I Need A Plan

I'm having a day where I am feeling delicate...and angry...and stuck.  I think I have been pretty "lost" since my visit with the doctor earlier this year where he told me I might be where I am meant to me.  I didn't like hearing it then and it still doesn't sit well with me now.  And, it isn't just stuck with my weight, but stuck financially as Shark Bait and I are on a five-year plan to get out of debt.  And stuck emotionally with outside drama that cannot be avoided.  The hardest part of all, is knowing I am stuck and feeling powerless to pull myself out of the swamps of sadness.  I see all those posts on Pinterest and Facebook talking about living in the moment and not letting life pass you by, and changing your life if you don't like it, blah, blah, blah.  And they are all true to a certain degree.  Having that knowledge makes it all the harder to feel stuck.

I actually had a moment about a couple of weeks ago where I was getting ready for work and I was standing there in front of my closet trying to figure out what to wear.  I was only wearing my bra and underwear.  There is a full length mirror right there.  I stopped for a moment and just looked in the mirror and looked at every inch of this body.  I looked at my boobs being heightened to places only a boob job could take them, thanks to Victoria Secret.  I looked at my stomach.  It has small scars showing the past and present wounds of my lifetime struggle with obesity, but it's kind of flat.  We really just have that lower belly that has melted to the lower territories. I mean, there will be no running on the beach in a bikini.  Which is fine.  Running is something people should only do when they are being chased by a bear or if their house is on fire, anyway.  I looked at my thighs, I hate them, but it is what it is.  I turned side-ways and looked.  Nothing really sticks out, it's just a thick body. And for just a moment, I thought, "This isn't so bad.  I'm okay with this body."  In that moment, I accepted it. It felt pretty amazing to just let it go and say, 'Today is good enough and if tomorrow I look like this, too, that's also okay.  That will also be good enough." 

And so, I have been operating as though everything is okay.  Operating like what I eat doesn't matter. If I go to the gym or not, it doesn't matter. Operating like life is never going to get any better, so I am just going to live each day for whatever it is.  As Dr. Phil would ask, "How's that workin' for ya?"  Well, Dr. Phil, it isn't.

The reality is, I'm not ready to be done trying yet.  I'm not ready to accept defeat yet.  I'm not ready to say, "this is as good as it gets."  I'm not.  But at the same time, I feel powerless to get out of this rut.  I need an ass kicking.  The Rug Doctor would say I need to be kind to myself and allow that self-talk to be nurturing and not negative and abusive.  Apparently telling my fat ass to get to the gym is not nurturing.  It always comes down to the voices.  I have to get the voices to play nice.  You know what my voice has to say about that, "it sucks."  The voices are only nice when they say it's okay for me to have a cookie.  And that isn't really nice, that is destructive.  I can't get those voice bitches in line.  I feel like we need to have a family meeting and really hash this out.  I need at least one voice up there to say, "You can do this. You will do this. And, it's not that fucking hard...DO IT."  Just one voice. One. And it can't be one of your voices (my friends), it has to be one of MINE for it to be effective.  Preferably one of the strong voices.  Not the Pony Whisperer, but like if we can find a voice that is an auctioneer.   Like, "hey pretty lady, can you get the time, hey pretty lady get that attitude in line....gimme 20 on the elliptical, gimme 20 on the kettle bell, now who's gonna give me 10 minutes of stretching, who? Do I have that once? twice? Three times? SOLD! Pretty lady gets to the gym!  That voice.  I'll put out an APB for it, I guess.

So, to be clear, this isn't a pity party, it's more of a road trip that has lead me to a roadblock where I have a fallen tree in my way and I don't have a chainsaw.  I feel like I need a bulldozer, but maybe all I need is good walking shoes? I don't know.  It's complicated.  Or it isn't.  I don't know.  I make everything more complicated than it needs to be.  Except when it comes to pink pony flannel.  The answer is always, "yes, buy it."

