A few days ago, I was floating in cloud nine. Feeling good. Feeling thin(ner). Feeling like I was finally going to conquer my inner mental yo-yo and get my shit together, lose the weight, and finish my damned book. I started following a low GI diet. You know the one recommended to diabetics to keep blood sugar levels good and stable? And I lost seven pounds in a week.
But my weight is a direct reflection of my emotional state. And unfortunately, I am not one of the lucky who get skinny when stressed. Right now, I'm as far away, mentally, from that "go me!" point as I can possibly be.
Experts say not to attempt major lifestyle changes during times of major stress. Starting a new diet plan? That would fall under major lifestyle changes, right? But if I want to wait for my life to be stress-free, I'll be waiting for till I'm dead to finally stop bitching about the mom-pooch and the thunder thighs and the sand bag boobs.
My dog is dying. And after we finally say good-bye, I have to do my taxes. And then my mothers. And after that? Well, there's the wedding I don't want to spend thousands of dollars to fly myself, my daughter, The Husband, my mother, and sister to. We're all about celebrating with the bride and groom. But there's some major family drama with others on the guest list and an open bar may or may not make for a really bad time.
The calendar of shitty things to deal with only continues. So my choice is to either learn to deal without a cookie in my mouth or stay fat.
This is where I sign off for the evening. I've got a cellulite-ridden skeleton to kick out of my mental closet. It's time for her and my manuscript to be introduced.
I promise to return with Something Hilariously Funny to balance this evening's pity party. So stay tuned.