C'est la via and the old side of body image
As of late the days are getting longer, or so I hear. Though, there's still stale, dingy colored snow lurking on the ground . . . in March. C'est la vie en New York. Word is that there is snow, there isn't snow in the forecast. Who knows . . . all I know is that the pace of life and the dreary days of winter take their toll on anyone. I've craved and eaten more citrus fruit than I have in my entire life, and in the course of that I've struggled with the toils of Lupus and swollen joints. When I had to see my doctor for international clearance and got the godsend of a plaq script (while still being devoid of health insurance) it all came in the perfect moment.
A little more than a month later and, well, I'm near my mojo again. C'est la via. Plus vrai . . . Of course, as I've mentioned more than once (most recently ) body image is always a Pandora's Box of hell shaped goo that leaks and seeps out at the most inopportune time. I won't lie. I've been uncomfortable in my own skin again. A lot. The body has been ballooning and deflating a bit . . . ask the Dude I married how I will literally change a pants size within a few days from Lupus induced bloat. Yea.
The arctic vortex and frozen urban tundra have kept me from running on the daily basis, but I've been making concerted efforts to do some core in the house. Why? I generally feel better. I don't like it, but while watching a TV show it isn't so bad. Often I would rather be the louse, sprawled on the couch. But, the desire to fit into my pants and a smidgen of vanity halt that . . . for the most part. There are days when the Lupus beats the living shit out of me, and well I'm on the couch. I always feel like an ass for saying the Lupus kept me down, but it's true. Over the years (twenty-one of them now) a handful of blokes have said it isn't true and that I'm the louse I sometimes long to be. I have a few words for them. The first two: Fuck You. The next seven: Live in my body for a day. The final three: Fuck You, again. But, back to at hand.
In mid June, nearly nine months ago now, I quit smoking. I ceased the same week I was in Virginia literally sewing with my Mom while she allowed me to thread her serger for the first time (I'd been sewing with it for years, she just never let me do anything beyond that), and as we all know I lived in my Thurlows all last summer. Those and A-line cotton skirts with wife beaters almost kept the heat at bay. Yet, for a few months (maybe or maybe not December through most of February) my jeans have been too tight and I've lived in yoga pants and leggings. Well, I've been terrified to try on the shorts from last summer. Like outright terrified.
I mean like when you are in your early 20s and you lie awake at night because there are more bills than there is money. Like, you can buy groceries or pay the phone bill kind of terrified. Yea. Most of us have been there at some point. That kind of terror enraptured me and my shorts. Why? No one wants to be the fat girl. No one wants to go up a size. No one wants to take a pattern and turn it into a, ahem, size larger than is cut or even printed. FYI, my shorts are not the largest size of the pattern.
But, yea, I have not been feeling the love of my body these days. I bought jeans in Turkey in October . . . Mavis.* I wrote an article about Mavi Jeans once, so I have a long standing penchant for them. Those jeans, well, one pair is ill fitting now and the other . . . is my fat pair. Well, many days that has been my daily pair. So, in short, the size 12 from Express have sat on the shelf. I've worn them recently though, and they have been snug. I'm getting frustrated as I can't get things to change. There are days when I'm "fuck these 8lb weights and leg lifts. It doesn't do shit." Then, well, when I can move with relative ease (even in a bloated body) I try to remind myself that those damned leg lifts, crunches, and 8 lb weights did something. Though, among the mangoes and oranges all winter a damned couple handfuls of M&Ms have happened.
So, the Dude and I are making a pact: no chocolate for a month and he won't eat chips when I am home (I am also gone near 18 days of the next 30, so he's got plenty of time for chips, chorizo, and meat).
Of course, after near imploding on myself yesterday morning I decided last night to pull the thurlows from the chest and try them on . . . I'll want them in Ecuador in a week anyway. Well, I held my breath and had vodka on standby while the Dude was flipping laundry. Turns out I didn't need the vodka. The bitches fit.
They fucking fit. Yea, my legs aren't pretty and they are always leche de colores . . . but yea.
A little more than a month later and, well, I'm near my mojo again. C'est la via. Plus vrai . . . Of course, as I've mentioned more than once (most recently ) body image is always a Pandora's Box of hell shaped goo that leaks and seeps out at the most inopportune time. I won't lie. I've been uncomfortable in my own skin again. A lot. The body has been ballooning and deflating a bit . . . ask the Dude I married how I will literally change a pants size within a few days from Lupus induced bloat. Yea.