I have to go see the fat doctor again in a couple of weeks.  He's not fat, he is just the doctor of fat people, to be clear.  Anyway, he said he wanted me to have a plan.  Not a goal weight, but a vision of how my life would look if I was losing the weight I needed to.  What would I be doing and enjoying?  What would my daily life look like that would help me maintain that.  Because, if I can visualize it and start some of those habits, it will happen.  This is his theory.  I think part of my stuckness is because I don't know the answer to that question.  It's hard, for me, to consider what I want my life to be when all I can see are the roadblocks that keep me from achieving success.  One of the biggest roadblocks is me.  I can't use a chainsaw for that.  I mean I can, but I don't really see how that plays out well for, say, a 5 year plan.

Anyway, these are the deep thoughts on a Sunday.  Shark Bait bought me this planner yesterday.  Why? Because it was on sale for $5 and Shark Bait loves office supplies, I guess.  Anyway, I feel like I need a plan.  I should totally write something in this book...thoughts?  I welcome them.  I mean, I might shoot them down, but I still welcome them. 

Duck, Duck, Goose...

It's been a really exhausting week so far.  Between being sick, the weird dreams, the stress at work and general chaos, I'm mentally and physically exhausted.  And today, the people at work were making me crazy. Look, I know we are short-handed and everyone has stuff they need to do, but dammit, I am the ring leader.  I am the one attempting to orchestrate the chaos and people were running amuck.  By the end of the day I just felt like I needed to go to a safe place and cry for an hour.  Well, as luck would have it, it's therapy Thursday.

I arrived at the therapy office dragging and feeling uninspired.  I didn't really want to be there, but probably needed to be. The Rug Doctor asked me how I was doing. I told her about what was going on and that I was exhausted all the way down to my soul.  My soul was so tired and spent that I had nothing left to give.  We talked through a variety of things.  No individual thing was more important than the other and our conversation wandered.  There was no one thing that was the underlying cause of my exhaustion, just life.  Often when I come to therapy, the conversation has a way of finding that thing that is really bothering me or bogging me down and we hash it out.  But tonight, the conversation did not find that "trigger point."  Tonight it just wandered, which is okay, but when my mind is allowed to wander, sometimes things get weird.

We talked about how frustrating it is to watch my friends struggle and how I have such great advice for them, but who am I to judge when I don't take my own advice or anyone else's?  I mean, wouldn't it be easier if we could all switch bodies with someone to fix shit?  Like, my friend is dating a douche bag.  I know he is, she knows he is (she is less likely to admit this) and we switch bodies.  I kick the dude to the curb, she inhabits my body, stops eating chocolate, works out and then BAM!  She's single and ready to find Mr. Perfect and I'm skinny and ready for a mini skirt!  We are both happy!  Now we swap back.  Why can't we do that?

This then lead to a discussion about my weight, as is normal, since it is what I obsess about.  The Rug Doctor was saying how it's hard to accept why things are easy for one person and hard for another.  It doesn't seem fair.  Which inevitably leads to me wondering what I did in a past life to deserve this body. I mean, was I a prostitute, drug dealer, whore, criminal, animal abuser, etc.? Which lead to talking about reincarnation, which Mom says totally happens.  I asked Mom recently if I had a choice about coming back next time, because I am tired and the world is going to hell in a hand basket and so why would I want to come back?  Mom says Sylvia Brown says in her book that we don't have to come back and that our souls decide.  I don't know WTF my soul was thinking last time around. I mean, was I sitting up there (assuming I was "up" there) and then God's intern was filling in for the day and deciding who got to go back down to earth and decided to shake things up by doing a rousing game of "Duck, Duck, Goose?"  Duck (you get to be happy), Duck (you get to be skinny), Goose (you get to be the responsible one and obsess about your weight)!  I got Goose, for sure.  I demand a recount or at least a match in hand to hand combat to decide my fate.

Can you imaging coming back, say 50- 100 years from now?  As a baby?  I mean, what would we be eating?  The bees will all be dead from GMO and pollution. We'll be eating cardboard and cheetos.  There will only be water that someone has pissed in.  We'll all have to wear gas masks and be allergic to the sun that is closer  to the earth than ever before and we will all be living among an evolving breed of dinosaurs. And, don't get me started about the social media that will be so intense that people will click on that "poke" button on Facebook and something will actually reach through your computer screen and beat the shit out of you.  Yeah, go ahead, "poke" me.  I could be exaggerating, or I could be spot on.  You decide.

