“If you get any fatter, you’re gonna die. Love, Mom.”

My mom isn’t saying I need to lose weight, but since I mentioned it earlier, just so I know, So-and-So just died of a heart attack at age 43 because she was overweight.

She also had high blood pressure and smoked, which Mom knows I don’t do, but… just, you know… “It’s not just about vanity.”

“Well, yeah, but my health is fine at this weight. Blood pressure, cholesterol, it’s all perfect.”

“Yeah, I know, but you have to keep it that way.”

So I guess “Don’t get any fatter” is the sage wisdom getting passed down through the generations this Mother’s Day?

Cool. Noted. Someone put that shit on a Hallmark card.

And it was on the way out the door, too. My mom is a fucking MASTER of the emotional drive-by.

“I wasn’t trying to say you need to lose weight.”

“I really don’t know what else you could’ve been trying to say, Mom.”

“Alright…”

Aaand SCENE. Her husband got in the car and drove them away.

We win at communication.

P.S. Why, yes, she DID send me home with cake and soft pretzels, why do you ask?

Advertisements

My mail is fat shaming me.

I feel attacked by my mail today.

“My 600-lb. Lady Gut”

I felt OK about these workout pants when I bought them, but for some reason today I feel like I should wear them while on my own reality show called “My 600 Pound Lady Gut,” so… Yeah, good times! Let’s go to dance class and watch it all jiggle rhythmically!

P.S. I’m QUITE sure my salt & vinegar potato chip lunch and probable dehydration have nothing to do with this. Shut up.

Therapeutic Cliffhanger

Today I had therapy, and we ended up with an exciting basis for NEXT week’s session, where we’re going to dive deeper into how 40+ years of coddling and condescension from everyone in my family could perhaps make me constantly doubt my capabilities as an adult, and affect my self-worth in all areas of life.

Awesome. Great. I’m SO glad I did this. 🙄

(I am, but…Christ. Originally I just went to therapy for some Breakup Krazy Glue, but ended up shattered six ways to Sunday. At least when my therapist starts writing groundbreaking articles about family insanity, maybe I’ll get royalties.)

(By the way, I am STILL very much on Team “Whatever Your Family Did, You’re an Adult, Handle Your Shit.*” But it turns out I just need some strategies to make that work as more than just bluster.)

(*Unless your family was LEGIT awful and not just underminey, in which case, obviously, you have the right.)

(Part of my damage is minimizing my damage because so many people have much worse damage.)

Thera-PLEASE

My therapist asked me to list five good things about myself. I came up with three, and two were things a friend had told me recently, so the therapist said they only count as one.

Now I have to think of other nice things, because I don’t want to be a person who can’t say nice things about themselves.

Fine. FINE! 🙄

(I’m not asking for compliments, BTW. Apparently I have to choose them myself, because I’m, like…supposed to actually BELIEVE them? I know, right? It’s absurd. Don’t ever go to therapy. It’s dumb, they want you to…ugh, LIKE yourself, and not just lazily write yourself off as “broken.” Pfft. Gross.)

This is a perfectly logical life plan.

I have this habit of intending to respond to OkCupid messages, but then I forget about it, or I want to wait until I’m at a computer instead of my phone, and then suddenly a week has passed and I think, “Well, if I really wanted to reply, I would’ve made it more of a priority,” so I just delete the message.

When I told my therapist about this, she said, “Hey, maybe don’t do that? You saved those messages for a reason. Either write back or delete them, but letting them sit in your inbox makes them just another to-do item looming in your brain, making you feel like you’re behind on life and bad at being an adult.”

So, um… Can y’all write these dudes back?

Apparently I have hella issues and emotional walls and I think I’m boring so I don’t want to waste anyone’s time? I didn’t know these things about myself — never go to therapy. “I would’ve made it more of priority” sounds far less tragic, like I’m just such a busy, baller boss bitch that I don’t have time for you people and your penises.

But hey, you know what? Frankly I’m doing these men a favor. If I never answer, they’ll never get any of my Crazy on them, and then no one gets hurt. I’ll just continue hiding in my little Singleton cave and never getting laid and letting these feelings deepen and fester until I’m a crazy, old cat lady who dies alone and the cats eat my face. What’s the problem? The cats will be fed!

(Ahem. Why, yes, it has occurred to me that perhaps I should be in therapy twice a week.)

Sit and spin. 

Sometimes my brain is an asshole and tells me awful things, so the therapist has been encouraging me to “reframe” my perspective to something more positive.

To that end, I am NOT single because I am “boring,” or “stupid,” or “undesirable.”

I am merely on Dick Sabbatical. *nod* Sounds scholarly, right? Like I’d been researching dick so zealously for such a long time that one day I went to the board and I was just like, “Naw, man, I need a break — I have cock fatigue.”

#PhDick