I started to write an open letter, a funny one, to all the people in the world trying to sabotage my 24 hour old diet. The one I stayed on just one day and technically cheated on because I ate cake after dinner. After my very sensible dinner, which followed a day of fruit and vegetable eating sensible breakfasts and lunches and did not include any candy at work, which I can't remember the last time I even attempted to do that. Still, it was cake. I wrote about how good it was and you don't just let the best chocolate cake you've ever had sit around and get crusty. That would be disrespectful. I was pointing fingers at the woman who brought in punchkis today and the vendor who sent us cookies. Ha ha. Funny.
You see Friday I realized my jelly wasn't where it was supposed to be and yes, I just washed those particular jeans and yes, I probably was retaining some water, but I know that I know it's more than that. But I don't want to write about it.
I don't have a weight problem, I have a sweet tooth and a lack of discipline-ten pound problem. My BMI is where it is supposed to be. My midsection doesn't look the same as it used to, but I am not overweight. My health, my back, my joints, my ability to play with my kid, they are all just fine. I just want to be thinner. Because I just want to. There I've said it.
But writing about it, talking about it, seems disrespectful to people who really do have to battle high blood pressure or diabetes or an ailment related to the number on the scale. Aside from that, I'm a parent now. People are worth more than the size in the tag on their jeans. Oh sure, I tsk-tsk and shake my head at the models literally starving themselves to death but at the same time I long for slender hips that will slide into the size four skirt I have stashed in my bottom dresser drawer. The one I know I will never ever fit in again, but the one I can't bear to throw away.
If I could squeeze into it then what? Will my life be different? Will it be back to the way it was when I could wear it? No. Is that what I really want? Not really. Sometimes. Just for a day. What am I trying to prove? I don't know. I sneak sideways glances at moms who are skinnier than me and wonder how they do it. I see tiny twenty-somethings around the office and think, I could still look like that if I hadn't had a baby, trying to rationalize it, when no one is asking me to.
Some mornings I stand in the mirror and cover my hips with my hands. I pretend the image in the mirror is what it was and I think wow. Then I think so what? I didn't have hips once, but I didn't have a lot of other things either. So I have hips. Big fucking deal. I shouldn't care. I do.
I wonder why when I'm so incredibly lucky, when my life is so large, that all I can wish for is smaller hips.
Quelle horreur, mon amis.