I just need to become one of those people that doesn't let life upset them. If I could just be one of those people, life would be so much easier.  You know, one of the "Duck" people.  And that's when it hit me what I needed to do.  Drugs.  Not Prozac or Zoloft, no.  I'm talking Meth.  Here's the deal, I don't know how much longer I have, so why not get into a zone?  I mean, those meth people don't care if they have open sores on their faces, if they have showered, or if they are stealing .59 cents out of the center console of your car.  As long as they have their meth, that's what they care about.  It's like, it solves all of their problems.  And, I bet I'd lose weight as an added bonus.  I would save money on hair and wardrobe, too. The Rug Doctor doesn't think I have it in me.  She says that she doesn't think I can steal, that my moral compass and thought processes wouldn't allow it.  So, I said to her, "so you are saying, that the voices in my head are stronger than meth?  Like, you just gave my mental thought process a superhero status.  Good Lord, I'm more screwed up than I thought!"  She said she doesn't see meth being my path, which is unfortunate because I thought I had a plan to chill out indefinitely.  I asked her, "what about pills...do you think I could do pills?"  She doesn't think this is a likely scenario for me.  I'm confused, I thought she was here to help me. 

After all of that, I did admit that my life isn't really bad.  I mean, I have a family, a husband, a job, a roof over my head, great friends, etc.  But even little things like standing in line at the AM/PM last week behind a stinky lady makes me wonder, will that happen to me?  I mean, when did she shower last?  I can smell her from five feet away.  Her clothes could have been gotten out of a dumpster...or maybe a dumpster is where she lives?  I just don't know.  Am I judgmental?  What happened to her?  Was she just like me and then one day said, "No, I'm not showering one more effing time?"  Or did she lose her job and then had no place to go and then this is what became of her? That could be me.  It's not likely, but it could happen.  I mean I don't want it to, but what if it does?  I have concerns.  And this is why I need to care less and use meth.  It seems like everyone's doing it.  That and pot. People have it all figured out and here I am stuck in reality trying to figure out life when I could just be checking out. 

It seems I have much to consider...or nothing to consider.  My problem is, I'm just not sure what to consider.  I'd better think about it and get back to you.  Until then, no meth, no pills, no pot, but I make no promises about chocolate...or mudslides.  Don't judge me.  You don't know.  Likely, I will shower, but I'm telling you right now, if something happens in the night and I kick it,  I am not coming back in another life.  Mom says I don't have to. This is it.  The finale.  You know, unless I get chosen as a "Duck" with a hot body that can wear a mini skirt, then, I may just brave the faux mac n cheese and pee water while running from a dinosaur.

Duck, Duck Goose...I suggest you all decide which you are, or which you want to be.  I pray, for your sake, it's Duck because this Goose thing is a bitch.

Goodbye Sassy Pants

It seems lately many of my co-workers are leaving me.  They are either leaving the company or moving on to different opportunities within the company.  Some opportunities within the company allow them to work at home or in other areas of the Glass Palace.  Regardless, once they leave my kingdom, life is never the same.  All this change has made me start to consider my own life-span at the Palace, but I realize, at this moment, "I am exactly where I'm meant to be," as the Rug Doctor would say.  When the time and opportunity is right, I too, will move on.  And, if I don't, I'll die here.  Either way, I'm fine right now.  Shit needs to get done and it certainly needs to get reported.  I'm the girl that does that.

Over the past two years, I have specifically bonded with a certain group of gal pals.  Some of us even formed a special alliance when we created The Boot Bitches.  We would simply put out the "boot signal" on Facebook and we would all show up at work in our boots and convene at my desk or the hallway and discuss whatever was ailing us.  We wore pink on Wednesdays.  We joined forces against the enemy.  We mocked people, shamelessly. We were one cape short of something so epic that time would have stood still and chocolate would have been calorie free.  But sadly, one by one, the Boot Bitches have gone off onto their own new adventures.  Now, it's just me and the Boot Bitch Mascot, whom I will need to rename.  I'm feeling "a certain kinda way about it," as Top Knot Pony would say.

