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BOSSYBELLY's Recent Blog Entries
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Thursday, December 06, 2012
Mons pubis.
I can spot mine. Can you spot yours?
Seriously.
Don’t take it for granted. Well trimmed or not. Brazilianized or bright eyed and bushy-tailed, appreciate the view. There are some people who cannot enjoy the same. And I do not mean the handsome young men with whom you would like to fornicate but refuse (and rightly so), I mean those women whose bodies resemble the Venus of Willendorf more closely than they resemble Venus Williams.
You know who they are. Is it you? Go ahead. Take a little peek.
Stand in front of the mirror, sans drawers. Can you see a triangle or semblance thereof? If so, congratulations. You are not a member of the trap door tribe!
If you’ve lost yours, and you have to unhinge the flap that is your gut to see your va hoo hoo. We’ve got some work to do.
I say we because I was there once upon a time (a very recent time). All I saw was a half moon sliver like the Cheshire Cat. Those milkshakes brought all the fat cells to the yard and they spilled over the river and through the woods too.
Now, I use the size of the triangle as a way to measure my gut’s obtrusiveness levels. When levels get low, it’s off to the gym I go. (I know my trainer is like, stop lying! I haven’t seen you in more than a month!)
I wish that I had a better self-concept that would allow me to be more upset and ready to work out at smaller emergencies. Some women tell themselves to stop eating fried foods when their pants get tight. I tell myself sweet little lies like, “Oh, I must have washed these pants on hot and then dried them . . . all thirteen pair of them.”
By the time my gut has gone so far out that it falls down, it’s quite late. I’m going to start looking around for some information about ways to change my mind about my body.
Actually, I am reading The Engine 2 Diet by Rip Esselstyn, son of Dr. Caldwell Esselstyn, baby daddy and husband (it’s legit!) of Anne Esselstyn and mac daddy of vegetables everywhere. His clinical research and diet have both prevented and reversed heart disease through the power of plant-based eating.
Technically, I have started the diet. By technically I mean that I read the words “Week 1: Dairy and Processed Foods”, interpreted that to mean that during this week I should cut out dairy and processed meats and have proceeded to avoid dairy outright.
Does Krispy Kreme and Ghiradelli count as processed food or dairy? Probably. But since I didn’t actually read the chapter yet, I don’t know that for sure. And what you don’t know for sure, you shouldn’t assume. So, don’t be over there assuming that you know that I shouldn’t be eating donuts and brownies unless you actually read the book. If you read the book, don’t ruin the ending! Don’t be that guy.
Somebody help me.
Bittersweetly,
Eva
Monday, November 26, 2012
Tomorrow I go back to work! Ugh. I know that I am supposed to feel grateful and glad that I have a job in this recession. However, I don’t. I feel like I already know what’s about to happen tomorrow—and it aint’ pretty.
Tomorrow, I will get up. I will drag myself to work late. I will push through another day and get into the groove around noon. I will make it through. I will eat out because I did not cook anything this evening.
I will go home, play, and fuss with the dogs.
I will feel heavy and moody. I will feel low and temporarily gleeful over something small like the glitter in my nails. Then, I will go to sleep so I can repeat this on Wednesday and Thursday night.
On Friday, I might drink a little to feel like I am doing something new. However, I will simply be continuing another cycle, albeit weekly.
The beating in my chest to do something different is so loud but the concrete in my feet is so . . . Heavy? Normal? Comfortable? I just sit and complain.
What in the 60 minutes is wrong with me?
P.S. I also decided to eat very nearly an entire dozen brownies within the last 24 hours. Oh, and almost a dozen donuts. I am unsure of whether their powers combined are responsible for the slime of dreariness that is coating my insides. I feel gross, low, and utterly drained. However, I could eat more. (In fact I did. I had Moe’s Billy Barou nachos with steak a couple of hours ago.)
Bittersweetly,
Eva
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Yesterday, I bought a size 18 dress for my high school graduation. I worried about acne, making friends in college, and whether I’d ever have a boyfriend.
This morning, I woke up to a size 28 body. Then, I worried about acne, making friends, and whether I’d ever find a husband . . . or what the (if-only-there-were-an-expletive-strong-en
ough) happened to the last decade of my life.
In ten years, I have dug the deepest, darkest rut EVER.
