Um…no. I’m sorry to burst anyone’s bubble, but the “special contact mask” does NOT distract attention from the fact that I’m literally pushing a freaking needle into my finger. Y’know what would be great? How about a button that triggers the needle, instead of some fancy extra bit of plastic that has a ridiculous, super-impressed with itself name? There are days that I find myself staring at my fingers going, “Which one of you is gonna be the victim?” and then it takes me minutes to talk myself into pushing the needle into my finger. Sometimes the fact my stupid fat fingers require me to not use fine lancets make me truly sad.
A few posts ago, I shared this picture my friend Katy took…
Nerd points if you can figure out both of our rings!
I love this picture. It’s this cool testament to the nerds/geeks we are. I look at this picture and see the hands of two people who both waited a very long time for their “happily ever after.” (And the foot of a very awesome lady 😉 ) I see these two hands that fit so perfectly together, and are prepared to hold on to each other and fight to stay together.
These hands rock.
Now, nereek (there’s got to be a better, non-made-up word out there for geeky nerds) that I am, I want to share this picture with the world. So, my bright idea was to post it on Imgur. I was thinking, “Ooooo, fellow LOTR fans can see our cool rings!”
So…I posted…and the reaction wasn’t quite what I expected. It immediately got a bunch of down votes. Not because it’s not the best quality photo. Not because The One Ring is silver and not gold. It’s because I have fat fingers.
The hilarious thing is, my fingers have been fat for as long as I can remember. They’re a part of my body. If I spent time worrying over the fact that I have fat fingers (or just am fat period), I’d never get anything done…and I’d probably be in a padded room. Yes, I have a weight problem. Yes, I have short, stubby, fat fingers. Clearly the world has not stopped spinning due to this. The fact that people’s initial reaction to my photo is “Sausages” or “Toes” or anything else is kind of baffling to me. Seriously. They’re trying to be cruel, and yet they’re not saying anything that I’ve not thought at one point or another. If you’re going to be a bully, then at least come up with something clever and unique.
Last week I was talking with a friend, and they mentioned an acquaintance who was struggling with something. My friend kept telling me that this other person had bad stuff in their past, as an explanation for why this person is the way they are. Of course, this got me to thinking. Don’t we all have bad stuff in our past? Sure, my bad stuff may seem like nothing to you and vice versa, but at the end of the day, we all have things that have happened to us that have turned us into the people we are. When I was growing up, my mom would always tell me that I could either get bitter or better based on things that happened. Out of everything my mom has taught me, this has probably been the thing that has stuck with me the most.
The thing is, I’m a processor. Whenever something happens to me, I need time to process the situation. Now, depending on the event, my processing time may be anywhere from a few hours, to a few days, to several years. I’ve been processing something that happened years ago, and the conversation with my friend last week, kickstarted my brain back into functioning mode. I’ve been debating all weekend whether or not to write about this. I finally came to the conclusion that the things that I have buried in my life are only going to harm me as long as I chose not to face them and keep them buried inside. There’s freedom in talking about things. Because I don’t want to get sued, I’m not going to write out all details (like names or dates). Suffice it to say, what I’m about to talk about happened several years ago, and I have more fingers on my hands than people who know about this.
When I was growing up as a pastor’s kid, every Sunday I almost always found myself standing at the back of the church with my parents after service. We would greet the congregation as they filed out heading for their cars and their lunches. Part of this ritual involved having my hand shaken, and getting hugs from nearly everyone who passed through. I never gave much thought to this practice, it was just what we did.
One Sunday, as people were passing through, one of the guys (he was probably in his late 20’s) gave me this hug, and for the first time in my life I got seriously creeped out by a guy. I brushed it off, and told myself it was nothing.
Except it wasn’t.
The next few weeks, every Sunday this guy would make a bee-line for me, and give me a hug that was just a bit over the line and intimate. One week, I tried hiding behind my parents, but not make it obvious I was. Unfortunately, that didn’t dissuade him.
Finally, after about a month of this, things came to a head. I came up with a plan to avoid this guy. As the service ended one Sunday, and we were walking to the back of the sanctuary, I asked my dad if I could have his keys so I could go to his office. He fished them out, and I quickly made my exit. My plan was to lock myself in his office and hide until everyone had left. I had just stuck the key in the door when I heard someone say my name, and by instinct I turned. There stood the guy. “I didn’t get my hug.” he said. He then proceeded to push me into the place where the door met door frame and give me this hug that to this day makes my skin crawl. Now, other, smarter, more savvy kids would’ve fought and gone running. I was in such shock I just stood there frozen with a brain that wouldn’t work, at all. Just then, this guy’s brother-in-law walked in, and I was released. Creepy guy took off, and I finished unlocking the office door, ran in and shut and locked myself in.