The latest departure from the group happens this Friday.  It is with great sadness that I share with you that Sassy Pants is leaving us/me.  We've been through a lot together.  As of late, she has been videoing much of the happenings.  I don't know how or why that started, but nonetheless, I remain her ever-faithful companion of mocking at the Glass Palace. I mean, we share deep stuff.  I think I have a distinct individual relationship with all of my friends. Each person I feel comfortable sharing different things with at different levels as each person brings their own life experiences to the table.  Sassy Pants brings a lot of life experience to the table, and like me, she doesn't really have "share boundaries."  So, I mean, we have talked about STUFF.  For example, weight.  She understands the struggle.  I mean, she still totally sabotages me with chocolate from time to time, but she allegedly does this out of love.  She introduced me to Cookie Butter.  I can't really ever forgive her for that, but the damage is done. We are moving past that. She also understands about depression and complicated feelings.  She "gets" me and supports who I am and what I'm about.  That's pretty cool.  I mean, it isn't like I don't have other friends that I share that bond with, but I'm talking about Sassy Pants right now, so nobody else better get all butt-hurt if you think I'm excluding you, I'm not.  I'm just saying, she is of my people.  A bitch clan member, if you will.

And, we've talked about relationships, a lot. If I want to bitch about Shark Bait, or share an insecurity, she listens and gives advice.  I mean, it's not always useful advice, like some things I'm just not willing to do (no swings, no handcuffs), but mostly, it's helpful.  And sex stuff, we've shared stories.  I think at my age, having really one major partner in life, I wonder about stuff.  Sassy Pants doesn't think anything is off limits to talk about.  We have laughed and laughed over the most random of things, because, at the end of the day, sex is pretty funny.  I don't care whether you are having it, not having it, don't want it or can't stop thinking about it, it's kind of comical sometimes when you take our sense of humor and perhaps put things into an analogy.  The most innocent situation and suddenly, it's dirty.  And things get complicated.  And frustrating.  Sassy Pants gets it.  She is in a long distance relationship (soon to no longer be long distance - yay for her and her partner, sucks for the Boot Bitches), so she understands when times get tough.  She knows what it means when I text her one phrase, "it's a turtle kind of day."  Ponder that.  I bet you will not guess what that means, but maybe I'm wrong.  Maybe we are all more alike than I think.  And, although Top Knot Pony will not share the same outlook on this subject, she has assured me that these conversations can continue and she will take Sassy Pants place.  I also have Valerina and One Eyebrow Betty to share these thoughts with, but again, it just isn't the same. Not to be forgotten, I have Zumba Barbie, but she is also no longer at the Palace and is blissfully happy in her new world. Today, at my desk,  is a perfect example of the "YaYa Sisterhood of what happens when you aren't wearing Traveling Pants."  I learned today that Sassy Pants, Top Knott Pony and One Eyebrow Betty don't even like "hot pockets."  I know Valerina must, but again, it's just this type of conversation that keeps it real.   I guess it's all about the flavor of the "hot pocket." These talks keep me abreast of what is really normal out there in the world.  And, I'm not alone.  I am a woman in my prime and dammit, I have questions and concerns. 

Let's also address the hugging.  Yeah, Sassy Pants is an attack hugger.  She is a fluffy-haired hugger.  She uses her boobs as a hugging weapon.  Weapons of mass destruction.  But, I will say this, they aren't fake hugs, they are real, "I mean it" hugs.  Sincere.  I mean, sure, she is squeezing me so hard that my boobs go inverted and I can't breathe, but it seems genuine, and I don't get the feeling she wants me dead, I just think she is like a little kid with a kitty that she loves maybe a bit too much.  Organ function is over-rated anyway. And sometimes, she is even like Bambi coming out of the woods after the fire and she is delicate and gentle.  I mean, that isn't often, but it does happen.

About wardrobe.  She tells me me when Old Navy is having a sale.  Now, I'm going to have to rely on reading the 10 emails I get from Old Navy daily to tell me there is a sale.  Freaking inconvenient if you ask me.  And belt placement.  We are going to have to discuss this via text and picture messaging.  I can only do so much without a visual.  If I'm going to help you, you're going to have to provide picture or video coverage.  I'm a little worried about a skinny girl dressing her now.  Or, my God, what if she becomes a skinny girl and doesn't need my assistance?  I'm going to have to set up a drop shipment of Reeces weekly.

