Disturbing fact: I’m now fit enough that when I raise my arms and move them quickly, I can feel my back fat jiggling. *shudder*
Sliding back out of the fat suit always takes time. It’s so easy to put on, so easy to zip up and feel semi-comfortable in. Only semi-comfortable, though. Fat suits are most comfy when I’m alone, and don’t feel like I have to try and suck my gut in that extra half inch ALL THE FUCKING TIME. Yeah. I catch myself at that every other damn minute; holding my stomach in – like THAT would make a difference. Pffft. The half inch I keep sucked in can’t balance out the MEATINESS of my torso. Just large proportions.
But yeah, I’m taking it off. Slowly. Like a fat suit striptease. If I was really all ambitious, I’d get a picture of myself every other week or so in the same pose and then string ’em together in video – zip! Look at me shrink. If I was a
smart shameless promoter, I’d be taking those pictures to exploit my tell all book: Keep the Beep at 50. Make up a great secret to tell everyone how to look like me and live like me when you’re all fucking 50. Then sell it, at $13.95 a pop. Do the talk show circuit; put Oprah to shame – whatever size she is. Get doctors to authenticate that no, I haven’t had any plastic surgery so when that smart ass stands up and says something I’ve got proof to shove down his/her throat.
But the weight coming off.
Bought another €2 pair of pants (such a big spender!) at the same size I did before EXCEPT this new pair has some elastic in the waistband. And yes, they’re a bit big on me – particularly around the waist. So happy that shop is there. I don’t feel bad trying the next size down when it’s only €2. It’s fun, even. The place is too small to have a changing room, though I COULD use the WC in the hall. I don’t. I want to get home and try the pants on. It’s like I have the whole metro ride back to think ‘Will they fit? Will they look as good as I think they will?’ It’s a little excitement, like playing the lotto.
My party girl – she’s been in da house, in case you haven’t noticed – is rather excited and this morning I’d like to beat her around the ears with a rolling pin. Because she’s being fucking RIDICULOUS (hear me, bitch?). *sigh* Here’s what’s setting her off: There’s this dude, one of the instructors/helpers at my Wednesday class. He’s younger. And kind of handsome; I didn’t think much of his looks at first, but he’s been growing on me. And he keeps making a point of talking to me. Not just talking WITH me, which he does as well, but talking TO me in a kind of flirty manner. Oh, yes! The party girl thinks she’s being flirted with so she’s all excited. She does so enjoy being the center of attention. I am grumbling more than ever at her this minute. Because I don’t really think he’s flirting with me; he’s just prompting me a bit in a teasing manner. He’s now joking that he’s gonna lay a bet down that I will speak fluent Dutch within 1 year. When he said that yesterday I put my ‘fucking hell!’ response to the pressure aside and just kind of took the scene in…his smile, how close he stood to me…I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. I’m more annoyed over being excited by the POSSIBILITY than I am over whether or not it’s actually happening. What are you thinking, party girl? That you’re gonna get a boyfriend of 20 something? Yes, you could do it; we all know that. You don’t have to keep proving it over and over, bee-yitch. And what the fuck, exactly, do you think you’d do once you’ve GOT that 20 something cutie by your side? Let me answer that for you, because I know the answer: you’ll run. Run, like you always do. Tell them thanks, the chase was fun and they’re really cute and if you were ONLY 10 years younger, you’d plunge right in and then – vamoose. Can we try to handle this better? How about we agree to enjoy the attention, WHATEVER the source, and just let the rest go. Concentrate on your damn studies, woman! And if you’re really fucking curious, watch his pupil dilation. You know what to look for.
Shut that bitch up. She’s been rampaging for a while now, and when Steph from stephellaneous said that she’d let the idea of coming over for a visit simmer….Well, party girl got up, found an old pair of boots and has been tramping around in my head – complete with big hair and 80s style makeup – ever since. Invitations have been extended to a few people, and it seems the Season of Partying has begun. I have GOT to put a leash on this one – and won’t that S&M loving freak just get wood on THAT idea. What DID I do with those handcuffs I had?
Who the fuck needs meds to feel zoned out? I was up at fucking 5:30 AGAIN, even though I kept telling myself to rest a bit more, class is early today and I’m still tired from swimming two days in a row. The auto pilot kicked in; my body raised itself off the bed and sought out a pair of socks in the dark. Once it got coffee in me, well, I was fine (FINE = freaked out, insecure, neurotic, and emotional. Comes from a film; my brain can’t remember which one, but I LOVE that definition.). Been walking around feeling like my head is wrapped in cotton for days now. Fogged out. Tired, but unable to sleep. And when I’m up I just wanna GO! My GP told me (as did anyone and everyone else I talked to about bipolar) that times like this, when I’m able to get down for 6-8 hours, I’m not really manic. Really? Really really? So far no one has listened to me when I talk about factoring in the exhaustion from my RA. When that kicks in, I’m guaranteed to sleep an extra 2-3 hours every night. Take away two to three hours and I’m looking at an adjusted sleep time range of 3-6 hours. Now THAT falls within your fucking graph, doesn’t it?
Not to mention my aggression issues.
Tender feet on the ground. I’m walking my life away….that’s what it feels like. Like every night I go and walk another 10 miles. Ow. I must be doing it; I must be moving while standing still. I can feel it – in my feet, in what’s happening in my life. I don’t know how I’m doing it; don’t know how I can juggle and keep my balance and still crack a joke, but I am. I am shit proof lately. Just sliding off my back. Like a duck.
Maybe I’m Bride of George. Whadda ya think?