She's finally cracked, folks...

Maybe it's because I finally took the plunge and signed up for a writer's conference, but I'm thinking it's a little late for a Diva-worthy freak-fest. So what if this is the first step I've taken towards making my dreams come true? I’m supposed to be starting chapter 15 right? I should be in the zone, feeling good, looking better, and buying my scale flowers and telling it that it looks nice because well, it’s being nice to me.

But none of that is happening. Instead, I’m flipping out because after digging my bodybugg out of the bottom of the purse it’s been hiding in for the last 4 weeks, I finally dredged up the courage to get on the scale. I can’t judge how far I’ve come if I have no idea where I started (again), right?

Well, there’s good news. And then there’s bad news.

The good? I’m not as fat as I was when I started writing this damned book.

The bad? I’m only a little less fat than I was when I started writing the book.

The cold-hard truth? I weighed in at exactly 221.6 pounds this morning. That’s a five pound gain since the last time I strapped the bodybugg around my arm flab, thank you very much. Which, aside from giving me heart-palpitations, makes me wonder what exactly it is that I’m doing here. Am I writing a book about weight loss after motherhood? ‘Cuz if so, I’d better get with the fucking program. Or maybe I’m writing about self-acceptance and trying to be as healthy at any size? Well, sure…that’s great. But that was supposed to be the icing on the sugar-free, low-fat cake…not the whole damned thing. Or better yet, maybe my book is about both topics with a little Medical Mystery thrown in. Yeah…maybe that’s it.

I’m having a major freak out, people. I started writing Baby F(ph)at with the single-minded intention of tracking my weight loss as I went with a few snarky comments thrown in. I was going to be witty, tantalizing, gloriously funny, and my public was going to be able to love me because they could relate.

Easy, right?

Not on your fucking life.

My head hurts with the thought of what I could have accomplished by now but haven’t. I’m still in the same pants bought at the same Lane Bryant. My boobs are still nowhere near perky. And my ass is still there.

I want to lose 21 pounds. That’s it. Anything more would just be a bonus. I haven’t seen south of 185 since I lost 15 pounds to get into my wedding dress, and that was eight years ago!

I know I can do this, even if my body isn’t exactly on my side. I know that while I might have to re-evaulate my goals a bit, I can still succeed. I also know that I need to stop concentrating on the number and more on my health, how I feel, and calories in vs. calories out.

I know all of that.

But don’t lie to me. Everyone looks at the number.

Everyone.

And here I am putting it online for the world to see when the plan was to keep The Number hush-hush until after I had not only reached, but surpassed my goal weight. It’s easy to look back and go, “Oh yes? When I was fat and weighed 20 pounds more than my husband who’s got half-a-foot on me? But darling…that was ages ago. Look how far I’ve come!”

Letting it out now? Present tense? As I write the book and wonder if the book will ever be anything but a pipe-dream (like my goal weight)? Oh yeah…that’s some scary shit, man. Really scary shit.

I am my own best and worst excuse. So how does one go about outsmarting themselves?

I might not be able to get in to see the endocrinologist for 3 months, but that doesn’t mean I have a three month pass to eat whatever the hell I want. Or at least, that’s not what it means now. Because I’m done. I’m ready.

My excuses can go fuck themselves. I am Mama hear me roar! Right? Because in my head, I've got till May to make some serious headway on my book, my body, and my nerves. (Now pardon me while I go hide under my bed after posting this to my blog.)