It is a one-o’clock-feels-like-five-o’clock, kind of a day. You’re finding that you simply must leave your apartment, on days like this, because if you don’t, you’re going to wind up in your pajamas, on your couch, buried beneath every blanket you own. Wondering exactly what was so wrong, with all of your ex-boyfriends. (Delete that message you saved to Drafts. Do it now.)
These dark and dreary days — I love them. I practically moved to the Pacific Northwest for them. But I do wish they’d stop falling on Sundays.
Sundays used to be my favorite. I used to do all of my Grownup Lady Chores on Saturday, so I would be free to adventure and/or cuddle, on Sunday. Those were always the two options. A or B, with no wrong answer. I don’t know that I savored that simplicity quite as much as I should have.
Sunday is a day to fill, now. I don’t mean that in a bad way, exactly. I just mean that there are a million options for what to do with the day, and while it can be nice to not have to do any consulting/compromising, it’s pretty clear that if I don’t come up with a little agenda, by early afternoon I end up feeling kind of alone. Acutely alone, maybe actually. More accurately.
I didn’t make a plan for today. Which would explain why I am sitting in a coffee shop, staring blearily out the window, wishing I were anywhere but here.
Half of the issue is probably that I didn’t go to my usual place. Can I tell you why? This is awful — it’s a completely awful reason why. But it’s because there is another regular, almost surely there, and I’d really rather not run into him. (Again.)
Want more truth? Okay. There is a terrible, tyrannical, too-big part of me that says: he might be interested in you now, but what about in another 10 pounds? 15 pounds? 20 pounds? What about 25 or even 30 pounds, if it comes to that?
We’ve got to do something about all of this insecurity — I know. But everyone says to focus on weight restoration first, so that’s what I’m doing.
That’s what I’m doing, even though today it’s making me feel less sparkly and less sure than ever.
I know that size has so little to do with either beauty or confidence. Ask me on a good day, and I’d say the two go hand in hand. I’d say more, too. I’d say beauty has more to do with the way you move and speak and express yourself. The way you touch other people. I’d probably blush and duck my head and squeak-say that beauty looks like good health, glowing. I’d keep going, if you nodded. I’d say beautiful people have bodies that house warmth and quick wit and charisma, and so many other things.
And I know I wouldn’t really want to be with someone who would disagree. (That would never work out!)
But — call me a coward — I still feel like I’d rather hide out in my apartment, until this is all done.
It’s funny: I can write perfectly lovely things about a bigger pair of jeans one day, and then the next day, I can spend an inordinate amount of time frowning in front of a full length mirror, FREAKING OUT, because nothing fits. It’s only been a few weeks, and nothing fits.
The fact of the matter is, I probably need to go out and buy bigger everything. There is no reason that stuff from high school should fit now. Or even things from college. The clothes are supposed to fit you, not the other way around.
While we’re talking to ourselves…your body is trying to teach your mind a lesson. Love yourself, god damn it.
Also: “There are a few things in life so beautiful they hurt: swimming in the ocean while it rains, reading alone in empty libraries, the sea of stars that appear when you’re miles away from the neon lights of the city, walking in the wilderness, all the phases of the moon, the things we do not know about the universe, and you.” -Beau Taplin || And you.