closet shopping
I've been waiting for the click. The thing that will turn off the "not on a diet with a vengeance mode (also known as the "I CAN EAT WHATEVER THE FUCK I WANT, GOD FUCKING DAMMIT, and life is unfair!" plan) and switch back on that good feeling, the one that overwhelms you with its goodness. The one where you're eating healthily and exercising steadily, and you can't believe that there is any other way to feel, and any other way to be when you are in the midst of it.
It's kind of like that feeling you get when you're just plain happy – that sense that you can't imagine feeling any other way, ever, that unhappiness is some kind of terrible myth, and you'll never be like that again.
I have been eating the world, and waiting for the click over into determination and desire and go-to-itiveness, in a lazy, passive way, kind of disgusted that I had given up so easily, kind of horrified, but in a quiet, back-of-the-head sort of way, that I wasn't working to fix things, I was just waiting for things to get better. And I think, in a dumbass, dumbluck kind of way, it happened.
I do not, however, recommend you wait for it, though, because it hurts when it happens like this. Because it usually has something to do with a "my god, how did I let myself get like this," and a "my god, when did I start to look like that?" kind of thing.
It happened on Saturday, for me. Getting ready to go out, realizing nothing I had hanging up in the closet fit. I stood there, surrounded by clothing, and I didn't want to put anything on, because it would be too tight, or too short, or both, and make me feel even fatter, stupider, dumpier.
So I tore open the fat clothes bag, the one that had been sitting in the back of my closet for almost a year, the one I had been meaning and meaning and meaning to bring to Goodwill but never managed to – which is kind of interesting, psychologically speaking. And really fucking depressing.
Almost as depressing as the fact that no matter how cute the skirt that I dug out of that bag of fat clothes was, it was two sizes bigger than anything else I had been wearing, and it fit comfortably – maybe a little loose, maybe a little – but it fit.
And there we have it. A wake up call, a call to arms. A fit of despair.
I hate so much that it takes something drastic to shake me out of the downward spiral, that it takes being shamed into it, it takes vanity and a tag with an ugly number. Hello, brain - it couldn't have been feeling tired all the time, or having a little more trouble walking up the stairs, or the pants getting a little more snug? It couldn't have been some kind of early five pound signal, instead of this ridiculously late in the game oh my, goodness me, when did I gain 40 pounds?
At least, you could argue, it finally happened. Which I'm happy about, yes. I just don't have to be happy about how it happened.
It's kind of like that feeling you get when you're just plain happy – that sense that you can't imagine feeling any other way, ever, that unhappiness is some kind of terrible myth, and you'll never be like that again.
I have been eating the world, and waiting for the click over into determination and desire and go-to-itiveness, in a lazy, passive way, kind of disgusted that I had given up so easily, kind of horrified, but in a quiet, back-of-the-head sort of way, that I wasn't working to fix things, I was just waiting for things to get better. And I think, in a dumbass, dumbluck kind of way, it happened.
I do not, however, recommend you wait for it, though, because it hurts when it happens like this. Because it usually has something to do with a "my god, how did I let myself get like this," and a "my god, when did I start to look like that?" kind of thing.
It happened on Saturday, for me. Getting ready to go out, realizing nothing I had hanging up in the closet fit. I stood there, surrounded by clothing, and I didn't want to put anything on, because it would be too tight, or too short, or both, and make me feel even fatter, stupider, dumpier.
So I tore open the fat clothes bag, the one that had been sitting in the back of my closet for almost a year, the one I had been meaning and meaning and meaning to bring to Goodwill but never managed to – which is kind of interesting, psychologically speaking. And really fucking depressing.
Almost as depressing as the fact that no matter how cute the skirt that I dug out of that bag of fat clothes was, it was two sizes bigger than anything else I had been wearing, and it fit comfortably – maybe a little loose, maybe a little – but it fit.
And there we have it. A wake up call, a call to arms. A fit of despair.
I hate so much that it takes something drastic to shake me out of the downward spiral, that it takes being shamed into it, it takes vanity and a tag with an ugly number. Hello, brain - it couldn't have been feeling tired all the time, or having a little more trouble walking up the stairs, or the pants getting a little more snug? It couldn't have been some kind of early five pound signal, instead of this ridiculously late in the game oh my, goodness me, when did I gain 40 pounds?
At least, you could argue, it finally happened. Which I'm happy about, yes. I just don't have to be happy about how it happened.
This entry was posted by anne, on
Wednesday, November 10, 2004.
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