Why do all my blogs reference washing machines? I can’t be sure. Trying to clean up my act? Perhaps. You know Sisters in Fat is where I live….24/7. Once a SIF always a SIF. Fact. If I thought for one minute I could kill the demon inside keeping me “fat” don’t you think I would have put a cap in that bitch by now? For reals! She owns me. I blame Mother…it’s what I do. You get half your genes from your father and the other half from Mother. My Mother. Yes, she is responsible for your genetic failures as well as mine. If there were some sort of genetic sequencing for this madness, gene #43279 would come up with a picture of her. While I realize this may be cause for confusion, now you know. Father wasn’t cheating. Mother’s genes are just that strong. Off on a tangent once again. Shocked not shocked. I am lost in the spin cycle. Have been for oh I don’t know….going on 51 years. I should be the cleanest person you know. Yet I’m a dirty whore to the core. I can’t get clean. Every Sunday I push the reset button that somehow gets confused with the rinse/repeat cycle. Things just aren’t what they use to be. Now I sound like her….Jesus take the actual wheel….
I want to do good. Really I do. I just don’t see the world like “inner skinnies” do. They see food as a means to stay alive. I see food like John Travolta in “Stayin Alive”…I will straight gyrate everything from the waist down for a whoopie pie. Fact. If you don’t get that kind of excited by food you are not my people. It puts me in a bit of a pickle quite frankly. It’s a shad socially awkward to bust a move in the pickle aisle. What? Who doesn’t love the pickle? There’s a pickle for every mood. Feeling like you need a friend? Someone sweet to comfort you… reassure you everything’s going to be ok? Oh honey…grab you some bread and butter pickles! A friend in a jar that’s what they are. Not shocking or bitter. They wrap the pallet in pickle zen. Having a rough week and need a good stiffy? Girl grab you the real dill….one bite of that crispy hardness will have you screaming for more. Clearly I have issues. Don’t get me started on the olives. I shop early. Less attention that way. Anywho, where was I? Oh yeh….spinning out of control. It’s what I do.
I am exhausted. That’s what I am. Every Monday “New Me” emerges for a few hours. Usually taken down by the asshole who brings donuts to the office or the client that forces me to eat fried chickens. Yes I meant that to be plural. I actually have clients that give me plural issues. I wake up with so much intent. Usually hungover and craving a chicken biscuit but I power through. A nice round of cardio, protein shake and wide awake dreams of anything scalding in grease. Yet, I rally. Most of the time I can make it to 5pm. When this happens I put on my pajamas and go straight to bed. I can’t be trusted when I’m awake. So that’s my diet plan. I stay awake long enough not to cheat. I fear more men should get on my program. *Mental note – write men’s book on how not to cheat* I digress. The time change is not my friend. When it’s dark at 4pm it’s somewhat socially acceptable to go to bed at 4pm. Not so much when it’s broad daylight. How do I explain to my husband in order to lose weight I in fact need to be asleep. Now there’s a diet pill idea! “Sleep for 30 days and wake up skinny!” The only thing I haven’t tried quite frankly. So many factors working against me…daylight, co-workers, clients….how is a girl to get ahead?
I thought about switching to “New Me Tuesday.” It lacks curb appeal. There’s always “Try again Tuesday.” Makes me feel bad about myself. “When are you ever going to lose weight Wednesday? “To bad it’s not Monday Thursday.” “For Fuck sake it’s Friday.” I could go on. I won’t. There’s no day of the week quite as promising as “New Me Monday.” Yet for some reason I find it easier to reinvent myself every freakin week. It’s like running a marathon only to get to the end to see a sign that says “Turn around and do it again.” Running is dead to me. I need consistency. So I’m drinking wine and eating pasta on Monday night at 7:30pm. Well past my fasting cutoff and “no drinking during the week” nonsense. I’m wondering what would happen if I broke all the rules and let my body tell me what it wants. A hard look in the mirror answers that question. It wants to be 110 pounds as much as it wants to bone Little Debbie. So here I am. Stuck spinning. Well there’s always tomorrow I suppose….