February 28
 

Ignore how it appears:  my eyes really DO almost always look in the same direction.
 
 
 

I learned a lesson this morning, one I will share with all of you.  The moonroof is a valuable tool in the fine art of flipping people off. What? You thought I had an IMPORTANT valuable lesson to share?  Peh! This is me we're talking about.  I don't want to teach you important stuff, that's what them book things and that there picture box are for.
 
 

I'm Not Afraid to Tell an Embarrassing Story, Nosiree:

I know that I occasionally write about my weight and my varying degrees of satisfaction or (more often) dissatisfaction of the way I look and/or feel.  Obviously, since I take photos of myself sitting at my desk at work, you don't see the whole picture, which is for the best.  You think I kid?  I don't kid.  Point in case:  at this year's JournalCon, I'd just finished speaking on a panel, and was kind of mingling around.  Someone (Hi, Someone! You know who you are!)  walked over to me and said (this is an abbreviation.  If you want the whole conversation, you'd best ask Jessamyn. I think she enjoys telling the story because it's one of those things where you're left wondering to yourself "Wow, did that person really just say that? Holy shit. They DID!")  "You know, I know you write a lot about how heavy you are in your journal, and I didn't really believe you until I saw you in person!"  Yep.  To me.  I managed to stammer out a "Uhh..."  before I extracted myself from the scene.  You know what?  I KNOW that.  The extremely rude behaivor with me (also, if you must know--it was completely a case of pot and kettle.) was carried out over the course of the entire weekend with almost everyone, and after any kind of interaction with said person, people were kind of like "Wow, is that person retarded?"  (again, you may want to consult with Jessamyn for the "ISH" story.  Go on, you know you want to.)

Anyhow, it's a noshitter.  When I started this journal, I was much, much thinner.  And that's fine, except it's not.  If you've been following me since I started in 99, you may or may not recall that I'd made a date with a personal trainer at the gym, but bailed on the actual first day of training because I'd spent the night before drinking MINDERASERS with Nicole and was afraid of hurling all over the machines.  Bad beginning.

I was a moron, actually, for not following up with that for many reasons, the least of which being that, well, I got THROUGH the embarrassing part--where he went at me with the callipers and measured my, uh, rolls, where I got on the scale and went face to face with it.  Where I did x many pushups and he sat me down on a bike to see what my heart rate was, blah blah blah.  All this, 3 years ago. WHEN I WAS FIT.  See what the issue is now?

Factor in 2.5 years of almost entirely sedentary behavior and you'll see where I am, right now, 2002.  I hate talking about this kind of shit, too, because I find it unspeakably boring.  Are you fat?  Lose weight! Stop eating!  Whatever.  I know, I know.  So, I'm going back to see a trainer. I thought 2.5 years ago, having that guy tell me my body fat percentage was bad?  That getting on the scale was bad?  That pushups were bad?  Man.

I'm all inventing a Scared Straight scenario in my head (for the uninformed, scared straight is a program in which young punk ass kids on the path to no good are tossed into a jail with horrible criminal types who scream at them and tell them horrible stories until the kids are crying for their mothers and begging not to die).  I see myself and this guy chasing me with a plate of fat and a photograph of myself in one hand, and like, a dumbbell and a carrot in the other. "LOOK AT THIS PHOTO, FATTY! LOOK AT IT! Go on!! THIS IS YOUR FLABBY PAST!!  LOOK AT THIS FAT, FATTY!! LOOK!! THIS REPRESENTS ONE FRIED DUMPLING!!  IS IT WORTH IT?? DO YOU WANT THIS ON YOUR ASS, TUBBY??  DO YOU??  CHOOSE THE WAY OF THE VEGETABLE, MY FRIEND! YOU WILL THANK ME!! AAAHHH!!!"  and me slumping to the floor in a quivering, sobbing heap in my crosstrainers and sweatshirt, water bottle rolling away.
 

I'm sure I'm overstating what will be, but damn, it's going to be ugly for a while.  However, I make this promise to you, today, right off the bat:  I will not write about what I do not eat, or the reps I will do, or how long I spent on the crosstrainer.  I mean, I'm on the crosstrainer now (not now LITERALLY, because that would be quite a feat, no?  I type! I exercise!  I am WONDERGIRL!) and I don't tell you about it! There are plenty of workout and weight loss journals out there, and this will never be one of them.  I'll stick to what I do best, which is giving people the finger and writing about the freaks around us.
 
 
 
 

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