I hit my super-secret goal weight today: 113.
Now, I kinda want to drop 4 more before the Bon Vivant comes home in 8 days. It’s not for him, it’s for me, but after he’s back we have a food thing to do and an invite to a pool party days later . . .
I do know this all sounds crazy, but, I feel like I look the way I want, I just want to continue to look this way, even if I am downtown, eating and drinking for a weekend.
I used to be fat.
Seven years ago, I came back from a vacation to Europe, stepped on a scale, and saw 170. which means I put on about 50 pounds in 3 years. It took me 2 years of experimenting with workouts and diets to lose all the weight. Once I did Atkins, it didn’t take that long, to be honest.
Then, I descended back into the darkness. I have been disordered since I was at least 12, when my friends all freaked out and did an entire series in our health class at our little magnet school dedicated to convincing Planner she was anorexic.
I didn’t believe it, but I told my mother, who so thoroughly rejected it she thought it was funny. 10 years later, my cousin was in the hospital for 3 months and we all had to acknowledge that we may have escaped the curse of alcoholism, we have this insidious shit to deal with.
So, I take this seriously, and I am honest with myself about the fact that I know I am on the cusp of doing stupid shit. I have a thing to attend tonight: PR’s band, and its kind of a big deal. There is another party after with RA, C, and everyone, and then a show tonight . . . and I am already thinking about the ratio of food to drink and how I will manage through the day, and then two parties this weekend.
The unhealthy part is that it becomes an obsession. When I fail, when it ticks up 7 pounds, I don’t want to leave my house.
There comes a point when I stop, when even I think I look too thin, when I tell my friends we need to hit the pub for burgers and tots.
That point used to be 113, but over time, it’s become 109.
I love when women tell me I have the body of a ballet dancer. I used to. Two years ago, I spent enough time at the barre that I had a spectacularly great, if remarkably thin, body. I don’t have that now. My arms are flabby, as W reminded me recently. My stomach is flat, but not muscular. My ass could be higher, my legs better defined.
And yet, I think I look good. I am dedicated to working out . . . a lot . . . so I can look better.
The reason I am so honest with my closest friends and this blog, the reason I confessed to the Bon Vivant last November, is that I need them to help when I go too far. I need them to tell me what I cannot see.
Because I am dysmorphic, I have no idea how I look to anyone else. I only know what I see. I believe that were you to see me, you would see someone who is thin, but not alarmingly thin.
I am anxious about the weekend ahead, all of the eating and drinking I am expected to do, but I am sure it will all be fine.
And, now, time to work . . .