Now, about food.  I'm worried about letting her go to a new place of employment.  She is unable to order lunch on her own.  She likes dim sum, but doesn't like steam pork buns.  She loves donuts...how will anyone know that if we don't tell them?  She says she is watching her carbs.  Her new co-workers need to know that is bullshit.  And, all that gluten free, sugar free, carb free cookie stuff, it tastes like shit. I don't care what happens at Whole Foods, some of that stuff is vile. Who's going to warn the new people?  Who's going to tell them that she needs peanut butter cups FOR SURVIVAL?  This is  CRITICAL people!  And, she doesn't like onions.  Who's going to stop that train wreck from happening?

What about her personality.  Who is going to warn the new people about that?  She acts all like she is guarded and won't open up to you, but she really wants you to call her Ginger Snap and hug her.  I mean, don't get me wrong, she's a little mean-spirited, too.  She will post a picture of you on Facebook with a booger on your nose and a tampon stuck to your shoe and fall down laughing in hysterics.  And, once she does open up and start sharing... GOD HELP YOU.  She will tell you things...things you can't unsee, things you can't unhear...things...I know things.  Things I didn't need to know, but now I know, so I told her things she might not want to know.  It's almost like a one-upping on sharing, but she is NEVER phased.  The difference is, I blog about this stuff, but she just tells her close circle of trusted bitches.  I guess I am lucky enough to be in the trusted bitches club.

So, now, come Monday, if I am in the bathroom having a zipper temper tantrum, no one will be there to tell about it.  If I need a hug, but don't really think I need a hug, no one will be there to attack hug me...wait, no, Valerina will likely be around, somewhere.  She doesn't use her boobs as weapons, so that is a plus. And now, when I am in such a vile mood I can't even stand myself, who is going to understand the real reason why?  No one.  Sassy Pants gets it.  She knows.  The good news is, my uterus gets to return to alpha status. 

Who's going to make sure I go get my water in the morning? 

And, I'm never going to hear anyone's ass quack when their break is over...well, her phone in her back pocket anyway.  It's going to be so quiet...no one walking by to the fridge three times a day...no one righting the wrongs in the center chat...no one giving their supervisor a migraine...wait, nope, we still have plenty of those people.

Sassy Pants is my sarcastic equal.  She is my Old Navy twin.  She is the encouragement and the GPS coordinates to temptation in the form of chocolate.  She tells me I'm pretty when I know I look gross. I look over every morning when I get to work to see if her fluffy head is over in her corner and secretly wonder what trouble she will get into on this day, and it makes me smile.  I will miss that.

She says we'll stay friends.  She says we'll see each other from time to time.  That's what they all say.  Best intentions, it's what we all have.  And so, Sassy Pants, my fluffy haired hugger that has given me an education on how the "other team" lives far beyond what I ever needed to know, I bid you adieu.  Let's still be FB friends and like each other's statuses and pictures and shit.  Let's keep it real. And, maybe someday our paths will cross again. I heart you.

P.S.  Thanks for bringing My One Fan to the blog...I hope you kids are happy.

You Hugged My Uterus

For anyone that has been following my Facebook page lately, you know that hugging has been a recurring theme.  Sassy Pants and NoEyebrow Betty (yeah, I did it, I just changed up someone's blog name) have been mocking me about my lack of desire to hug the people of The Palace.  It's not that I hate hugging, I just don't feel like I need to hug random people all the time...or people that are part of my social circle.  When I want to hug you, you'll know.  I'll come willingly and I will affectionately hug you.  Sometimes it will be a full frontal hug, like, our boobs touch and everything, or maybe it is just a arm circle, pat-pat on the back hug.  I don't know, whatever I feel like. Or, if you are Shark Bait, I'll hug you like spandex on a fat girl...unless I'm mad at him and then I'll hug him like he has cooties and that it is sucking the life from me to touch him.  Hey, it happens.  Doesn't mean I don't love him, just means I don't want to touch him at that moment.  I decide.  It's my deal, or so I thought.

