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| The heart with a mind of its own.(Be present.) | The mind with a heart of its own.(It's past.) | The dream that is your waking life.(Go there now.) | |||
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Demonic Ambition
Part I: A Woman With Body Issues. Now There's Something You Don't See Everyday. The paper diary reminds me to write about the body and about food. (And paraphrases a bit from a poem by Nash (is it?) about Diego Rivera's encounter with Nelson Rockefeller. "And after all it is my soul..") Part II: The Body So the new body? It's strange learning to live with it. It's like having a new roommate and having to figure out the dynamic, having to get used to how things are going to go. How things look now. I was telling Ron the Hairdresser (what a Monty Pythonish name for a medieval knight, eh?) last time about how things that you never expected to get thinner get thinner. Like, I've dropped a whole shoe size. And my fingers and toes? Gone practically. My knees, it turns out, are bony. As are my wrists. It turns out that my hips have been nearly entirely a byproduct of being a fat chick. (That makes me sad, let me tell you. I so wanted to drop the poundage but keep the big hips and tits. And the tits? Forget it. I've dropped three cup sizes--something I never thought I'd lament over, but there it is. Let that be a lesson to you.) I lay in bed and think, god, are those my ribs? It hurts to sit in even well-padded chairs because my ass has little padding anymore. Am I complaining? Well, no. Abso-fucking-lutely not. I'm happy. You should see the muscles in my arms. (I so understand Mr. Kissy-Kiss's desire to plant bigsloppywet kisses on his own biceps.) You should see the definition my quads are starting to show. I've got crazystrong legs. The weight I can lift with my back puts even the muscular boys at the gym to shame. I get high from lifting and from doing cardio. It's fabulous. I love it. So I don't have hips like "real" women? Eh. I still get to decide for myself what a real woman is. Part III: Food Shit, but food. So, yeah, you know. I'm not real good with food. And it's getting down to the last 23 pounds that I want to lose. Twenty-three pounds, kids. And it's not that I'm afraid that I'm not going to be able to lose them, because they're coming off. It's that I'm just not sure yet how the body needs to do that. Especially since I'm adding more exercise to my day and consequently want to eat more. And it's not that I want to eat a lot more, but even an extra 200-300 calories seems like a crazy, out of control amount of food for me to ingest. And trust me, it's not like I have a lot of willpower. I mean, I don't want the crap I used to eat because I don't want to undo all the work I've done. So, no, Ben and Jerry don't call my name no mo. (Although I say that and then think fondly of the iced cinnamon roll (yesterday at Einstein's) whose siren's song very nearly sucked me in. But I didn't eat it, thank you very much.) So, yeah. If you think about it, two hundred calories is, like, two bananas. And I would feel out of control eating two bananas. That's two hundred calories. Three hundred? Well, that's half a chicken breast. That seems like a lot to me. Three hundred calories is a little less than I burn in half an hour on the elliptical trainer. I Know How Crazy It Must Sound To You. And I Don't Care One Fucking Bit. I know. I know. This is all crazy, crazy talk. This is all shit that's not very coherent because I'm trying to work it out. I'll work it out. There's no chance that I'm not going to win this one.
More lies:
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