It’s getting a little colder around here, so I was pulling some “regular” (meaning full-length) pants out of my closet this morning to get dressed for work. They’re all too small. Now some of you may remember my “fat pants” post from last spring — the problem is those were all capris and shorts for the summer; despite my 7-week running program in July and August (until school started and I had to get up at 6 a.m. to do it and it was still pitch black outside) I haven’t lost any weight since.
I’m disgusted with myself. I want to be a size 8, I’m not even always a size 10. I look in the mirror and see fat. (The average woman my age is a size 14, but that doesn’t matter, because I don’t really want to be “my age” either. I still feel like I’m 35, just a hell of a lot smarter. Can’t I still LOOK 35, too?)
I write my husband an email. (He’s already gone for the day – he gets up at 4 a.m. on Tuesdays so he can spend an hour and a half on the ice chasing a little black disc around and trying to hit it with a stick while trying not to get run over by other guys with sticks. He does it on Fridays too. I think this may indicate some kind of mental imbalance, but it keeps him happy and he has a fantastic ass. Hmmm. His mother reads this. . . .ANYwhoo. . .)
I’m asking him if he will help me. Namely: stop buying me potato chips, don’t offer me any ice cream, don’t pour me a 2nd glass of wine with dinner (notice I’m not cutting out wine entirely; I may be fat, but I’m not unreasonable), keep the “sauce” separate from the pasta so I can put the “sauce” on 4 noodles, etc. I tell him this despite the fact that, while he is perfectly happy with what I weigh, he wants me to be happy with what I weigh as well. I tell him that I want to be his hot sexy wife not a matronly housefrau in a . . . and that’s it. I can’t think of the word. I write “dashiki” but I know that’s not right, and when I find on Google that it’s a tunic-top of African influence worn by men, I know I need to look further. I try to think of a way to google “word for dress that fat women wear” but I just get a bunch of pictures of super skinny models and a few really large women in bathing suits. (The little mean voice says “at least I’m not that fat.”) I add “housecoat” to the end of the sentence, but it doesn’t have that poetic ring I’m looking for. So I persist. And I encounter this:
Wow. These women are beautiful. Now granted, my face doesn’t look anything like any of theirs, but maybe my body does — (the little mean voice points out that I might even be smaller than a few of them) — and look — they’re beautiful. They’re voluptuous and curvy and have gorgeous skin, and they’re obviously comfortable with their bodies because they’re all draped all over each other like that.
Now when I copied this off of the website I found it from I noticed that it was labeled “Glamour_plus-size-models” and that bothers me a little because they’re not “Plus size” — they’re normal size. But anyway. . .
I’ve decided to stop eating potato chips, and no more blue cheese dressing on my pretzel crisps, and definitely less pasta and bread and potatoes. I’ve also decided to try to stop being so hard on myself. And I think I might end up buying at least a couple pairs of pants.