So I'd lost my game. I had no big plans for Friday night. I was frustrated because I'd been sabotaging myself on Weight Watchers for the better part of three weeks. I was no longer the woman who had lost 11.4 pounds who was really beginning to rock her sense of feeling different and awesome. I went home to my messy apartment, fully prepared to wallow, but was hit by a burst of kismet-tinged energy and started cleaning up my living room instead. In case you're wondering, I will TOTALLY win retirement because I am an excellent putterer.
By the end of the weekend, my living room looked so good (aside from the dusty floors that I still need to attack with the delicious-smelling Murphy's Oil Soap and my new mop) that I wanted to have sex with it. My new-to-me chair (the ownership of which has done wonders for my psychological state as I'm beginning to feel like a Real Adult with Real Furniture™) was in one corner. I moved a desk that Sterling and Steele had given me into another corner, hung up some art, and started organizing things. Library books here. Weight Watchers materials here. Things to take to work (like the four million office pens that end up strewn about my abode) stacked here. CDs to go through here. It didn't matter that I was broke or that my hair was tangled. I was starting to rediscover my living space and, by proxy, myself. The cherry on the sundae that was my surprisingly pleasant evening was spending some time journaling. I'd been avoiding writing for Goddess knows how long, which I knew meant I had something big to work through. I didn't tackle any major issues that night, but I got the ball rolling. Life was getting better.
After sleeping fitfully, I woke at 9:30 on Saturday morning. I technically had time to make it to Weight Watchers, but I decided not to go. I was still knocked-out tired and not in the mood to perform any ablutions at light speed just to get weighed and probably find out I'd gained back more of the weight I'd worked so hard to lose. I went back to bed for a bit and scooted out the door in time to go to Target before the wedding shower that began at 2:00 PM. Once at the store, I printed out the soon-to-be-marrieds gift registry. I found a gift. I found a non-nauseating card, which was difficult. One of the cards I read actually said something like 'congratulations on all your dreams coming true.' Perhaps I am but a single gal, garnished with a small side of bitter, but last time I checked, marriage was two people getting together and being skip-through-the-daisies-happy-in-love with a joint checking account, not Ed McMahon at your door with a check from the Publishers Clearinghouse Sweepstakes.
Gift and card in hand, I headed for the checkout. I grabbed two Snickers bars (I know, I know), which I justified because I hadn't had breakfast, the right side of my head was throbbing from a hunger headache, and I had no guarantee there would be any food served at the wedding shower. (Of course there was, but one doesn't want to assume, especially when one has a chance to grab and consume a Snickers bar or two on the way to the festivities.) I grabbed a Diet Coke. I plunked everything down. The clerk rang me up. I made sure the gift would come off the registry (something about the word FULFILLED to the side of the requested gift made my nether regions tingle in anticipation). I opened my wallet. And found out I was sans debit card. No cash. No credit card. Nothing. I didn't even have something worth bartering. ("C'mon! A Blockbuster membership card is TOTALLY acceptable currency!") Dumbfounded, I stood at the register for a minute. Though I knew it would do no good, I rifled through everything in my wallet. Finally, embarrassed, I told the clerk I would have to come back. She hit a key to void the transaction and I grabbed the Diet Coke That Was Not Mine and started to leave. Milliseconds later, but not before I saw the clerk start to react, probably screaming SECURITY! in her head, I said, "Whoa, that's not mine!" and left the store. I didn't have time to go home, go back to Target, and get to the shower without being at least an hour late. I was bummed. Though I was excited about the gift I'd picked out (and was even more excited later in the afternoon when I realized my choice would've been the perfect complement to another gift the loving couple received), I think I was more bummed that I couldn't have the Snickers bars. What? I WAS HUNGRY.
I got to the wedding shower and tried not to trip over my tongue apologizing for showing up empty-handed. Every person who walked through the door with their silvery packages, multicolored ribbons dribbling from hospital-corner-sharp edges reminded me that I was a broke, forgetful LOSER. I made small talk and met some of my friends' friends. Eventually, I approached the table that was covered in delectable-looking food including tiny sandwiches (Yes! Love!), brownies, and fruit salad. I kept my hunger in check though I wanted to jump and land on the table face first, jaws agape, and eat until the buttons popped off the pants of everyone in the room.
A couple hours later, the brides were wearing matching white baseball caps that said BRIDE in faux-rhinestone sparkliness. My hunger headache had abated. Presents were opened. Wedding vow Mad Libs were created.
After the shower, I fled home and continued cleaning my apartment. I re-watched some movies I have on DVD, including Pulp Fiction with the trivia track turned on. I love learning little nuances of films, like finding out that the Red Apple cigarettes that Bruce Willis' character smokes are a made-up brand. It just tickles me, both as a writer and as someone who has long been interested in making a film.
Night fell and after an hour or so, I realized I'd only seen Gizmo traipsing back and forth in the house. I began looking for George, to no avail. Not in the windowsills. Not in the basement. Not lounging on my bed. Instinctively, I knew she was outside. I'd left the back porch's door open to let the windowless room air out. I've known since I started doing that that my cats go outside, but they've always come back. Now I began to regret leaving the door open. After checking around the house, I glanced out the front door to make sure George wasn't in the street, having been mowed down by one of the asswipes who uses my neighborhood as a drag strip. Satisfied, I grabbed a flashlight and went outside calling George by her many pet (no pun intended) names. A few moments later, I heard rustling in the bushes across from the back door. Somehow I knew it was George, although I did have a frightening moment where I wondered if a rabid raccoon was about to leap out of the bushes and onto me, which would have resulted in simultaneous throwing up, crying, and running screaming down the street. Luckily, however, George poked her head out of the bushes. It was then I noticed the neighbors' Siamese off to the side and doing that throaty cat growl that was apparently terrorizing my poor kitty.