Not long after that creepy guy and his wife stopped being around so much, and I didn’t get any more awful hugs.
Now, I’m sure you’re wondering why my parents didn’t do something. Truthfully, they didn’t know until a few years ago, long after all this happened. I never said one word about what happened, and mostly blocked it from my memory. I was certain that I must have been a bad person to have something like that happen. I was certain it was all my fault. I no longer believe it was my fault. I’m not the naive innocent little thing now that I was then. I now realize that this guy had problems, and I just happened to be someone he set his sights on.
I really thought I had pretty much dealt with this. Then, this last week, I started thinking about the fact that even though nothing truly “bad” happened (although, I firmly believe if his brother-in-law hadn’t walked in something bad would’ve happened), this quick moment changed a lot in my life. I really shut down emotionally. I used to be this person who cared about other people and wanted to help and take care of them. I was definitely an extrovert. Following the hug, I slowly became more and more internalized, and now I’m a full-blown introvert. I struggle to force myself to be around people. The biggest change, though, is this:
No, I’ve not been turned into a llama. I do, however, have major issues with being touched. There are 10 people (this isn’t an exaggeration, I can count them all on my fingers, no toes needed) I know that I am willing to let touch me without wanting to physically push them away and then go and shower. What I find alarming is the fact that as much as I want a guy in my life, the idea of being touched terrifies me (and let’s face it, physical touch is part of relationships). I’ve also come to realize that much as I hate how heavy I am, I’ve not mentally been into losing the weight. Sure, I’ve given it a good go, but my mind has never been connected with the program. I think I’ve been using my fat as a defense. While there are guys who don’t mind fat girls, most guys avoid them. Being avoided because I’m fat means that I’m not going to get touched.
I’m sick of this. I’m horrified that I’ve let someone else’s issues have such an invasive effect on my life. He was a slimy sleazo, and yet his actions have had more influence over me than I thought possible. I refuse to let him win anymore. I’m tuned in now. I’m worth more than I’ve chosen to believe, and it’s past time for this weight to come off.
Shortly before I turned 5, my family moved from Denver to a little town in southern Illinois. We took a long two cats, Gracie and Marshmallow, some gerbils, and some fish. Not long after we settled in, the neighbor’s cat came around to visit with her kittens. She did this everyday for a couple of days. It was late fall, and the weather was turning cool. Mom couldn’t stand it, and she started leaving out food. Pretty soon, the mamma cat stopped coming, and only one little kitten remained. Somehow mom and I convinced my dad that we needed to take the kitten in. So, into our lives came a third cat, which in my 5 year old wisdom I named, Andrew George Mittens the Third. Andrew came about because at the time I was convinced that “Andrew” was simply the greatest boy name in the world. George was attached because our cat Gracie was named after Gracie Allen, so I thought it was appropriate to name the boy cat after George Burns. Mittens was because he had little white paws that emerged from his tabby coat. I didn’t quite comprehend the fact that “the Third” referred to line of descendants. I just thought it fit since he was the third cat we had at the time. Anyway, Andrew, George, and the Third rarely got mentioned, and he came to be known as Mittens.
Mittens quickly grew from being a tiny pathetic kitten, into a bit of a behemoth. He remained this for as long as he was in my life.
The first year I was in 4-H, I decided to spend the year preparing my cat to be judged at the county fair. Owning him was as close to owning livestock as I was gonna get. When I took him to the fair, I had to take him up to a panel of judges which included a veterinarian. Things didn’t exactly go smoothly. Mittens decided it was a good time to hiss and be generally unsociable. My mom ended up coming and holding him in place. The vet was terrified of him. I think the fact that I wasn’t scared of something she was, is what got me a blue ribbon.
We discovered, one day by chance, that Mittens could be called by the sound of hysterical crying. We were watching an episode of Little House on the Prairie, and Mittens was nowhere around. In the episode, Nellie Olson started fake hysterical crying. Out of nowhere, Mittens lumbered in desperate to check on mom and I. He was certain something was wrong. He never failed to come when I was crying.
