Definition of irony: In celebration of hitting the 20-lb. weight loss mark on Day 22, you put on a brand new outfit (smaller sizes!), with new earrings that accentuate your cute new haircut. Then you look in the mirror and discover you have a raging case of pinkeye. So much for the new eye makeup.
Sigh. Well, it could be worse. I could have gotten my period.
Sunglasses look cool indoors, right?
P.S. 20 POUNDS!!!
Just in case you really *are* checking up on me … 
Today is Day 7 since my last visit with you. If you read my previous post, you know I really took our discussion to heart. I’m not afraid of dying, but I HATE knowing I couldn’t run like hell in the event of attack by zombies. I would be the first to get eaten, and that upsets me. Plus, I have a deep phobia about being left in a vegetative state by a stroke. So I am serious as a heart attack about reclaiming my fitness before it’s too late.
As you commented, I am very much a person of absolutes. Yes or no, not maybe. Black or white, not gray. Things have to be this way or that way, nothing in between. Hence my decision to quit blogging completely. Once I saw that pie chart thing showing how much of my time was actually spent online I knew I had to make changes, and being me, I went straight to the extreme. NO blogging. NO reading blogs. This past weekend, I actually used a timer to limit my computer use. I’ve also made a real effort to re-open communications with my family members and pre-bloglife friends. And we did get out of the house some this weekend, shopping at actual stores instead of online. See? I’m working on it!
However, since it doesn’t matter what I’m doing on the computer as long as I stay within my daily time limit, I’ve decided not to shut down Pseudotherapy completely. One of my friends recommended occasional posting as an alternative to disappearing altogether, and another suggested challenging myself to write posts within a specific timeframe. That one might actually help me to become less obsessive about “perfecting” what I write, don’t you think? I’ll have to see how those work for me, and how successful I am at policing myself.
The bad news is I couldn’t bring myself to do the gym membership, but I did get an exercise DVD to try (I KNOW, no social interaction, but also no public humiliation). And! I have actually remembered to take the lovastatin for four straight days, woo hoo!!! I set the bottle in front of my monitor. 
See you in October, Dr. B!
Sometimes I do such stupid things I seriously think they need to make room for me in the hammer bag.
Yesterday, I snipped off a skin tag with nail clippers. You know what skin tags are, right? Creepy little pieces of skin that just suddenly appear on your body. If you don’t get them, consider yourself lucky. Although ugly, they’re usually harmless, but this particular one happened to form right where my bra band sits. It was constantly getting irritated and sore, and I was fed up with it. I’d been twisting it and picking at it for days, trying to make it shrivel and fall off. No luck, so I decided to take more drastic measures.
Of course I sterilized the clippers AND the site; do you think I’m stupid? Don’t answer that. And I was careful to position the clippers right up against my skin at the base of the tag. And then I snipped.
OH MY GOD it hurt. BUT … it did not come completely off. Apparently the clippers weren’t sharp enough. I was cut, bleeding, but the skin tag was still hanging on. I had to clip it again, and then yank to pull it off. It tore off more skin than I’d intended. And then the blood GUSHED. Holy fucking shit, did it bleed. I was trying to swab it with peroxide, but the blood was soaking the cotton pads as fast as I could apply them. I started grabbing washcloths out of the cabinet to staunch the flow. It just wouldn’t stop. Panicking, I yelled for Bret. He ran in, stopping dead at the sight of me pressing blood-soaked washcloths against my side, red drops and dribbles all over the cabinet and floor.
I like to think he yelled that loud because he was momentarily frightened. I don’t believe he really thinks I’m a stupendously fucktarded dickwit. He was just taken aback, don’t you think? At any rate, he performed some spectacular first aid, slandering my intelligence all the while. Alcohol was applied profusely, followed by an ice pack wrapped in dry cloths, and pressure while I rested on the bed. After about 30 minutes, the bleeding finally stopped. We didn’t have any bandaging supplies, so Bret used scotch tape to hold a panty shield over the wound. [Note: Do not EVER do this.]
I’m sore today, but other than the rash caused by the scotch tape, everything seems to be healing nicely. The excision site looks rather like an oversized cigarette burn. I’m applying Neosporin regularly to prevent infection. And yes, I definitely learned my lesson.
But! The icky skin tag is GONE.
I’ve seen several of these here and there around the blogiverse, but wasn’t inspired to write one myself until I read Miss Britt’s. My version didn’t come out the way I’d expected, but at least it’s honest.
* * * * *
Dear Body,
I wish I didn’t hate you.
I wish I could give you the unconditional love I so easily lavish on my family and friends. But we both know I’ve disliked you for years and years. Pretty much from the beginning, truth be told. I’ve always resented how weak you are, how you kept trying to kill us when I was too small to fight back. I guess I was stronger than I thought, because we survived every attack ? even when you ambushed me on a transatlantic flight and they had to land the plane in a foreign country to save us. And for the record, I’m sorry I tried to kill you when we were 17. Thanks for not giving in.
