You Mean, Doing Nothing Doesn't Work?

Notice my weight ticker in the sidebar? Notice how it's going to the left instead of to the right?

Yeah, that's because doing nothing, doesn't make me lose weight. Doing nothing makes me gain weight.

Huh. Who'da thought?Today my jeans were so tight that there was a good three or four inch gap between the zipper when I just let them go. I had to really work to get these babies on. And now of course I feel like all of me is piling out of the top of them. Very nice. Sooo attractive.

And it means I have to face facts and accept that eating whatever I want, however much I want, not drinking any water and not exercising is not working for me.

Dang it.

Celebrate Your Body

This post goes along the same lines as Ali's, in that we are beautiful and need to learn to love ourselves just as we are. How much healthier it would be to our minds if we simply celebrated our bodies--every ounce of us.

The story Ali used about the woman that spread lotion all over her body really struck me. At first I thought . . . NO WAY! How disgusting. There is no way I could do that, but then something happened this weekend that made me rethink it.

A friend of mine said something to me that made me remember how I've always molded my life around what other people thought I should be like, who they thought I should be and lived how they thought I should live. My Father told me almost every day that no man could ever love a woman that was fat, like me. I've let those wounds fester and destroy certain parts of my life, especially my self esteem and I am so tired of it. I'm sick of hearing his voice echo in my head.

As I was sitting in church on Sunday, giving this a little more thought and wondering how I was going to be able to put myself in the public eye in order to promote my book, I realized something. I don't care anymore. If I'm not liked just as I am, too bad. Yes, I'd love to be healthier and I certainly need to build up my stamina and there is no doubt I'd like to fit into some great clothes, but not for anyone but ME.

So, today I celebrate my body . . . just as it is . . . every single ounce of it.

Learning to Love Yourself

My friend Jen wrote this amazing article today about whether you can lose weight simply by loving yourself.

Essentially, Jen references a pair of women who were featured on our local news the other night. These women practiced "self-acceptance"--the art of loving your body, accepting it in its imperfect state, and quitting the constantly-on-a-diet roller coaster.

I found this possibility fascinating. It resonates with truths that I believe in and have only just recently been starting to recognize.

Once I heard a story of a woman who's doctor advised her to lovingly spread lotion on her body twice a day. She was morbidly obese and at first the thought of not only seeing her naked body but touching it filled her with dread. As she had gotten heavier and heavier she had seriously disconnected from her body, barely acknowledging it in her daily hygiene routine.

Yet, she faithfully began the practice her doctor recommended. At first she was disgusted, then she grew more accepting. Her skin became smooth and supple, moisturized by the twice-daily lotion.

But soon, she began to notice something else.

She enjoyed the moments of quiet attention to her body. And her body slowly responded to the love by releasing much of the weight she'd been hanging on to for so long.

That story has lingered in the back of my mind for some time now. But now, after reading Jen's article, it's jumping to the forefront, demanding I pay it some attention.

I really love the notion of self-acceptance. Of loving yourself even in your imperfection.

But the idea also kind of frightens me. I'm not sure why. Maybe because I really don't love myself? Certainly not my body.

My body has always betrayed me. I couldn't break bones when I tried to so I could get attention from my family when I was little. I enjoyed sex taken from me by an abuser. I've always used my body as a weapon--against others, against myself, to punish, to control.

I know, maybe a bit too much information. But this is a safe place for me. A place to face these scary truths. Because they are mine. And hey, maybe this is the first step in finally accepting myself. In finally coming to love myself, from the inside out.

My Relationship With the Scale

Every morning I walk into the kitchen and open the pantry door. I'm not only greeted with a variety of food I shouldn't eat, but also my scale. That's right people. I keep my scale on the floor in my pantry. What better place. I literally have to scoot it to the side or step on it to reach out for food. Too bad it doesn't grab hold of my foot and tackle me to the floor when I choose something from the shelf that's going to make me gain a pound or ten.

So, there I stand, face to face with the evil numbers that seem to rise and fall with no sense of rhyme or reason. Will the numbers make me happy or depressed? It seems that the scale has complete control of my life, my happiness, my emotions and self worth. How do I get past that? How do I tell myself and the scale that I am in control of my life and the food I put into my mouth? And most importantly, how do I gain control and get this stinkin' weight off? I guess if I had all the answers I'd be making the big bucks, eh?

