Mambo Number Five

I’m not going to bother waiting until Wednesday, I’ll just give you the goods right now. I gained all my weight back. Granted, it was only four pounds, but I was proud of my four little pounds. 

March has been miserable and it was my own doing. I never made a monthly menu and I spent all my money as soon as it came into my hands. 

But it hasn’t been completely bad. I’ve been engaging with friends in real life as opposed to on social media. I’ve made the menu for April as well as a shopping list for ingredients. I actually used the budget app that I downloaded and budgeted my finances until January of next year. I’m taking steps to put my life back on track and I feel more in control.

Last but not least, I’ve decided to try the ketogenic diet yet again. I’ll still be making everything at home, I just feel like I need to accelerate the weight loss process. Yes, it’s a bit more costly, but I cut certain other things from my life to make this possible.

Now comes the hard part: getting through the next two weeks before I go grocery shopping again. I’m impatient. And poor. I’ve got tuna to get me through, thankfully. And a couple of chickens for my daughter’s dinners, plus rice and pasta. I’ll update when I have good news.

Are You What You Are Or What

It’s funny how once I stumble, I use it as an excuse to fall flat on my face and lie on the ground feeling sorry for myself. Did I say funny? I meant pathetic. 

I’ve been backsliding with all my might, doing it with zeal, shouting, “fuck you, me!” I didn’t post my menu or my weigh in because I didn’t make a menu or weigh myself. I’ve been eating restaurant food despite the fact that my budget has been screaming at me and begging for asylum. What in the actual fuck is my problem?

This is not the time for excuses. This is the time for action. 

As of today I weigh 284. I gained back two of the pounds I lost and am at an overall loss of two pounds.

I had my thyroid checked a few months ago and I was actually hoping I had hypothyroidism. I have many of the symptoms and it would explain so much. But my numbers appear normal, so it’s back to the drawing board.

For the remainder of the week, I’m going to be eating tuna over a salad for dinner. That was meant to be my lunch all week but I’ve been eating takeout. I don’t want the vegetables to go to waste. 

I really dislike writing about my failures, but I want to be  honest if nothing else. 

I need to get my body moving. A friend suggested yoga and I think that’s an excellent idea. I’m going to look through YouTube for beginner’s yoga. I took a belly dance class and the instructor had us do yoga as a warm up. After one of the steps, I felt all my stress leaving my body and a sensation of peace so powerful that  tears came to my eyes.

I really dislike exercise videos with fast dance steps that I have to memorize. I always end up marching in place. Which is strange because I adore Just Dance and can play for about forty five minutes. I guess the exercise videos I’ve used are lame. I’ll stick to the Wii and yoga. I need to do something to make me feel good.

Medium Head Boy

I, like so many millions of others, have a Facebook account. I have a total of one friend. He passed away in 2012 and when I was cleaning out my friend’s list, I couldn’t bring myself to delete him. We were casual friends who met at work and lost touch, only to reunite through MySpace and then Facebook. We were always only casual friends so I don’t know what my issue is. I deleted my best friends and family members, but until I permanently get rid of my account, he’s staying.

I deactivated my Facebook for a while. I deleted (almost) everyone so the temptation to log back in would be erased. I messaged a few people to get their contact information beforehand, as I wasn’t trying to become a hermit. Some responded and some didn’t. Fair enough. I had forgotten something important though, and that was Facebook’s groups. I belong to a few resale groups and its an easy and convenient way to make quick cash. So I logged back in and have stayed in, although there’s not much to look at with no posts from my friends.

It feels empowering to not be a slave to status updates. I was addicted and would eagerly look forward to the times when I would finally get on after a day of being busy. I’d scroll, scroll, scroll, like, poke, comment. Then feel a little disappointment when I’d get to the posts I’d seen on a previous session.

I loved seeing what people were up to. Their victories: pregnancies, promotions, new homes, graduations, getting out of jail, and especially getting drunk. I so enjoyed interacting with drunk people from the comfort of my solitude, beer in hand. I also loved the confrontations. Yes! You tell those entitled drama queens who’s boss! Tell your boss he’s a little bitch! Tell that bitch she’s a hussy! I especially loved the complaints, even more so when the complaints were about status updates. (For example: People are too political, not political enough. Too many bathroom selfies, too much cleavage showing. People are so tacky putting all their biz online: fights with their SOs, child support problems, sex related ANYTHING, and their depression. Go away, real world!) I took a perverse pleasure from their dissatisfaction over something they could easily control. I think a few people that protested really liked all the juicy personal info. I think the rest were just afraid to appear rude by pressing the unfriend button. I never minded when I was unfriended. Facebook is one big absurd carnival of strangeness.