I think the problem with us is we’re simply incompatible. We don’t fulfill each other’s needs. You need someone who’s strong and determined and likes to be active, to balance your natural tendencies toward obesity. That’s definitely not me. On the other hand, I want a body that functions flawlessly, remaining fit and healthy with no effort on my part. Oh, I know you always argue that that’s an impossible dream. But the thing is, I know people like that ? people whose bodies do exactly that. They never have to exercise or think about what they’re eating, yet they look and feel awesome. I don’t mean to hurt you, Body, but that’s what I want. I don’t like having to constantly do things I dislike just because of you. Frankly, I don’t think it’s fair.
Speaking of fair, what the hell did you have against having a baby? You knew how badly I’d wanted a big family, and how long I had to wait to have a child. Couldn’t you have cooperated a bit? Did you have to make every single minute of our pregnancy absolute misery? Honestly, you reacted like you were allergic to motherhood or something, keeping us physically ill the entire time. If it hadn’t been for the Bendectin, we literally could not have gotten out of bed every day. Not to mention your attempts to keep her from coming into the world. You must have been thrilled when the doctor told us “No more.” Yeah, thanks for that.
I admit, our problems aren’t all your fault. I know I am much too cerebral. I’m aware that I neglect you and ignore your needs. I do try sometimes, but what you need for optimum health is so contrary to my preferences that I can never stick with the program very long. Every 30-minute walk is a half-hour I could be online looking at porn. And I still don’t understand why you can’t process certain foods without extracting the calories from them. I mean, how hard would it be to just let the chocolate slide through without absorption? You do it with corn all the time.
Body, we have got to find some way to live together. With any luck, we’ve got 40 or 50 more years ahead of us, and this constant sabotage of each other has got to stop. We’re both going to have to be more flexible (heh). I’ve been reading up on yoga, and I’m thinking it might be a good place for us to start. I think we need to first achieve inner peace and harmony before we tackle the physical changes. I think … what? What do you mean that’s my problem, thinking too much?!?! Funny, you never complain when I’m thinking about sex! … Ahem, as I was saying, I think we need to achieve inner balance. Body and Mind, living together in perfect harmony. You know, like Michael Jackson and Paul McCartney. So start psyching yourself up, Body, because I’m ordering Yoga For Beginners tonight.
Zen-like hugs and chocolate kisses,
Mind
[tags]Yoga, Zen, balance, chocolate, I hate myself for hating you[/tags]
I had a lot of creative work to do this weekend, and it wasn’t a good time for it. We had a huge (by California standards) rainstorm Friday, followed by downright nippy temperatures all weekend. I was infected with the Yule spirit, and wanted to be out Christmas shopping, or decorating our place, or better yet, some of each. Unfortunately, this is rent-paying weekend, so spending money for anything else was out of the question. Instead, I decided to decorate Pseudotherapy for the holidays, a pastime more in keeping with our budget. I had a particular theme in mind, requiring a certain type of artwork, but was having no luck with any of my searchable subscription resources. That meant I’d have to wade through the freebies, which could take hours. Ugh. Not fun, even with holiday tunes playing in the background.
Sometime in the evening, I happened across the artwork above, and found myself utterly charmed by it. Or rather, by her. Not that “Lemonade Girl” by the talented Jodee Rose was in any way suited for my purpose. Not even close. But she’s just so dang cute. She looks warm and friendly, and utterly comfortable in her own skin. She looks like someone I’d like to know. On second thought, she looks like someone I’d like to be.
I continued on with my search, but every now and then I’d click back over to the tab I’d left LG in and look at her some more. I found her immensely appealing ? the smiling sweetness of her round face, the voluptuous fullness of her generous curves, the plumpness of her thighs . . . . Wait now. Wait just a minute here. When and how did plump thighs ever by any stretch of the imagination become appealing?!?!
I don’t know when it happened, but my concept of the ideal woman has definitely changed. I used to fantasize about looking like Susanna Hoffs, tiny and exotic. Then it was Demi Moore for awhile, more recently Monica Bellucci. You’ll notice none of these women have even a hint of plumpness to them. But lately when I imagine my “perfect” self, there’s more meat on my bones. Lush curves instead of lean lines. More hourglass, less swizzle stick. Don’t get me wrong, I certainly want to be physically fit ? but I do not want to look hard and sinewy like Madonna. Just because you have muscles doesn’t mean they should be your defining feature. I like being a girl, and I’d rather look soft and cuddly than tough and stringy.
Could this mean I’ve taken a step toward acceptance of my natural body type? And if so, can the apocalypse be far behind?
Come to think of it, I’ve always been a big fan of pillows.
[tags]Fat, BBW, curves, real women[/tags]
