I have started this blog post three times already tonight. That's rare for me. Usually I sit down, internal dialogue already written, and hit publish. But there is no internal anything going on right now. I want to be funny and my usual snarky self when I talk about how I may have to come to terms with a fat ass, a not so defined waist, and a karmic serving of This is Your Life because it's obvious my PCOS, the two bouts of hormonal hell I get to deal with each month, and the mirror aren't going to make any of this as easy as I used to think. I want to make you laugh when I explain that even though I am eating like Kate Moss (minus the drug problem), I look more like Rosanne Barr in her skinny days, probably because I can't afford the drug problem. And I want to make sure you understand that it's the calendar and my ovaries' complete refusal to abide by it and the expected 30 day cycle that has me hiding from my blog because most of what comes out right now will be tinged in a bitchiness and a hankering need for chocolate and not the writer mama ignoring her muse.
But instead I'm questioning every word I pound out on the keyboard because this just so happens to be a little more permanent than a spoken conversation. Sure, I might be arguing with my scale right now because it can't be normal to put on that much weight just because I am retaining water. Again. But once this passes, I'll have a week of clarity. And I won't sound like I'm getting ready to jump face first into a bowl of chocolate-covered sin. I'll be peppy. I'll be motivated. And I might even run for homecoming queen.
But this week, this day, this moment? It all kind of sucks. I have a doctor who is telling my my levels are slightly off but still within accepted normal ranges which is code for her having no clue how to fix me. I have a clean eating diet that also excludes gluten-containing products so don't tell me I'm not watching what I eat. And I have a body that likes to remind me that my head is not in charge.
Sometimes, I wonder why I don't just throw in the towel. If I am going to be a fluffy mama, I may as well enjoy what I am eating instead of limiting everything and still getting nowhere fast, right? Cake trumps carrot sticks and pizza beats plain grilled chicken any day of the week...or at least, it used to. But then I remind myself that the number on the scale isn't the reason I jumped back on the hamster wheel of fate. If I can't control how I look, you better bet your ass I'm going to make sure I control how I feel. (On the 14 days of the month I am not going crazy, I mean.)
Cellulite, muffin top, and thunder thighs, be damned. I'm in charge of this ship. And that means I keep trying. Because for those of us lucky enough to have a medical reason for the size of our duffs, this might be the only way to measure success. Which means we all keep trying. Because that, we can feel good about.