I used to be in charge of hug distribution until recently when Sassy Pants has taken it upon herself to attack hug me in the hallway, or right outside the bathroom.  I'm not just talking a surprise quick embrace.  No.  This hug is like in Dirty Dancing when Baby is up on the stage and Johnny is down on the floor and she goes running into his arms and he catches her.  Except, in my scenario, Baby comes running at me and does a death grip like someone that is afraid of falling to the point where air has actually been blocked from leaving my body.  Like, her boobs were pressed so tightly against my chest that is possible that the padding in my bra pushed my boobs up inside my body cavity.  Like my boobs are now inverted.  That's how hard.  And then she won't let go.  Getting her off me is like trying to pry an ice cream cone out of a fat kids hands at the county fair.  I'm just lucky I got out of this hug without any lick marks.  I'm not sure what flavor of ice cream I'd be, but it'd be bitter.  No cherry on top either.  That topping was discontinued years ago.

I guess what I'm saying is, this hug thing has kind of gotten out of control.  I walk around at work and everyone thinks it's great sport to taunt me and offer up a hug.  If there was something akin to bug spray that repelled hugs, I'd buy it.  "Hug Spray - keep those annoying people off you! Now in two scents: flatulence an gingivitis."  Just saying, it could help a lot of people out.  I could just let my hygiene go and I guess that would do, but I really don't want to be scummy.

Anyway, today I think the hug thing reached a new level of domination that I had not anticipated.  I was standing there talking to Sassy Pants and the BootBitches Mascot and I found myself getting all wound up and I realized all I wanted to do was shove my head in a bag of cookies and free feed.  Then, I heard the theme song from Jaws in my head and felt one of the sharks bumping the boat.  Mother Trucker.  It's early.  This is unexpected.  I went to the bathroom and assessed the situation.  Sharknado was today's feature film. Dammit.  I returned to my desk where my pals were still hanging out.  I shared the news with them an the next thing I know, they are both pulling money out of their pockets and throwing it at me, "here, take this, get some chocolate!"  Sassy and the Mascot started talking to each other like I wasn't even there, "Do you have any money?  Wait, yeah, I have some, here, I know she likes those Grandma's cookies in the vending machine, shit, how much do we have?  Here, let's give her this..."  I looked at them.  "Hey, I'm not taking your money, take it back.  I don't need this."  They both had fear in their eyes, but at the same time, stubborn determination.  "NO, you take it! We don't need it."  I said, "It isn't my money, I'm not keeping it."  They both refused, backed away and said, "We won't take it back, it's yours now, you keep that as emergency money. We're not taking it back." And with that, they scattered.  They left me with $2.50.  I just stood there, in disbelief. 

It wasn't long and Sassy Pants is sending me instant messages, "I have cookies at my desk.  They are gluten free, but they are good.  Come get some."  I told her I wasn't taking her cookies, but she would not stop, she kept messaging me over and over begging me to come get her cookies (I know, if you know Sassy Pants, it sounds dirty, but she really had actual cookies, the kind you eat....and can buy at the store...that come in a box...from the store...snicker doodles).  I finally walked over to her desk and told her I wasn't taking her cookies.  She opened them and had me try one.  I said thanks and took two to go.  She looked at me, all hurt, "you can't just leave with two cookies, look, I know where you are coming from, I've been there the last couple of days, sometimes a girl needs cookies."  And that is when it hit me.  This was her fault!  This whole thing with shark week coming early...it was all her doing!  I'm always on schedule, ALWAYS.  When she hugged me last week, twice, and with violent pressure, her uterus took control, became the alpha and pulled me onto her shark week schedule.  YOU BITCH.  I wasn't prepared for shark week TODAY and through the cruelty of nature, her uterus had re-aligned my schedule.  And, I am the office alpha.  My uterus decides.  My uterus has a gravitational pull stronger than the moon itself, but through repeated, prolonged hugging, the stars had re-aligned.  I mean, I don't even know what the app on my phone is going to think when I tell it I am three days early!  This is epic. EPIC.

So, when I tell you the dangers of hugging, you all laugh.  You think it's cute.  Well, sure, it's all fun and games until YOU have a cold, some sort of hug rash, a stray hair in your mouth from a fluffy-haired hugger,  inverted boobs or a uterus overtaken by terrorist hormones.  Let's see you laugh then, bitches!  All I can say, with certainty, is that there will be absolutely NO hugging unless an emergency situation presents itself and even then, precautions will be taken.  And just so you know, my uterus is pissed, NO ONE bosses it around.

As John Maclaine says, "Yippie ki ya Mother Truckers....yippie ki-ya." Battle cry has been issued.