Oh the places my head’s been today. From the gym to the podiatrist to the checkout line at JC Penney’s, it’s been a boringly interesting day.
The weather is spectacular, finally, and I can’t help but be in a good mood. But as per my MO, I started to fret about things in the future and so I posted this thread on the weight loss message board I belong to:
“I’m going to start working out with a personal trainer on Monday. His name is Matt. I’ve never met Matt. Matt is obviously a boy. I’m still a fat girl in my head and Matt is going to see me and laugh and me and tell me I’m not worth working with. I’ve been working out for a year. I look good. I feel good. So how come I can’t see that right now? Why am I so f’in scared of a guy named Matt? It’s like I think Matt will be Simon Cowell and say things like "That was HORRENDOUS!" when I try to lift or show him what I can do on the cardio equipment. ”
As always, my boardmates cheered me up, my favorite response coming from Dana: “Look, Lynn. His job is to teach you to use equipment properly and help you with a good fitness program. He works *FOR* YOU!! You need to turn this around, hon. Remember, if he doesn’t do a good job, you can FIRE him, and find someone who will. YOU are in the driver’s seat. NOT HIM!! YOU ARE IN CHARGE HERE!!!!!! <———— sending your fat girl to bed for a nap ((((hugs)))) to fat girl in Lynn’s head ((((hugs)))) to Lynn”
Once I pulled my head out of my ass from that Matt thought, I moved on to yesterday’s appointment with the orthotics guy. Who knew getting fitted for orthotics could be so erotic? First of all, the guy was hot, in a Marc Anthony sort of way. He had to touch my hips and he called me thin. He had me lie on my stomach on the table and he proceeded to write on my feet and place thin socks on them, apply warm plaster, then wipe me off. We chatted about scars and arthritis and the benefits of massage.
If I weren’t married….
I went to the podiatrist today to have part of my big toenail whacked off. He numbed me up pretty good and I’d taken a half a Xanax before I went, so I was feeling pretty good when I left and decided to do a little shopping.
I found some capris, a few sleeveless summer shirts, and two halter shirts with built-in bras – finally my boobs are small enough to not need an additional bra to the one in the shirt. But will someone please explain to me why I can wear three different pant sizes – 6 and 8 womens and 9 juniors – and size small womens shirts and large juniors shirts? Oh to be a man with their waist and inseam sizes. Damn it. I get so tired to of trying on clothes.
So I’m in the checkout line behind a woman who looks to be around 50ish and a girl who’s probably 20 or so. The girl has on very tight pants that make her waist fat hang over the edge, and to top it off, she’s wearing a tight midriff shirt, thus showing all her love handles in all their glory. Gross. What’s worse is she’s buying a bikini. Call me a bitch, but some things people just shouldn’t wear.
The older woman said to the sales clerk, “I can’t believe I can fit in size 11 junior pants! Last year I was a size 24! I had gastric bypass. I cheated!” and much laughter ensued. Call me private, but I’m not about to tell a perfect stranger (and loudly, at that) that I’ve lost 160 pounds. Oy.
Then the girl with her said, “You wear just one size bigger than me!”
Now if you do the math, this would mean that the girl thinks she’s a size 9. I say “think” because there ain’t NO WAY that girl was a size 9. Or maybe she was wearing a size 9 and thus the reason for all the spillage of skin and fat over the top. Oh it was bad.
I see this so often around here: large teenage girls in Wal-Mart wearing pants the reveal butt crack and so much stomach fat you can’t see the top of their pants. Even when I was a size 32 I NEVER would have disrespected myself that way. When did morbid obesity become a fashion statement?
Back to Matt the Trainer Boy. On Monday, he’s going to see a 43-year-old former fattie who worries about her 2-3 pounds of back fat and still wears loose clothes as to not draw attention to it. I may have a fat girl still living inside my head, but she at least knows modesty and fashion.
And that’s where my head’s been today, April 20, 2007. Up and down and up and down. But now it’s time to go outside, sit on the porch with my bum foot in the air, and think about orthotics guy. Wait, I mean, talk to my husband. Yes, that’s what I meant.