Here’s something I wrote this week. It is not politically correct. I’m suppose to be happy with myself the way I am. I’m not suppose to use the “F” word. Well now I’ve gone and done it.
Sometimes I really hate the shocks that come with life. Especially today. Lately my clothes have felt uncomfortably tight. I’ve stopped wearing my beloved skirts as my thighs rub together so much I fear they will burst into flames. I sweat in places I didn’t know I could sweat in. I can barely see some of my bits and pieces as I’ve become ‘so much more’ of a woman. I officially have ‘back boobs.’ (Of course hubs is thrilled.)
Back to the shock I had today. Of course it took place in a change room – as all such shocks tend to do. I guess I don’t look at myself often enough to really see what changes are occurring. Not to mention, when I do look ‘back there’ in the bathroom mirror I am twisting around and I swear to you things don’t look so bad in that position.
It’s been a few years since I’ve slept comfortably too if I’m going to be honest. On the side, I feel like my lungs are being crushed. On my back, it’s like these two big blobs are racing to see which one hits the mattress first. Stomach sleeping is just unthinkable.
My feet hurt all the time, my hip and pelvic area burns when I walk and I can’t talk when I walk any more. I hate that things have come to this. fat
When I was a child, up to age 25 actually, I couldn’t gain weight. The doctors were always worried about how underweight I was. They made me drink these horrible shakes to try to gain. I never thought about losing weight then. I was active and athletic until after high school. I replaced the bike that took me everywhere with a car when I turned 19. Bikes are like a fine torture to me now – taunting me with promises of stress relief and the euphoria I felt before. If I even sit on a bike saddle now my pelvic bones feel like they are splitting up the middle.
Clothes are no longer my friend. Now they are my disguise. What can I wear that will make me look less ‘me’. Close fitting clothes apparently look more flattering – but then I can see everything. Loose ‘comfortable’ clothes aren’t professional and they make me look bigger. Bras are like a particular form of torture I cannot stand. Wear the right bra and it feels like I’m being strangled around the ribs. The straps want to saw into my shoulders. Not to mention most bras I wear now stick ’the girls’ out so far in front one would think a family of goats could shelter safely from the sun in the shade I provide. fat
[tweetthis]Apparently it is not acceptable to go braless in our society. [/tweetthis] Another reason to envy the tribeswomen in Africa. How can I blame society when I can’t stand to be in public myself without being properly strapped in place? And exercise? Can you imagine what that is like with large breasts? They have a will of their own that no sports bra can contain.
Seriously, it’s a vicious cycle. I should get out there and just walk. Or swim or cycle and ignore the pain – right? Push through the pain. But then the doctor says, if it hurts stop doing it. Gahhh!
I used to do yoga and loved it. Now parts of me get in the way when I try. It isn’t as satisfying any more.
My eating habits are no different than 20 years ago – if anything I eat less. Certainly less junk food. I drink litres of water every day. I avoid salt, alcohol and sugary drinks. I have cut way down on my sugars. I did all this last year. Produce doesn’t always agree with me but I eat it regularly. fat
This all just kind of snuck up on me.
I went to a pool party last weekend and most of the women there were older than me and in bathing suits. I didn’t bring mine because I felt self conscious. I regretted it. Now I am worried I’m passing this along to my daughter. She is similar to me in some ways but different in others. She likes to exercise but not in organized sports. She doesn’t cycle but she’s trying jogging and walks 3.5km each way to school and back. She loves going on ‘walkabouts’ with her friends. She swims too. She’s a gorgeous, womanly creature and so far, not self conscious as I have become. I know she worries about me now. I’m sorry for that.
Back to the change room. I now look for vertical stripes and things that are ‘flattering’. I pass by the clothes that are sexy, skimpy, and sleeveless. (I miss having armpits. ) I look for long shirts.
I want to be around long enough to meet my great great grandchildren. Apparently, I’m doomed but if I do figure something out, I’ll be sure to let you all know.