well and that everyone had a crutch they lean on and mine is food.
That and my self image is jacked up. I look at myself as a failure and a loser and fat. So guess what? I subconscientiously mold myself to fit that perception. Self fulfilling prophecy.
I'm getting much better at the emotion deal though, therapy and introspection helps. But when I have to face really scary things I just break down.
I didn't work out this morning.
I ate fast food twice today.
I know.
I'm scared, primarily, about the boy. My family is a mess, I'm likely losing my job this summer, I still have no savings, I'm overweight and overwhelmed and pissed that I'm this close to 30 and still a fuck up but the boy thing is what is really getting me right now.
I'm scared.
I really like this one. Or, I did, but we have our issues. For the first time in my life I started thinking in terms of "us" instead of me and what it would take to survive. I started to see a future together, wanted to see a future together, and adore(d) him. But I fear (know?) that he isn't on the same page. Whereas I am envisioning marriage and building a life together he is still in a party phase. He's so nice and wonderful to me. He really does care about me.
Just...not in that way.
I never thought I'd find someone I sincerely saw a future with. I didn't understand the idea of building a life together with someone until now. And after I've talked to him, and the therapist, I'm suddenly afraid and kinda alone again. Whereas he would probably be fine just dating for a long time further I'm looking for real commitment. I'm looking for the real deal. I'm ready to have an intimant, passionate, committed relationship with someone, him, and he...not so much.
So I'm scared. Scared because all the other issues listed above I've lived with for a long time. But losing him, us, is new to me. Losing the perception of what I thought we had. We're still together but I have so many questions. How much am I willing to sacrifice for someone who is nice to me? How scared am I to leave what is wonderful, but won't pan out, in the hopes that something else is even out there for me?
Before him I'd never been with someone nice. I feel like an abused puppy that is falling over itself the first time it is shown kindness. At the same time I feel that what we have (has) is special and I shouldn't beat myself up for falling for it.
I don't know.
I don't know.
How do you make someone love you and commit to you? You don't. This I know.
So why doesn't he love me and want to commit to me?
Why?
I have been hitting the bottle.
So this is bound to be discombobulated rambling.
I don't have an eating problem, I have an emotional problem. I don't face/deal with emotions and instead I eat to cover them up. This is sorta a relief, actually, knowing that food isn't really the issue: my current inability to face issues like an adult is. I bet the majority of adults don't face emotions well and that everyone had a crutch they lean on and mine is food.
That and my self image is jacked up. I look at myself as a failure and a loser and fat. So guess what? I subconscientiously mold myself to fit that perception. Self fulfilling prophecy.
I'm getting much better at the emotion deal though, therapy and introspection helps. But when I have to face really scary things I just break down.
I didn't work out this morning.
I ate fast food twice today.
I know.
I'm scared, primarily, about the boy. My family is a mess, I'm likely losing my job this summer, I still have no savings, I'm overweight and overwhelmed and pissed that I'm this close to 30 and still a fuck up but the boy thing is what is really getting me right now.
I'm scared.
I really like this one. Or, I did, but we have our issues. For the first time in my life I started thinking in terms of "us" instead of me and what it would take to survive. I started to see a future together, wanted to see a future together, and adore(d) him. But I fear (know?) that he isn't on the same page. Whereas I am envisioning marriage and building a life together he is still in a party phase. He's so nice and wonderful to me. He really does care about me.
Just...not in that way.
I never thought I'd find someone I sincerely saw a future with. I didn't understand the idea of building a life together with someone until now. And after I've talked to him, and the therapist, I'm suddenly afraid and kinda alone again. Whereas he would probably be fine just dating for a long time further I'm looking for real commitment. I'm looking for the real deal. I'm ready to have an intimant, passionate, committed relationship with someone, him, and he...not so much.
So I'm scared. Scared because all the other issues listed above I've lived with for a long time. But losing him, us, is new to me. Losing the perception of what I thought we had. We're still together but I have so many questions. How much am I willing to sacrifice for someone who is nice to me? How scared am I to leave what is wonderful, but won't pan out, in the hopes that something else is even out there for me?
Before him I'd never been with someone nice. I feel like an abused puppy that is falling over itself the first time it is shown kindness. At the same time I feel that what we have (has) is special and I shouldn't beat myself up for falling for it.
