Friday, November 10, 2006
A slave to the scale.
For those of you with the Y chromosomes who may not be in the know, I'm going to share a couple of secrets about the female sex that may cost me my PMS priveleges.
Today's post is brought to you courtesy of the bathroom SCALE, which I'm convinced is demon-posessed. That damned scale. I might merely consider it just wildly inaccurate, if it weren't for the fact that its readings matches the scales at the gym and the doctor's office.
Every day, like a lamb to the slaughter, I'm drawn to it. I drift over to the scale (right when I get up, and after I've peed, of course) to see what news it has in store for me. Yesterday I got on the scale and it read 151, and it was a good day. It had been creeping down slowly since the post-Soma Bloat subsided. I felt good. I felt sassy. Woo-hoo! 151 pounds!
I went for a short run, then went to work. I ate normally. I drank normally. I lived normally.
Then, today, it read 156.5. CRAP!
Why I suddenly shot up nearly six pounds isn't nearly as interesting to me as does the answer to the question, WHY does this BOTHER ME SO MUCH ?
After packing away my size 14's - 18's to donate to Goodwill, what I have left is a myriad of mainly sized 12's and some fat day clothes. "Fat day clothes", for those of you with y-chromosomes, are those items with loose and forgiving waistbands, and/or dark colors, which are "slimming," and/or they may be something we happened to be wearing one day and more than one person remarked about how nice we looked. That outfit then becomes the "wear-this-when-I-feel-fat-and/or-hideous-outfit." They are never form-fitting. They never, ever, ever have horizontal stripes.
I know, on a rational, intellectual level, that my weight is appropriate for my height, and I think that five pounds is about the same weigh as a 32-ounce bottle of Cytomax. I know this. I also know that I'm healthier than most other 40-somethings out there. I've done two half irons, dammit! You would think that I would be all down with my bad self, full of self confidence and efficacy. I further acknowledge that the images portrayed by the modeling and fashion industry are freakishly disporportionate, given that wearing a size 12 allows them to categorize me as, "plus-sized". I know its unreasonable.
Despite knowing this, as I told a friend yesterday, I've often found myself dreaming wistfully about being described as "willowy".
Usually, however, I'm described as "sturdy," or the dreaded, "stocky"
As in, "She'll be useful around the farm. She's from sturdy stock."
Just what every woman wants.
Our social system has done a real number on me, so that even when I dress in coordinated clothes that are draped appropriately about my frame, the image that stares back at me is Jabba the Hut. It doesn't matter if I just completed a half iron-man or half of a package of bakes Lays, I'm bombarded with message on daily basis: "Skinny=good. Not skinny=bad". "Have a big mac. Drink it down with some slimfast." "Love the skin you're in. Just make sure it's covering a size 2 frame." "Don't hate me because I'm beautiful" (and I'm paid for it, and you're not)
None of this has ever had enough affect to give me an eating disorder, just enough to make me feel bad about myself.
I don't know if I'm unusual in this regard, as in, "body dismorphic disorder" or if this is something that lots of women experience and just don't talk about. I think, at times, that Sweet Baboo worries that I'm unsually unhappy about my appearance. I wonder if that's the case?
This isn't some attempt to get comments on how I shouldn't worry about how I look. I'm genuinely curious as to whether I have some kind of body dysmorphic disorder or if this is a common phenomenon.
Comments, ladies? (Or guys?)
Even though I was in awful shape in 2016 I was still stubborn and foohardy...so I spent a year running down whatever fitness base I had left...
Ahhh. That crispness in the air. The blueness of the sky! Can you see it? Can you feel it?? IT'S MARATHON SEASON! So, my friend ...
Dear Diary, It's 5 am and the wind is still. Fucking. Blowing. I'm not talking about a breeze rustling through the trees. We live...
Dear Diary, This month I learned stuff from doctors. Good stuff. Stuff I didn't know, and was surprised to learn. That doesn't...