Must I Always Feed My Pain?

I've had a kind of rough weekend that hasn't gotten any better this sunny Monday. At every turn, I felt like I got socked in the gut until I lay on the ground in the fetal position. Not literally, but . . . you know.

So what did I do?

I ate a McDonald's Big Mac meal. Totally. Every single fry. Every single bite of burger.

And then I had a piece of apple pie with ice cream.

And you know what? I don't even feel done. If Skinny Man wasn't sitting right beside me, I'd be eating more.

So why do I feel like I need to feed my pain?

Some people care for emotional pain with exercise. Crazy amounts of exercise.

I once knew a woman who suffered from OCD to such an extreme she couldn't sleep if her house wasn't thoroughly cleaned. As in toothbrush-to-the-grout kind of clean. Her need for perfection extended to herself too--she exercised until her menstruation was interrupted, until she was losing weight at an alarming rate.

I guess a lot of us have issues, right? I used to look at my friend--perfect house, perfect body, perfect wardrobe--and think she was . . . well, perfect. Until I got to know her and learned that her perfection was her greatest shame. It was an illness, not perfection. Her perfection hurt.

You can't look at other people and know what pain their outward appearance may hide. People may look at me and wonder why I've let myself get so chubby, when if only I exercise, I'd look so cute.

Right. If only.

But I can't add my lack of will power to my really bad day. I'm burdened enough as it is. So for tonight, I'm going to feed my pain and not beat myself up for it.

A Plane Crash Didn't Make Me Fat

In fact, it wasn't an accident at all.

I chose each and every one of those bites of tasty food. I chose to skip all those workouts.

Recently I heard about Stephanie Nielsen, a popular blogger who was in a plane crash with her husband. Both of them suffered serious injuries as a result of the accident, with Stephanie being burned over (I believe) 89% of her body.

Stephanie's blog from the other day struck me to the core. She wrote about her sorrow at not being able to recognize herself in the mirror anymore. About her desire to be beautiful.

What happened to Stephanie was not her fault. She was dealt a bad hand and she's making the most of it. She's fighting her way back to health and a new kind of beauty--the kind that radiates from the inside out.

But what happened to me, is my fault. I chose my path, every step. If, when I look in the mirror, I don't like what I see, it is because I've fashioned the mask that I wear out of guilt, insecurity, loneliness, despair, laziness, anger . . . I've covered myself with feelings so I can no longer see the girl that lives inside of me.

The beautiful girl that wants to shine. Me.

Stephanie can't undo the damage that's been done to her body. She has no choice but to accept and live.

I, however, have every choice. I have the ability to completely undo all the bad choices I've made and make myself beautiful once more.

YIKES!

Man oh man, did I get an eye opener. I went to a book launch party for a fellow author Tuesday and took a few pictures of me and my writing buddies. Loaded up the pics this morning and EEEK! Let's just say I need to lose more than just a few pounds.

Yep, that would be me there on the left. Can't even see Ali cuz my tummy is covering her. At least you can see her beautiful face. Isn't she cute?
The other two in the picture are writing friends, Kimberly Job and Daron Fraley.
Both gorgeous and talented, I might add.

So, once again, here I go looking for some kind of diet that will work for me and promising to exercise everyday. Sheesh! There's got to be something that works here.

Just put the fork down!


Did anyone hear something? Could have sworn I heard a voice from the distance.
Oh, well. I'm off and running (waddling).

The More the Merrier

Sometimes that's not always true. More fat does not make me merrier. But more chocolate does.

More aches and pains on my over-burdened body does not make me merrier. But more chocolate does.

And right up there with chocolate is friendship. More friends definitely make things merrier. Especially when they are the right friends.

Well, I've invited a friend to join me here and I know you'll agree--she's definitely going to add a lot to this party.

Meet, Christine Bryant. Writer extraordinaire, and fellow fatty. She told me she likes to collect funny pictures and cartoons of fat people, so I know she'll liven things up around here. This is what she said to tell you . . .

"I'm funny, gorgeous, smart, talented, beautiful, skinny and....honest."

Just you wait and see . . . I know you're gonna love her just as much as I do. Welcome Chris!