When I try to jump out of the rut, my gut, who is the boss of me, grabs me by my waist and slams me back to earth.
When I try to climb out of the rut by one leg at a time, the chorus of fat that lives in my thunder thighs swells and shouts, “My name is Charlie! Last name, Horse!” Rather than catch a cramp, I stay cramped, stay put, and in the rut.
When I try to pull myself out of the rut using my upper body, my arms pop out like imitation Barbie dolls’. Unfortunately, instead of bulbous armpit joints, that roundness where my biceps used to be is a concoction a la O’Neal Ron Morris, but instead of Fix-a-Flat, I’ve injected Fix-a-Fry, Fix-a-Plate, and Fix-Myself-Some-Seconds. I know I’m not ready for this jelly.
Yesterday, (the real yesterday, not the decade ago yesterday), I did a jumping jack. It was more like a trampoline jack because when I stopped jumping my rolls kept bouncing. I did a mountain climber that felt more like a ski lift because my butt and thighs avalanched well after both of my feet were firmly on the carpet.
This SUCKS!
When I look in the mirror, I see a face I don’t recognize, as though time painted tiny cracks in the youth of my face and gravity has been using my chin as its uneven bars. There are two chins now (and I had to take out the tweezers on the second one!)
I would like to say that I am a Christian so I am happy, a middle class woman so I am content, or an American so I continue to dream, but I feel none of that. I feel adrift. I feel flat, and I feel bitter about feeling like I did everything right and ended up in a place so very wrong.
This blog is about getting back to a place that’s sweet and wearing a size that at least starts with a one.
Sheez.
-- Eva
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
OK, so I finally got my calories under wraps today. Normally, I let them hang out like a third and fourth boob from a too-tight bra, but today I had them all neat, tidy, and close to my chest. Alas, I cannot celebrate because as that one area fell into place, all the others started jutting out.
And by all, I mean all the others. My nutritional report looks more raggedy than Anne and Andy’s redheaded stepchild. I’ve got bulges, buckles, and broken limits all over the place.
Calories—check. . . Protein—check . . . fat—do a triple check. I ate 91 grams of fat today! That’s the number of fat grams in an Angry Triple Whopper; I’m just angry that I didn’t get to enjoy one but still ended up with the same tally. That sucks.
Sodium= 4897 mg. I am the walking, talking, Great Salt Lake. I could float on top of myself. Wait, I’m doing it now. Sheesh.
Of course, my fiber couldn’t keep up with all of its bad siblings and be an overachiever. Instead this little guy decided to underperform. After being on target since Saturday, my fiber decided to chicken out today—literally, since eating too man chicken wings and not enough veggies can explain why this number was so low today.
I suppose I should focus on the good of it all, and I will: There it is. Yes, it is so great, but if you’ll look right behind that folks, you’ll see the part that really sucks too.
The fact is my diet blows because I’m the one blowing it. Still, it’s getting a little bit better each day. . . I still haven’t gone to a fast food restaurant. Small changes like that are what keep me going.
Still striving,
Eva
Sunday, October 25, 2009
OK. I have fully discovered the deliciousness of food, but I have yet to understand the reasoning of my stomach. I normally don’t get really hungry until 4 to 5 pm in the afternoon. It seems like right about then, my stomach becomes a ravenous monster that cannot be filled. I literally go into a feeding frenzy.
I have contemplated eating the most mundane and insane of things at those times—5,000 calories worth of sausage, food from two different fast food chains, animals from the land and the sea, among other strange combinations.
If women can’t control their biological clock, then how am I supposed to control the time bomb that comes alive every day through my appetite? Most days I’m not hungry at breakfast or even at lunch, but each afternoon whether I’m at work or savoring a day off, I feel like I have to eat everything in the house.
Really, at those times I have entered nearly trance like states while watching restaurant ads. I have dreamt of being beamed through the screen so that I, like the true food addict I know I am, could be solicited to do anything for a Klondike. Baby, that would be one hell of a commercial.
Over the last week of my charting and tracking my eating, I’ve seen that I eat nearly ½ of my calories at dinner. I know that’s not healthy for me, but how else can I feel satisfied? They say I should use a smaller dinner plate, but that doesn’t help if I just refill it three times.
I dream of a supper of single servings and superb satisfaction.
Until then, stay sweet.
Eva
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