The arctic vortex and frozen urban tundra have kept me from running on the daily basis, but I've been making concerted efforts to do some core in the house. Why? I generally feel better. I don't like it, but while watching a TV show it isn't so bad. Often I would rather be the louse, sprawled on the couch. But, the desire to fit into my pants and a smidgen of vanity halt that . . . for the most part. There are days when the Lupus beats the living shit out of me, and well I'm on the couch. I always feel like an ass for saying the Lupus kept me down, but it's true. Over the years (twenty-one of them now) a handful of blokes have said it isn't true and that I'm the louse I sometimes long to be. I have a few words for them. The first two: Fuck You. The next seven: Live in my body for a day. The final three: Fuck You, again. But, back to at hand.
In mid June, nearly nine months ago now, I quit smoking. I ceased the same week I was in Virginia literally sewing with my Mom while she allowed me to thread her serger for the first time (I'd been sewing with it for years, she just never let me do anything beyond that), and as we all know I lived in my Thurlows all last summer. Those and A-line cotton skirts with wife beaters almost kept the heat at bay. Yet, for a few months (maybe or maybe not December through most of February) my jeans have been too tight and I've lived in yoga pants and leggings. Well, I've been terrified to try on the shorts from last summer. Like outright terrified.
I mean like when you are in your early 20s and you lie awake at night because there are more bills than there is money. Like, you can buy groceries or pay the phone bill kind of terrified. Yea. Most of us have been there at some point. That kind of terror enraptured me and my shorts. Why? No one wants to be the fat girl. No one wants to go up a size. No one wants to take a pattern and turn it into a, ahem, size larger than is cut or even printed. FYI, my shorts are not the largest size of the pattern.
But, yea, I have not been feeling the love of my body these days. I bought jeans in Turkey in October . . . Mavis.* I wrote an article about Mavi Jeans once, so I have a long standing penchant for them. Those jeans, well, one pair is ill fitting now and the other . . . is my fat pair. Well, many days that has been my daily pair. So, in short, the size 12 from Express have sat on the shelf. I've worn them recently though, and they have been snug. I'm getting frustrated as I can't get things to change. There are days when I'm "fuck these 8lb weights and leg lifts. It doesn't do shit." Then, well, when I can move with relative ease (even in a bloated body) I try to remind myself that those damned leg lifts, crunches, and 8 lb weights did something. Though, among the mangoes and oranges all winter a damned couple handfuls of M&Ms have happened.
So, the Dude and I are making a pact: no chocolate for a month and he won't eat chips when I am home (I am also gone near 18 days of the next 30, so he's got plenty of time for chips, chorizo, and meat).
Of course, after near imploding on myself yesterday morning I decided last night to pull the thurlows from the chest and try them on . . . I'll want them in Ecuador in a week anyway. Well, I held my breath and had vodka on standby while the Dude was flipping laundry. Turns out I didn't need the vodka. The bitches fit.
They fucking fit. Yea, my legs aren't pretty and they are always leche de colores . . . but yea.
The black plaid, and yes . . . the pornos and purple plaid fit too!
One of the thousand or so Renfrews I've made of recent.
So, yea . . . when I packed them away I couldn't really wear them well . . . they were tight and the buttons weren't getting buttoned the last few weeks of warm weather. I buttoned those bitches last night, and shivered around the house while I cleaned, swept, folded some laundry, and sat in them. Yea, they are coming to Ecuador and when I'm leading those college kids with service in 90 degree weather some thurlows will come in handy. So, maybe this winter hasn't been so bad on me. There was even a little room in the waist, so that if I eat a ton of food they'll fit. Dude.
Today, as I write this, I'm in my Gloria Steinem dress and a blazer (up on que for your next post, as I need some pics today). A blazer from The Limited I bought in 2008 that is a size ten. I haven't worn this bad boy in nearly three years. I can button it if it need be, the sleeves are a smidgen too tight for my liking (essentially if I made an archer with no sleeve extension (I add two inches on a grade for the top three inches) and on the 1/2 inch seam allowance . . . ), but it fits. In short, I guess I shouldn't be so damned hard on myself.
The point: perception is 90 percent of our life. Perception of ourselves encompasses more than that. Thus, my pants fits so I must be doing something right. I'm feeling better, and in the end . . . I've never been one to kill myself with exercise. I'll still do it, and yes I want a few more pounds off (mostly a me thing and a heart healthy thing) but in the end . . . since I'm at a plateau now I guess the manual labor of giving in Ecuador will do my body good. In more ways than one . . .
*Mavis is not a correct plural in Turkish. Deal.
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