That's going to become the title of my blog, I think. And I shall sign all my posts "Heifer."
I'm fat, is what I'm indicating there.
You're shocked, I know.
Of course, I'm always fat, so this is not new news to any of us, and I'm really no fatter now than any other day, but some days the magnitude of the fatness seems... well... bigger. It hits me harder.
I've been feeling crappier about myself than I have in a long time. A long, long time. Maybe it's because "Forty-Three" is approaching soon and my goal in my late thirties was to have all my weight off by 40. Big, big FAIL. Then last year, I was supposed to lose all the weight for my son's wedding. Remember that? Yeah. Ummm... Huge FAIL.
Or maybe it's just because I look like crap. Yeah, that could be it. I may be onto something with that one.
I was at the mall today, buying school clothes for the kids and saw an adorable shirt I would have liked to get for myself. Loved, loved, LOVED it. The problem? I was in one of those ridiculous teenager-y kinds of stores, where there are huge pictures of really hot, half-naked young people, locked in passionate poses, hanging all over the place, and where everything is sized in miniature, you know? *Large* actually means maybe a size 8, or something. XL is like a size 8.3. Usually, I wouldn't even see anything in those kinds of stores that would catch my eye. My taste really isn't "Teen Ho-bag." So, I either keep myself busy helping the kid find something, or I'm trying to zone out and remain in my happy place, while I wait patiently for us to leave the store and its booming, crappy music behind (oh, man... that sounded so OLD). But this shirt was sooo cute- not at all the popular "I Aspire to Become a Prostitute When I Grow Up" style. So I pointed out the shirt to the girl behind the register (she was a fat girl, too) and asked if there was any chance in Hades that the shirt would fit me. She said probably not. Of course. She said she'd given up trying anything on in that store, because nothing fits.
I don't want to shop at flippin' fat chick stores. I don't like "fat chick" clothes. They're not cute. I want cute.
I'm not cute.
My skin looks like I'm 49. My hair is crap. And... is it falling out? Why, yes. I believe it is. Thank you for asking. My body is crap. I am crap. Is this a mid-life crisis I'm having here? Do I need to buy a sports car? Hope not. I can't afford one. I'm old and poor AND fat. Jeez. I can't catch a break.
Please don't mistake my remarks as a manipulative ploy to get you all to say, "Oh, no- you look great." That's not what I want. I don't want anything. I just want to sit here and blow up balloons for my pity party until I'm lightheaded and half sick, and complain and be a big baby. And of course, I mean "big" in the literal sense. Tomorrow I will probably feel better... Right?
Yeah... tomorrow will be better.
Um, not to treat you like a dufus, or anything, but that last part was dripping with sarcasm, in case you missed it.