The thing about writing a memoir in the present tense is that the present has a way of changing things up on you. Plan A involved setting my mind on losing weight, telling the whole world I was going to do it via Twitter and blog posts, and then, well, getting off my ass and doing it.

Put up or shut up, ya know?

But Plan A relied on a few factors I had conveniently ignored. Had I, in fact, gotten fat just because of sheer laziness and gluttony, then changing my behaviors and eating habits would have had me on my path to weight loss like, say, four chapters ago.

But here I sit with only a 10 pound weight loss to hold on to since I created my Word document for this book, and the scale just ain’t budging any more. Except for a few weeks of having to take it lighter due to a sinus and ear infection that kept coming back, I’ve been religious about my workouts at the gym.  And I’m now sporting a BodyBugg that tells me I’m being a very good girl, indeed, when it comes to my calorie burn, intake, and activity level. In all respects, I should have said hello to a slimmer waistline and goodbye to my Lane Bryant jeans by now. But instead, I’m sitting here trying to figure out how to be funny and snarky in a book about weight loss when I don’t have any to report.

So it’s on to Plan B.

My doctor wants me to see an endocrinologist because she’s just as confused as I am, and I’m also scheduled for an MRI of my brain to see what that pesky little pituitary gland tumor I have is up to, since it also plays a huge role in my ability to burn calories effectively.

Until then, it’s up to me to keep myself motivated when all I’ve got to look forward to is a great big question mark. I’ll chalk my pity party dairy queen blizzard up to a moment of weakness and like a good little hamster will jump bag on my wheel again tomorrow. There’s nowhere to go but here until I get my body figured out.

 

First let me say that I detest New Year’s Resolutions. With a fucking passion. What are the top five every year?

Quit smoking? Lose Weight? Pay off credit cards? Finish my damned book and get an agent and a book deal? Stop kicking puppies?

Ok..so maybe that was all me. Except for the kicking puppies thing. Really. You can ask my dogs.

So back to the New Year and the Promises Made to be Broken. I get it. I understand the connection between the new year and new beginnings and hope eternal and all that. But really? Am I the only one who tries to start each year without resolving to do a damned thing if only because I got tired of lying to myself? Because when I’m resolving to lose weight every year, it’s kind of a sign that last year’s resolution kinda didn’t pan out the way I was hoping.

Yeah, I need to lose weight. Yesterday. And the credit card thing…and the smoking thing….and the book and agent thing? Oh yeah…it’s going to happen. And while I plan on doing it in 2010, I’ll be damned if I’m going to put it out there as a Resolution. Me and Resolutions just don’t work well together. It’s just the way it is.

So this is me, officially Not Resolving to do a Damned Thing. That way, when something does work out for me, we can all be pleasantly surprised and do a happy dance together.

Bring it on, 20101. I’m ready. And I’m going to kick your ass.

Dec 272009
 

Normally I post my poetry without any commentary and just let the words speak for themselves. But this one I feel deserves a little extra attention.

I suffered from bulimia and anorexia from the ages of 15 to 21. Because I just didn’t have the willpower to outright starve myself for long periods of time, I always considered myself a failed anorexic. Like being bulimic was the best I could do. Yes, it’s a warped way of thinking, but eating disorders work wonders on one’s mindset.

So here I sit with the poem I wrote at the tail end of my struggle (which only means I stopped the behaviors because the mindset with forever be skewed) for a college English class with a recent copy of the Hip Mama zine sitting on my desk. There’s an upcoming deadline for submissions dealing with body topics, and I’m seriously thinking of sending “zombie” in for consideration. The topic is one I feel strongly about, obviously, so I may write a few more pieces and send them along as well, but for now I’m concentrating on this little piece of myself.

Take a moment. Read. Then comment. What do you think?

Voices raised fingers pointed

tears

thoughts racing guilt swelling

eat

something anything

chew

swallow

repeat

words thrown overhead

salt in wounds

pepper in soul

let them yell
escape

zombie-like

walk downstairs

enter bathroom

lock

get on knees

lift the lid

open mouth

despair

insert finger

gag

release

stand up wash hands

glance at reflection

mascara streaks

flush

wash

mesmerized

anxieties

fears

turmoil

swirl

sweet nothingness

lock up self

unlock door

voices raised

fingers pointed

go through motions

again


 

no need to hear

but only to feel

for his heart is now touching my own

as his lips press against mine

in a sensuous dance

butterflies awaken inside

his lips touch my soul

as they form the words

he silently speaks into my mouth

with honey-glazed eyes

i gaze into his

as our lips meet again and i sigh

no need for words

as I lie in his arms

my heart beats its reply

 

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