I don't know.
I don't know.
How do you make someone love you and commit to you? You don't. This I know.
So why doesn't he love me and want to commit to me?
Why?
Monday, February 23, 2009
On Writing
I need to keep a notebook on my bed and sleep with a pen in my mouth because it always seems that I compose brilliant pieces of work when I am trying to fall asleep at night. I’ll also have to devise some sort of water proof transcription system for my shower, which is my second most brilliant composing place. My brain only wants to write my future best selling novel when it has no place, not even a receipt and some charcoal, where I can write it down. And being the temperamental artist my brain fancies itself to be, it never, never remembers what it came up with and it never, never comes up with anything when I am at a bloody place where it will be preserved for posterity. No, my brain prefers to work informally and alone and it is so stuck up it won’t replay any of its ideas twice.
This is very frustrating.
Particularly last night, when, lying very near the precipice for sleep my brain came up with some brilliant bit of work; funny, charming, in exactly my voice, yet it let the sleepy bit of my brain say “No, we’ll remember this later, you sleep now”. I wish the bit of my brain that realized what a dead end hell my job is and how much I want to actually do something with my life, even if it is just write down things I like for solely my own amusement, would step in even once in a great while and smother the sleep bit long enough for me to get some of this down. But noooo, here I am, yet again, kicking myself for letting something wonderful slip through my fingers like so much mist.
Damnit.
All I remember this morning is that it was really good. I don’t know the subject matter or the direction. I don’t have the faintest inkling of what on earth it was about. This isn’t the same thing as being drunk either; when you think you’ve come up with something fucking brilliant and upon review realize that you are an idiot. No, this really was brilliant and now it is gone forever. I’m quite distraught.
Many successful writers state that you simply must treat writing like it is a full time job, even if you’ve already got a full time job. You must plant yourself in front of paper, a typewriter or a computer, for X number of hours a day and simply write. No excuses. Act as though your very livelihood depends upon it. This sounds quite practical and is something I should probably do but it is unlikely that my most inspired stuff would ever be created in this environment.
My mind only generates truly good stuff when it is distracted or busy or desperate, like when I’m in a particularly boring class or at work, for some distraction. Two of the things I love best that I’ve ever written were both composed in math classes, one written on the back of a test I’d failed and the other written in response to a test I’d failed. My most inspired ideas happen when I’m driving or in meetings or scrubbing my bathtub. I’ve gotten a bit better at carrying notebooks and pens with me so that I can jot them down but sometimes I can’t write fast enough so I lost the prose I wish to present them in or later I go back and read the scribbles and wonder what I was even getting at.
Perhaps, for me, the best solution is two fold: sleep on a notebook with a pen in my mouth and then take those inspired ideas and work on them like a full time job. I may not find inspiration when I’ve scheduled the time specifically to write but maybe I’ll be able to interpret the inspiration scrawled in sleepy script across a notebook page and get it typed up. If nothing else I’ll have a reason to justify all the ink stains I imagine my sheets are going to accrue.
This is very frustrating.
Particularly last night, when, lying very near the precipice for sleep my brain came up with some brilliant bit of work; funny, charming, in exactly my voice, yet it let the sleepy bit of my brain say “No, we’ll remember this later, you sleep now”. I wish the bit of my brain that realized what a dead end hell my job is and how much I want to actually do something with my life, even if it is just write down things I like for solely my own amusement, would step in even once in a great while and smother the sleep bit long enough for me to get some of this down. But noooo, here I am, yet again, kicking myself for letting something wonderful slip through my fingers like so much mist.
Damnit.
All I remember this morning is that it was really good. I don’t know the subject matter or the direction. I don’t have the faintest inkling of what on earth it was about. This isn’t the same thing as being drunk either; when you think you’ve come up with something fucking brilliant and upon review realize that you are an idiot. No, this really was brilliant and now it is gone forever. I’m quite distraught.
Many successful writers state that you simply must treat writing like it is a full time job, even if you’ve already got a full time job. You must plant yourself in front of paper, a typewriter or a computer, for X number of hours a day and simply write. No excuses. Act as though your very livelihood depends upon it. This sounds quite practical and is something I should probably do but it is unlikely that my most inspired stuff would ever be created in this environment.
