As my fingers hit the keys today, I am in the mood for a rant. A mindless, two hundred and thirty-seven different topics, the world is against me rant. My kids. My kid’s school. Work. Relationships. Simply, put. Every first world problem that shakes the foundation of my easier than I perhaps deserve existence.
If you read my piece last week, I talked about my experiences with Dry January and the Whole 30. The one where I sacrificed Tiger Blood for Zen-like clarity. The article where I shared a story about making my doctor cry. It was moving stuff.
Today I want to take all 7 of George Carlin’s, “7 Words You Cannot Say on Television” and multiply them by 100. In reality, I will curl up into a ball and cry, most likely. All the while dropping more F’bombs then NWA to prove I’m still tough.
Today is the day after my final day on my latest Whole 30. So, what do I do? I get on the scale. During the W30, you are not supposed to weigh yourself. You are working on your mind. Bettering yourself Yada, yada, yada. But, it’s over. So, come here you big hunk of judgmental springs. I am ready for you.
The thing is I am not tough. Deep down I know I have not reached my weight goals. I am pissed. I don’t need the scale to reinforce my failure. I can feel it in my skin. But, I am going to do it anyway, because I am a glutton for punishment.
I prepare for the worst. “I am sure I was more overweight than usual when I started the program this last time.” Those are the words, I tell myself, in silence, as I strip naked. Every ounce counts. Can’t be sacrificing L-B’s to a few ounces of Saxx. That is not the kind of support I need right now.
I step aboard the SS-Kick Your Emotional Ass. As expected, I am mocked by a number from between my opposing big toes. “Screw you,” we both seem to say to each other. Telepathically. I only speak to my scale with my mind. Not out loud. I haven’t’ gone full crazy yet.
Here’s the thing. Weight and personal appearance is not just a “woman thing.” It can be just as real for men. Not everyone obsesses about it. But, it impacts my mood far more than I wish it did. One hundred things can be going great. But if my damn pants are tight you’d think someone sunk my final battleship!
I could be receiving an award for solving world peace. But if my suit pants didn’t feel comfortable, I’d lock myself up in my hotel room and skip the awards. I have an example of such mood swings. A few weeks ago, I put my underwear on backward and couldn’t tell.
For a moment I felt great. Smaller posterior, one could hope? Now, I realize the wrong parts were possibly getting smaller!
I wish I had the confidence to parade around in an 80’s style mesh half shirt. Sporting double zeros and baking a muffin on top of my “Keep on Truckin’ belt buckle. But, I do not. Is this petty? Yes. But it is ingrained.
From a young age, weight is the one thing I can remember feeling consistent shame over. The doctor, in my last article, the one that I made cry, well he deserved it. It was for all the times he made me cry; body-shaming me appointment after appointment. I see now that I saw him as a father figure.
I was more ashamed of failing him than I was about my feelings. Daddy Issues? Perhaps. On his recommendation, I went to a nutritionist that he chose. They said my diet and weight were appropriate. Better than many that they see. My one sin, not eating enough.
Now, before you think that sounds like an easy fix, I assure you, it is not. I cram more vegetables, bone broth and protein into my mouth then I care to admit. Each day, I drink 1/2 my weight in ounces of water, which is not an easy task. I log my eating, and I exercise. But, rarely do I see changes worthy of my effort.
When I returned to my doctor, I was not victorious. I returned to more scrutiny and doubt. He assumed I was holding out on him. He asked to see my iPhone; feigning interest in the new version I was holding. He then went right to my Health App. Trying to catch me in a lie. He saw how much exercise I was getting. He saw my food log. Still, he was still not convinced of my effort. That is when I knew I needed to get out. I finally left him.
At this point, in my writing today I realize, I have delivered a woefully low number of F’bombs. I apologize for not living up to my earlier promise. The more astute may notice I only mentioned “food” twice. What did you think I meant when I said F’Bombs?
I wish I didn’t to tie my self-esteem to my waistline. I don’t want to judge myself for desiring the support of a manziere, on occasion. I desire to rise above it. To let the satisfaction of my successes, outweigh . . . My weight!
We hear that we are beautiful just the way we are. That is a nice sentiment. Yes, the world should accept us for who we are. But, what about when we are bullying ourselves? What then? In that case, I believe we have to fight back even harder. I don’t want acceptance I want victory. Otherwise, I am afraid I could slide too far.
Disappointment can send us spiraling down a chocolate waterfall of Twinkies and tears. But there are other options. Lie down or keep fighting. We have the right and responsibility to keep at it.
Even knowing that, doing the right thing and not reaping the rewards can be difficult. ON Super Bowl Sunday I was as victorious as the Eagles. I battled temptation after temptation. Libations and gazillion calorie Philly-Cheese Steak Sliders were no match for my whining. It scared them away, I think. If I can beat my cravings on Super Bowl Sunday, then I can keep fighting towards my goals on other days that end in “y.”
I recognized that the past 30-days were not a beginning, middle and end. It was an intro to what is next. I may not be built like Captain America. But, then again, I don’t have access to a Vita-Ray Chamber either. Besides, that thing isn’t even FDA approved. So, it’s back to the treadmill and Yoga Mat for this Dad-Bod. Until next times – have a F’n Awesome Day!
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