Body Emo

Okay, I haven’t written anything of substance since January, and there’s been a lot of busy happy stuff going on.  I’ll post positive stuff next week with pictures and talk about gardening and knitting and housing and kitties.

But I’m in a funk at the moment, so I need to write about it to get it out of my system.

Around, oh, 17 years ago I took a Community Ed course in “gypsy dancing.”  I loved it.  I was actually good at something physical, which was a novelty, and I felt so beautiful and sensuous as I circled those hips.  I was generously proportioned even back then, but nothing like my current mass.

So, knowing that I really need to get some exercise and having been disappointed in the Bikram yoga class ever since the main instructor moved away, I tried a tribal bellydance class Tuesday night.  I had really been looking forward to recapturing those indulgent feminine feelings.

That didn’t happen.

The reflection in the mirror made me feel clumsy and disgusting.  It hurt.

But it was a good workout, so I registered and paid for 5 more sessions at the end of class so that I wouldn’t wimp out on coming back.  I guess I’ll just have to work on strengthening my sense of self-worth along with my abs and delts.  I can do it.  I’ve been doing that particular exercise for quite some time, but the wall of mirrors and the lovely slim instructor set me back unexpectedly.  Not her fault.

Anyway, the experience eventually led me to do something yesterday that I’ve been much happier not doing for the last 8 months:  I weighed myself.  Shit, that was a mistake.

I wandered into a fat acceptance forum this morning trying to shore up the damage, and I came across a thread asking people whether or not they did regular weight checks.  This was my response, and for full catharsis I’m putting it right out here on my slightly-less-anonymous blog.

I weighed myself yesterday for the first time since July, and I really regret it. It was majorly triggering. I had to mentally out-shout the “omg gotta diet or i’m going to keep growing until i’m immobilized” response with, “if you diet, whatever you lose will come back with 20 more of its fucking friends, REMEMBER? IT ALWAYS HAPPENS SO DON’T DO IT!”

I finally talked myself down with the thought of, “hey, you started Fat Acceptance in August, plunged into the novel behavior of eating whatever whenever, which took awhile to mellow out (I still eat whatever whenever, but I don’t want nearly as much sugar now as I did for a few months), and then your arches fell like London Bridge and you were stuck on the couch with plantar fasciitis for 4 months because it was excruciating to stand up. It’s amazing that you only gained 7 pounds! You’re up and about now, eating produce, gardening, just started bellydancing, that number is probably lower than what it was in February.”

Then I tried to go do a yoga tape to reinforce my sense of ownership of my body (and improve my health, because I really do need more exercise), and my 3yo started crying because he didn’t want to do it with me and couldn’t be convinced to go play with his brother instead. I wound up sobbing on the floor in frustration with him giving me kisses.

So fuck the scale right in the ear. I’m not getting on it again.

Okay.  Catharsis achieved.  Now I’m going to get off the Couch of Sorrow and do some housework and homeschooling,  check the garden, and prepare for an afternoon playdate.  It’s a gorgeous day outside, and life is too short to angst over vanity.