My mind only generates truly good stuff when it is distracted or busy or desperate, like when I’m in a particularly boring class or at work, for some distraction. Two of the things I love best that I’ve ever written were both composed in math classes, one written on the back of a test I’d failed and the other written in response to a test I’d failed. My most inspired ideas happen when I’m driving or in meetings or scrubbing my bathtub. I’ve gotten a bit better at carrying notebooks and pens with me so that I can jot them down but sometimes I can’t write fast enough so I lost the prose I wish to present them in or later I go back and read the scribbles and wonder what I was even getting at.
Perhaps, for me, the best solution is two fold: sleep on a notebook with a pen in my mouth and then take those inspired ideas and work on them like a full time job. I may not find inspiration when I’ve scheduled the time specifically to write but maybe I’ll be able to interpret the inspiration scrawled in sleepy script across a notebook page and get it typed up. If nothing else I’ll have a reason to justify all the ink stains I imagine my sheets are going to accrue.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
2 Pounds Down
23 to go.
By June 1.
Good Morning Internet!
In the Great Weight Loss Journey I have embarked upon my goals are lifetime long term. I am learning how to eat in a healthy and non emotional manner. I am learning how to address my feelings as opposed to stuffing them with fast food. I am learning how to incorporate exercise into a regular routine. In short, at 27, I am learning how to live a healthy and fulfilling life that doesn't revolve around obsessing over food, not fitting into my clothes and both punishing/rewarding myself with food.
It is not easy.
I'm quite pleased to see the scale finally, after a month, budge down a couple of tiny numbers. By this point my goal system would have me down 6 pounds but I'm not freaking out...yet. I'm learning what it takes to actually lose and maintain weight for my body which is a good thing. Exercise was key in this recent weight loss so it will remain key in the upcoming months and then maintenance of a healthy body weight for my height and size.
I've started working out in the morning before work and though I can't even make it through an exercise tape entirely yet I am taking it slow to not injure myself further. Plus I'm not coordinated; it will take me weeks to even begin to get the complicated moves and steps down. Easy for beginner's my arse, half the time I'm marching in place or flailing my arms around trying to keep up with the chipper, overly tan, surgically enhanced freaks of nature squealing at me to keep going and feel the burn.
As an aside I don't understand why videos specifically marketed to women require genetically impossible women with breast implants wearing bikinis to get me motivated. Not that I want to see someone like me on film, sweating and grunting and looking overall awkward and confused, but it would be nice to see someone wearing, oh, I don't know, a TANK TOP and shorts that completely cover their ass. I also don't want to see totally ripped and cut women with biceps the size of my thighs. If my goal is lean healthy muscles why do they choose to showcase female body builders with no hips, big plastic boobies and a tan so orange Lindsay Lohan would cringe? Don't get me started on capped teeth or platinum blonde hair either, I just have to have faith that the moves I'm attempting to perform won't make me look like a roided out she-male.
In this next upcoming two week span the goal is again to lose three pounds. Actually, more like 5 would be lovely. That will put me under the next round number and into a different realm. The exercise I'm not too worried about, I just have to continue gradually and gently increasing my ability without hurting myself further. As it is my neck and shoulders and back are KILLING me today, but that I attribute more to strength rehab than anything else.
I'm better with my eating but not great. I'm identifying when I am genuinely hungry, eating when I am hungry, eating slowly and enjoying every bite, and stopping when I am full... 6 days out of 7. Because I don't yet have the skills to address my emotional eating. After a lifetime of suppressing and masking my anxiety and stress with food it is extremely hard to reprogram my coping skills. I derive a great deal of pleasure in the act of mindlessly eating, and eating alot, it is calming and soothing. I have not ever given myself another way to treat myself well; it has always been food. On this all I can do is continue to do the above and also, when I am particularly anxious and nutty, try writing out my feelings or talking them out in order to face them head on and not swallow them covered in nacho cheese.
