Schroedinger’s Head Cold

For the past few days I’ve been feeling like I may or may not have a cold. This is annoying, but I’m actually kind of impressed to learn I have commitment issues even with germs.

Or, depending on my self-esteem at any given moment and how fucked up you like your metaphors: “Damn, even GERMS don’t know my body is worth staying inside.”


Weight, weight… Don’t tell me…

Me: “I am a grown-ass adult lady and I don’t need ANY-damn-body to validate me!”

Also me: “I feel like I’ve lost weight. Why hasn’t my family told me I look like I’ve lost weight? They say that when I HAVEN’T lost weight!”

Scorn at Every Size

Me: “I need to lose some weight.”
Therapist: “But you get regular checkups and your health is fine? Heart, cholesterol, blood pressure?”
Me: “Yes, but I’m MUCH heavier than the recommended highest weight for my height. And I’m not looking at, like, Jamie Lee Jo Bob’s Anorexia Enthusiast Forum — these are weight charts from real medical organizations.”
Therapist: “Those charts are based on the same BMI criteria you just told me was ‘horseshit.’ Have you heard of the Health at Every Size movement? That you can weigh more than you ‘should’ but still be perfectly healthy?”
Me: “Of course. And I totally believe that.”
Therapist: “OK, so…you JUST said your health is fine.”
Me: “But it’s NOT. I have a gut like a 55-year-old man with a lifelong Budweiser habit.”
Therapist: “I agree you should exercise more often, but if you do, and you eat a balanced diet, what if this is genetically just the way your body is supposed to be?”
Me: “It’s not.”
Therapist: “So you’re saying you support the idea of ‘health at every size’ for everyone except yourself?”
Me: “…Yes, that’s correct.”
She doesn’t want me to do Whole30, because apparently you, like, need carbs to live or something? But I’m doing it, so… we’ve reached an impasse. And by “impasse,” I mean, “thing I’m not telling my therapist.”

Cake AND death, probably.

Around May, I noticed my jeans were getting tight, so I bought bigger jeans, but thought, “Oh, OK, wakeup call — I should lose some weight.”

Buuut I didn’t.

And then the bigger jeans started getting tight, and I thought, “NO. This is horseshit. I’m not spending MORE money — I’ll just lose some weight. For real this time.”

Buuut I didn’t.

So I bought the NEXT biggest size, and you know what? I am fucking COMFORTABLE. God, fat pants are the BEST. And the kinda stretchy fat pants with Spandex or whatever in ’em? DAMN. So good.

Screw it. The world is awful and cake is great.

(Ahem… This defiant attitude brought to you by the first time a doctor ever told me it might be good to lose some weight, which happened last week. But she based it on BMI, and BMI is fake news. Suck it, lady. #sheetcaking for the win.)