MAMA. BEAR. MODE. ON.
I stepped between the Siamese and my traumatized baby, picked her up and put her inside, and then scolded the mean cat for being a bully and told him to go home. It was beyond surreal to hear my mother's voice come out of my mouth, but there it was: You leave my child alone! Now I know the back door either needs to stay closed or George needs to learn some karate skills.
On Sunday, I was up before 8:00 AM, much to my surprise. I watched Lolita, which I had never seen or read. Obviously, I knew some of the story, but not the, erm, intimate details, such as the time period of the story. I thought it took place in the '20s. (Though it starts there, most of the story takes place in the late '40s.) I enjoyed the movie, probably mostly because I love Jeremy Irons. He plays tortured so well. Check out Damage if you haven't already. Tortured man at his finest.
After the movie, I ordered pizza (shut it; I wasn't ready to put on pants and go to the store and I was still not in a Weight Watchers state of mind). I forgot that the delivery guy who looks like Ving Rhames' twin (and apparently has a thing for me as he calls me sweetheart and darling) works for the pizza place. He playfully scolded me for stepping out on him and ordering pizza from some other company. It was all cute and it's funny to get hit on but I was preoccupied with wanting to say something about having been on WW for six weeks and happy about breaking my ties (and apparent, -eye roll-, intimate relationships with restaurant representatives). I skipped over that -- he didn't need a dose of Food-Issue-Laden Crazy Fat Girl Ramblings to ruin his Sunday -- and went inside. With my far-too-expensive pizza. That did NOT TASTE GOOD AND WAS NOT WORTH THE MONEY. Okay, Goddess. Lesson learned and paid for (with Visa! Call now -- operators are standing by).
A short time later, the doorbell rang and I decided to answer it instead of ignoring it. Three guys who were recruiting for Obama were on the porch. One tried to hand me a sheaf of leaflets, which I refused only because I'd spent the weekend cleaning and carting trash out to The Dumpster In Which Something Has Clearly Died, Become a Zombie, Eaten Innocent Bystanders, Barfed Them Up, and Left Them to Rot. I informed the three I would be voting for Obama (true), and Clipboard Man said, "That's all we need to know." I was tempted to tell them I have upstairs neighbors who needed leaflets, simply because I know how much Betty Off Her Crocker hates solicitors. I know. I'm going to hell.
Some time later, I carted my journal and markers out to the porch and spent a couple hours writing. As this entry is already about twice as long as I intended, I'll just say that I finally stumbled upon an ah-ha moment about why I'd been sabotaging myself with Weight Watchers. Some back story: I've never known myself as a thin person. I have always been some version of heavy. When I was a kid, I was pudgy and outweighed my classmates by a good 50 pounds, if not more. I quickly learned I was both too tall and too fat and years of self-loathing and shame, etc. began. Since I have always been fat in some form, I don't know who I will be, if you will, as I lose weight. I have always been too big, even if I look back at pictures now and realize I wasn't quite as Jabba the Hut as I felt at the time. Had I BEEN a size six or 14 and gained a mass of weight after a marriage, baby, divorce, life, etc., I would know the woman who was emerging as the pounds came off. Instead, I've been my current size roughly since high school. That's 17 years of knowing who I am in this skin. I know what clothes fit, what places have seats I can and cannot fit into. I know how people treat me. I know how quickly most men avert eye contact. When I started to lose weight and began to feel, act, walk, etc., differently, I wasn't prepared for how I would feel. I didn't realize just how scary losing weight was going to be. This fat has been my shield for my entire life, only it's become useless. I used to think I was standing behind some kind of impenetrable armor and finally, recently, came to a conclusion: The armor isn't working. I'm not safe or protected from anything if my armor only keeps people out and makes me feel scared, insecure, unsafe, etc. A shield is but a useless piece of tin if it isn't protecting you from anything.
I've decided I want to take some dancing classes and get back to water aerobics. I need to make friends with my body. I didn't know who I was becoming as I began to drop pounds. The sum of who I am (no pun intended) has always been in the horrifying numbers that I weigh and as those numbers began to change, I didn't know what to do. I panicked -- all of this subconsciously, mind you -- and did what our parents commanded us to do when we were children: I didn't talk to the stranger and, in fact, moved away from her as fast as I could. The result? I spent a lot of money on food that doesn't taste that great and costs way too much money. I stopped going to the grocery store, stopped counting points, stopped going to WW meetings. I may have put all of my 11.4 lost pounds back on, or I might still be hovering around a four- or five-pound weight loss. I'll find out soon enough as I'm probably going to find a meeting to attend in the next day or so. I'm also going to meet Serena at WW this coming Saturday.
I was so incredibly cheesed at my ah-ha moment that I wrote for a while longer and gleefully thought the entire time I was writing about what I was going to share with my dear readers. (Seven! Subscribers! I have seven subscribers! Am fame-ish in BlogLand!) After I finished writing, I talked to Serena and shared my good news and then went for a short walk. I'm pleased to say my good mood has carried through to today; I'm getting ready to find a WW meeting I can go to before Saturday; and that I'm headed for the store for all manner of apples, salad, and nonfat yogurt. I'm back, baby, and it's all good.
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