I'm oh so tempted to go into heavy diet mode again. I want to see those numbers on the scale drop so, so bad. I'm tempted to eat nothing but salads and hard boiled eggs for the next two weeks. But that in itself is a form of emotional control, both in punishing myself with food and depriving myself of food and escaping my yucky feelings with hunger. But that doesn't work, not in the long term, and though I've managed to yo yo 10-15 pounds over the last several years the numbers never stay where I get them to. And it isn't even the numbers that I really care about; it is the tire of flab around my belly, the clothes that don't fit, the way my chin and neck are no longer two distinct and separate entities.
By Saturday March 7 I am confident that I will indeed really be down three pounds. Now I have a grasp on what it takes. I'm also living, for the first time in weight loss history for me, a normal lifestyle that I can accommodate.
Yay weight loss!
By June 1.
Good Morning Internet!
In the Great Weight Loss Journey I have embarked upon my goals are lifetime long term. I am learning how to eat in a healthy and non emotional manner. I am learning how to address my feelings as opposed to stuffing them with fast food. I am learning how to incorporate exercise into a regular routine. In short, at 27, I am learning how to live a healthy and fulfilling life that doesn't revolve around obsessing over food, not fitting into my clothes and both punishing/rewarding myself with food.
It is not easy.
I'm quite pleased to see the scale finally, after a month, budge down a couple of tiny numbers. By this point my goal system would have me down 6 pounds but I'm not freaking out...yet. I'm learning what it takes to actually lose and maintain weight for my body which is a good thing. Exercise was key in this recent weight loss so it will remain key in the upcoming months and then maintenance of a healthy body weight for my height and size.
I've started working out in the morning before work and though I can't even make it through an exercise tape entirely yet I am taking it slow to not injure myself further. Plus I'm not coordinated; it will take me weeks to even begin to get the complicated moves and steps down. Easy for beginner's my arse, half the time I'm marching in place or flailing my arms around trying to keep up with the chipper, overly tan, surgically enhanced freaks of nature squealing at me to keep going and feel the burn.
As an aside I don't understand why videos specifically marketed to women require genetically impossible women with breast implants wearing bikinis to get me motivated. Not that I want to see someone like me on film, sweating and grunting and looking overall awkward and confused, but it would be nice to see someone wearing, oh, I don't know, a TANK TOP and shorts that completely cover their ass. I also don't want to see totally ripped and cut women with biceps the size of my thighs. If my goal is lean healthy muscles why do they choose to showcase female body builders with no hips, big plastic boobies and a tan so orange Lindsay Lohan would cringe? Don't get me started on capped teeth or platinum blonde hair either, I just have to have faith that the moves I'm attempting to perform won't make me look like a roided out she-male.
In this next upcoming two week span the goal is again to lose three pounds. Actually, more like 5 would be lovely. That will put me under the next round number and into a different realm. The exercise I'm not too worried about, I just have to continue gradually and gently increasing my ability without hurting myself further. As it is my neck and shoulders and back are KILLING me today, but that I attribute more to strength rehab than anything else.
I'm better with my eating but not great. I'm identifying when I am genuinely hungry, eating when I am hungry, eating slowly and enjoying every bite, and stopping when I am full... 6 days out of 7. Because I don't yet have the skills to address my emotional eating. After a lifetime of suppressing and masking my anxiety and stress with food it is extremely hard to reprogram my coping skills. I derive a great deal of pleasure in the act of mindlessly eating, and eating alot, it is calming and soothing. I have not ever given myself another way to treat myself well; it has always been food. On this all I can do is continue to do the above and also, when I am particularly anxious and nutty, try writing out my feelings or talking them out in order to face them head on and not swallow them covered in nacho cheese.
I'm oh so tempted to go into heavy diet mode again. I want to see those numbers on the scale drop so, so bad. I'm tempted to eat nothing but salads and hard boiled eggs for the next two weeks. But that in itself is a form of emotional control, both in punishing myself with food and depriving myself of food and escaping my yucky feelings with hunger. But that doesn't work, not in the long term, and though I've managed to yo yo 10-15 pounds over the last several years the numbers never stay where I get them to. And it isn't even the numbers that I really care about; it is the tire of flab around my belly, the clothes that don't fit, the way my chin and neck are no longer two distinct and separate entities.
By Saturday March 7 I am confident that I will indeed really be down three pounds. Now I have a grasp on what it takes. I'm also living, for the first time in weight loss history for me, a normal lifestyle that I can accommodate.
Yay weight loss!
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