When I turned 9, I had a really bad case of pneumonia. It actually hit a few weeks before my 9th birthday, and lasted until the middle of February. I missed the better part of 3.5 months of 3rd grade. The night I was at my worst, was the day we had gone to the doctor. The doctor prescribed me meds, and told my mom that if I got worse, I had to be admitted to the hospital. That night, mom sat on my bed and pleaded with God. To say we were poor would be an understatement, and there was no way we could’ve afforded a hospital trip. All that night mom prayed, and like he had from when I started getting sick, Mittens sat attentively on the foot of my bed. I did start to slowly get better after that night, and didn’t have to go to the hospital. Two weeks later when we went to the doctor for a check-up, he was in shock. He told my mom that he had thoroughly anticipated that I would be in the hospital the night of my last visit. He also told her that he had expected that I would die in the hospital.
Mittens lived with us, and saw me almost all the way through my teenage years. He was fat, and precious, and crabby, and wonderful.
When I was a freshman in college, I was living several hundred miles away from home, and things at home took a bad turn. My parents moved, and they couldn’t take Mittens with them. So, he went to live with a neighbor. He was really old at that point, and not in the greatest health. I never got to say good-bye, but I think (or at least I hope) that he somehow knew that we loved him and didn’t leave him willingly.
I’m sure he’s gone on to kitty heaven by now, but I hope he knows how marvelous and how precious and how important he was in my life.
Good news or bad news first. Hmmmm….well….let’s get the negative stuff out of the way.
Bad news: I didn’t lose any weight this week.
Good news: I didn’t gain any weight.
I’ve got a myriad of excuses, but I’d rather not resort to them. I think my plateau is mainly due to the fact that I was lazy last week, and chose to be completely unhealthy over the weekend. And by “unhealthy,” I mean, “I ate and drank quite a bit more than I worked out.” Amazing how that whole skipping an exercise can totally screw with losing weight. However, I still refuse to give up. I’m just starting my fourth week, and to be honest I’m just happy that I’ve stuck with it this long. I really want to get out 3 months, six months, even a year and be able to look back and go “I’m smaller than I was!”
I’ve been reading this blog, written by a self-proclaimed “fat” woman over the last year, and I’ve found it really interesting. Unlike me, she’s not all about trying to lose the weight. Instead, she wants to work towards people having fat acceptance. She’s encourages her readers to be proud of themselves and their size. Honestly, I wish I could be brave like that. Sometimes I really struggle to remind myself that I am so much more than what the tag in my jeans say.
So, here I go into week 4! (That sounds cheesy. That’s okay, though, sometimes life needs cheese.)
Also, since there wasn’t any change in the weight, I’m choosing to not post my mugshots this week.
I was running really late last night, and didn’t manage to write a complete post. I mentioned that it wasn’t the greatest week in terms of exercise, but I was surprised when I weighed myself today.
I was talking with my mom this weekend and she mentioned that she got a kick out of my mugshots. Immediately, my brain kicked into panic mode trying to figure out what she meant. Turns out, she was referring to the pictures I’ve been uploading every week. One to the front, and one to the side. That got me to thinking about the fact that she wasn’t far off the mark, calling them “mugshots.” When you’re severely overweight, the weight really is a prison. You can’t wear the things you want to wear (although, thanks to stores like Torrid, there’s much more tasteful clothing than there used to be). You can’t always go places, because you don’t fit in the car for the carpool. You avoid being in photographs, because it’s just another reminder of how fat you are. You tend to avoid active sports, because you’re so self-conscious about how much your body is going to jiggle. You may even avoid hanging out with friends who are slender because they seem to constantly bring up the fact that they need to lose weight. Believe me there’s a big difference between 5 or 10 pounds and 105 or 110 pounds. I know it’s probably terrible of me, but sometimes I think it would be good if everyone in the world started out life massively overweight, just so there’d be more equality and understanding of how hard this really is.
Okay, I’m done venting, and I’m back on track with eating right and working out!
This mortal shell that holds my soul has enough flubber for Robin Williams to make a sequel. Unfortunately, when I look in a mirror or see a photo of myself I don’t easily see anything beyond the flab. Due to this, I hide from cameras (or volunteer to take the picture so there’s no actual record of me looking the way I do.) I’m working to change this, though.
This summer I’ve made a giant effort to work out on a regular, almost daily schedule. I’ve also taken to wearing some tops that up until this year I never would’ve considered wearing. Mostly, this was due to the fact that it’s been so beastly hot here in Nebraska, the idea of wearing t-shirts has been overwhelming. So, some really cute camis were purchased from Torrid, and I’ve even worn them out in public. More than that, I’ve even taking some pictures of myself in some of them gasp!. I’d post them, but I’ve not worked myself up to be that brave yet.
I will lose the weight. It’s just taking time. I wish it wasn’t so frustrating, but I suppose the frustration is what will make it worth it.
Any Second Now... 