My most favorite thing about Facebook (and what led to my resignation) was creating my own status updates. It reminded of a Bloc Party song that said something about slicing, dazzling them with wit. I never managed that but I enjoyed myself anyway. But slowly and certainly I began to falter. What is there to say when you are no longer in school and you haven’t found a job and you aren’t dating and you stopped drinking? And you have no money to do anything fun and you are becoming horribly depressed? I made generic updates  until it occurred to me that having Facebook was not my job. I felt empty inside for about five minutes after I deactivated. Then I set about recovering my life.

I’m definitely not trying to say that NOBODY can live a genuine life while enjoying Facebook or social media in general. This is certainly a personal problem. I’m trying to engage with people on a personal level now. And I’m fulfilling my need to vent here on my blog, where I’m anonymous.

In case you didn’t enjoy this post, I invite you to turn it into a drinking game. Every time I write, “Facebook,” you have to take a shot. That should do the trick.

Frat Bro Dream Girl

Last night I did an experiment. I laid still in bed and listened. Sure enough, my bed was squeaking. It had been squeaking while I played a game on my phone which I thought was slightly unreasonable. It only takes one finger to play Bejeweled Blitz you know. You don’t have to be so dramatic, bed. But it continued even when I did nothing but breathe. Was I shaking? I consulted with the internet and it turns out I don’t have Parkinson’s, multiple sclerosis, or lupus. I might have a condition called shaking-bed-itis. Or I might be a paranoid asshole with a cheap bed frame. I like to think there was a mild earthquake (that only I noticed because I’m so super special and important). A forty five minute one.

I’ve actually broken a bed before. Twice really, but the first time I weighed one hundred pounds less than I do now and it was sex related, so that doesn’t count. The second time, I had a wooden bed frame. For a couple of weeks before the incident, my bed creaked every time I got on. I ignored it for some reason, maybe figuring that was just what wooden beds did. A friend came to visit and spent the night. My friend was roughly my size but quite a bit taller. Deep in the night I woke up to a sudden horrid CRACK and the mattress then dipped down on the left side. We got up and sorted ourselves out. We rearranged the remains of the bed so that the mattress and box spring were on the floor. All of the rumbling woke up my mom who texted me, “What’s all that noise? Is Sofia cleaning?” Implying that cleaning was needed. Also implying that my daughter, perhaps five at the time, would be more likely to clean than either my myself or my friend. Pretty clever jab for it being the middle of the night, I have to admit. The bed, under warranty, was repaired and broke again in the same spot two years later. I threw it out.

Being obese has led to some strange and sometimes humiliating situations. I took a bowling class in college to fulfill a kinesiology requirement. I couldn’t bend over to put on the bowling shoes. Well, I could have, if I’d unbuttoned my pants. I was unwilling to do this so I slipped the shoes on and then contorted in all kinds of unattractive ways to tie them. I wore stretchy elastic waist pants to bowling from then on. For my second kinesiology class I took weight lifting. This was much more fun than bowling. You know how some women are afraid to weight train because they think they’ll bulk up and it’s complete bullshit? Well it’s not bullshit at all in my case. My muscles were born to bulk. I don’t mind though. I took weight lifting in high school with the same result. I was leaning on the desk at work one day and a co-worker poked my arm and then demanded, “what the hell is that?!” Followed by more jabbing and squeezing. He was amazed at the hardness of my arm and I was proud.

After graduation, I went back to school for my master’s. I decided to take advantage of the gym and even hired a trainer to help me get the most of my workouts. She encouraged me to get on the stationary bike. It was tall, I’m short, and I expressed my doubts. I worried it would tip while I mounted it. She cheered me on and helped me up. I rode two happy miles before moving on. My tailbone (and really my entire body) ached later. As the soreness wore off, my tailbone hurt even more. I figured that was the price to pay for putting 286 pounds of pressure on one small bone, on the bike. Three days later I was in terrible pain. I thought I’d fractured it, and as there’s nothing to be done for a fractured tailbone, I suffered on. On Sunday it began to bleed. I decided to go to the ER where I was surprised to learn I had a fever. And a pilonidal cyst. And a staph infection. I was on antibiotics for a month before it healed. Had I not been obese, I wouldn’t have thought my weight caused me to fracture my tailbone. I would have gone to the Dr sooner. Maybe. I still have a lump so I’m aware it could act up at any time.

I clipped my toenails the other day for the first time in forever. My daughter’s father was fond of saying that I could climb trees with the claws on my feet. Clipping them was difficult and I did a shit job.

I’m really not proud of all this. Getting it all out is so much better than holding it in, though. I don’t want to go through any of this anymore. Eating at home is good for me but I need things to move along a little faster. Time to get drastic.