I think that's actually kind of a good approach, eating extra when you first start a new and strenuous (to you) exercise regime. Rewards! Encouragement! Deliciousness! Anyway I did it so my ex post facto logic is highly questionable.
But today I suddenly saw a big drop on the scale and so now I feel like a mighty leggy superhero type person. It's awesome!
Also I have on my giant orange cabled hoodie thing. It's awesome. It's so awesome, I realized it's a metaphor unto itself. Truly! Because when you wear a giant orange cabled hoodie thing, you are clearly saying to all: I am not trying to look good for you, so get out of here with your judgy eyeballs.
This is something I'm actually saying to everyone ALL THE TIME, but it comes across a lot more vividly in a giant orange cabled hoodie thing. I'm a big fan of the oversized bulky clothing anyway, for exactly that reason. 1, quit looking at me; 2, even if you are looking at me, you can't see me; 3, even if you can see me, I clearly am not remotely interested in your opinion or judgments, positive or negative.
Basically it's a giant fuck you to the unwanted eyeballs of the world, which is all of them.
Getting skinnier is terrifying because of course being fat is the exact same thing. It's the giant orange cabled hoodie that is built in! It says, get out of here with your eyes because I don't want them or care about them.
I don't want that to go away. I do NOT want anyone looking at me and going: ooh. No. But I do want to be speedy and light. Thank goodness for the giant orange cabled hoodie thing, my oh my!
Unfortunately it's going to get hotter out. Woe!
I keep going back to the weird college interregnum time when I drove back and forth across the country a lot and was very skinny but still (and always) did not want people looking at me and going: ooh. I used to wear these men's khaki shorts and giant heavy mattress ticking type men's shirts. Effective obscurity! Oh and an awesome hat. I so wish I still had that hat, but it shrunk after I got rained on for hours at the Grateful Dead at RFK stadium in DC. It was leather and flat brimmed. If I could remember where I got it, I'd go back there, even though I realize that makes no sense twenty-five years later.
I still have the shorts. The shirts wore into threads. I still have a few scraps around as dusters. You can see through them.
One of the features of that era was working on my VW bus in rest areas and at the side of the road. I drove west to east with a new engine that needed to be tuned up every 500 miles. Now I keep thinking about Noel Baker's theory about road trips that go west to east always being doomed and horrible. You should definitely see that movie he wrote, whatever it was called. Oh boy, I forgot. But it stars Leoben from Battlestar Galactica. It's about a band and adapted from a book. Jeez. Words!
Right, anyway, so it was an amazing trip because of several crucial reasons. One, I took back roads, no interstates except when unavoidable, like Indiana. Two, I was stone broke and paying for gas and occasional food with a credit card that I expected to be rejected every time I used it. Three, I looked like a boy, so nobody bothered me, and when guys would stop to see if I needed help with the bus--because I was working on it at the side of the road or in rest areas--they would always go, "Oh! I thought you were a guy." I had long hair, but I always had that hat on, plus the heavy loose shirts and those shorts and no discernible feminine traits visible to the outsider.
They got clued in mostly because of my voice. I have a soft, high voice, unless I'm yelling, when suddenly it is super loud and strong. Former drum major. You know.
Anyway, I liked the no-eyeballs part of that. I would be so happy to return to the state where nobody looks at me or thinks anything about any aspect of my outsides.
I kind of feel like that's what I'm fighting for with all the miles and miles. I want to be invisible or at least not noticeable in any particular way. No attention. Attention is bad.
I'm perfectly aware of what that says, psychologically and whatnot (stupid psychiatrist, I'm still so mad at her) but to me invisibility equals freedom. And no unpleasantness. You're not as invisible this way as that way, is the thing. And I so want to be invisible and free again.
Unless I want to be seen, but the good people of the past saw me perfectly well when I wanted them to, even if I looked like a skinny hippie boy in a leather hat.
Oh, I need a picture for you, don't I? Like the one from the bottom of the Grand Canyon when we hiked down and camped and Lars's hair looked green to everyone from looking at all the red soil the whole time. (I still don't quite get why just his. But so it was.)
Oh my LORD this picture slays me. I'm second from the right, bandanna on head. That's the shorts! That's the boy of my dreams on the far right, and my best friends Lars and Anne on the left. This is one of the moments I'd go to if I had all of eternity to choose. It was spring break of my senior year of college. They were all sophomores. I think I was 26 and they were all 20. Because I'd had that weird interregnum and went back to finish the last two years later, all my friends were six years younger than me.
Anyway. Oh my heavens. That picture kills me dead.
This will sound so silly but Chris Evans looks a lot like the beautiful boy to the right so watching the second Captain America movie has had me thinking a lot about him lately. He's the one who got away. Lord.
I mean, the past has gotten away, like it does. Glorious Rob lives like 200 miles north of here with his family. You know. The wedding I went to fifteen years ago, the one that made me never go to another wedding the rest of my life? Ha ha. It's true, though. I spent the whole time hanging out with his parents, who I really liked and got along great with. I have pictures of his mom somewhere.
Ow! Ow ow ow ow ow.
Anyway point being that beautiful dream boys could and did still see me when I was good and invisible like that. Yay!
I have to go hit myself on the head with a sledgehammer right now. 'Scuse me.
I guess if my psychiatrist didn't suck so bad, she'd have asked questions like: why haven't you had a relationship in sixteen years? And why was that one so terrible? Did it have anything to do with settling for the first dude to come along who was interested and seemed smart enough to tie his shoes? Why have you never recovered from that one beautiful boy from one amazing year a long time ago? I don't know, you tell me, miss smartypants. You're the one with the fancy degrees and the lack of insight.
No, really, I was thinking this morning about how I haven't had an excellent hiding garment like this one since the Mexican cotton thing I had back in college that I gave to...that same boy. We traded our heavy cotton shirt things.
I've successfully painted myself into an emotional corner, so yippee! All that's left is to flee the scene in my giant orange cabled hoodie thing. So I'm going to do that right exactly now.