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Saturday, Nov. 06, 2004 - 9:19 A.M.
Get Me The Buttah
The other day when one of our newest students (let's call her "Little Hard-Head") flew past me I realized in the 28 seconds it took for me to turn and assume a running stance, that I now have the body build of Marlon Brando. Not the young, rippled brooding Stanley Kowalski. No, I mean the sloth-like Jabba the Hutt Brando who didn't have enough muscle tone to enunciate clearly.
The task ahead is absolutely frightening. I know, take one day at a time. Don't look at the ocean, look at the shoreline (hee hee, I made that one up). I know that I can lose weight going on any freaking diet out there, carbs aren't my problem. My freaking mouth is my problem. It opens and food goes in. Damn near anything these days. At the weight I am at now (I'm only guessing, I am NOT standing on that scale right now), I know that I could eat so much food on Weight Watchers and still lose that I'd never be hungry. It's the control thing. Aren't girls supposed to get anorexia over this taking control of their bodies thing? Why can't I do anything right?
I've used every excuse for writing anything BUT my weight for so long this space should be renamed. But it won't be. That would take effort. I don't even have the energy to go and get some diet pills, not that they'd help, because I don't eat out of hunger, I just eat. All day, all the time. Pills won't change that, in fact they only claim to work when paired with a sensible diet and exercise program, so what the hell.
I'm waddling. Grunting to pull my foot up so I can tie my shoe fast enough that I don't pass out from my breathing being cut off. I'm limping, from bad knees and bad feet and don't even get me started on my back. And it's all my fault.
Why am I so afraid, really afraid, to start?
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