Welcome to the Freakshow
Is it just me, or is it weird that I am more depressed about not being depressed over what has happened to me this past week? I suppose I have a little twinge of guilt that I am so unmoved by what I've been through, and then another twinge of guilt being relieved that I only have the aforementioned guilt of being unmoved? Fret not, kittens, the preceeding statements made sense to me, and if you follow, then brav-o. I suppose I just expected to be traumatized, and well, I wasn't. I'm unabashedly unashamed...I guess it is a similar feeling of exhiliration experienced by the bra-burners of the 1960's...or at least how I would have envisioned it to be. But again, kittens, worry not, this doesn't mean that I am being liberalized. Heaven forbid. I wouldn't want to knock the Earth off of its axis. But then again....
No, no, my views haven't changed. It was a decision that I didn't want to make, didn't know if I could make, but ended up ankle deep in a tough call. I made the call, and my convictions are affirmed - it was my choice, which isn't necessarily one that works for everyone. I figure one day I'll explain it to my family, I'll be castigated and chastised for it, maybe even ostracized for a time, then a few months later, get the phone call of "why don't we talk anymore?" Not like I visit my folks that often, anyway. Lesee here, it's been, what? Two years and counting? Right. Remorse quashed. Again.
In other news, I am simply dreading the wedding coming up this Saturday. I am seriously considering not going because I caught sight of myself sans clothing last night....well, quite the slippery slope, eh? We all know where this is headed. I saw myself in the buff and got outright depressed by the sight. I'm down 20 pounds from where I started, and considering the hurdle I jumped this past week, the fact I am still down that 20 is quite a feat! It's just the remaining 60 that are standing in the way of me having a happy ego. That, compounded by the fact the doctor said no going to the gym for two weeks. I don't feel to fragile, so I am going back after only one, that's plenty of recovery time. But that isn't going to do me a whole Hell of a lot of good for this weekend - I'm still going to look like an overstuffed sausage crammed into a black sheath. All together now - cringe. No way for me to hide it either. I'll be going to a wedding looking as if I am five or six months pregnant, even though I most certainly am not.
I hereby dub my horribly oversized and hideous bellyfat pouch "Scooter." And Scooter must die.
I don't know what do do about my bum, though, that actually seems to be all muscle. J. Schmo, eat your heart out!