Good morning, Gentle Readers.
The usual apologies for this post being all over the shop with topics applies. Curse this non-linear brain of mine!
I would like to start off this Saturday morning with a brief moment of silence for my breasts. The once mighty 42DDs are slowly shrinking. This annoys and pleases me at the same time. Annoys because if you’re a person who wears bras, you know how goddamned expensive these holders of tits are, and if you’re like me, you wear your bras until they reach the point of the underwire slipping out the side and stabbing you in the chest wall, and even then you mutter to yourself as you try to jam the wire back in, “not today, goddamn it! You’ve got some life left in you yet!”
Bras I have that admittedly aren’t the right size to begin with, as my boobs often spilled out over the cups, no longer do so. One of my favorites now gaps in the cups. The usual hooks in the band had to be taken in to the next set, and the straps adjusted to accommodate my shrinking mammaries. I can feel more of my rib cage and sternum when I touch my chest instead of the layer of adipose that was once there.
Being no stranger to weight loss, as this most recent endeavor marks the fourth time in my adult life I’ve decided that enough is enough and began losing weight, which also means this is the fourth time my cans have shrunk, this time, I’m not as upset about it as I had been in the past, despite the title of this post. Well, I guess I should say that I’m torked off by it as usual, but I’m more at peace with it this time. Necessary evil, friends. I’m trying to adopt the mindset that less cans equals I’m doing this weight loss thing right, and in the grand scheme of things, having smaller ta-tas is trivial compared to striving to become healthier and leaner in the process. Win some, lose some tits.
Regardless, let’s take a brief moment of reflection for my knockers. Thanks for all the good times, melons.
Next, let’s chat about drinking, or rather, the lack of drinking I’ve been doing the last seven weeks. Since July 9th, I’ve drank two times. Considering I used to drink daily and always to the point of being slightly intoxicated, that’s a pretty impressive feat, if you ask me.
Historically speaking, alcohol and I have had a very turbulent relationship. I was a “good kid” in high school, and never drank save the two wine coolers my parents would allow me to sip on the 4th of July when we’d get together with family. Oh, Bartels and James Fuzzy Peach Cooler. You made me feel like such a bad-ass at age 15. Lolz.
When I turned 21, I didn’t have the typical right of passage bar crawl. In fact, I remember I went to dinner with my family and I think I ordered a single drink and then went to a liquor store and got a 4-pack of wine coolers, which I drank two of. Wild and crazy times there! Wooo!
I actually drank little from age 21 to 25. I was newly married then, and my then-husband and I would drink occasionally, going downtown with friends and living it up for a night, but we didn’t ever really keep booze in the house. A six-pack of beer every now and then, but nothing more than that really.
Our marriage took its first hit when we were 25, though. Our living situation at the time was with a cousin of mine and her boyfriend, and we were both pretty miserable. He wasn’t a fan of it and would often disappear to a friend’s house leaving me alone until a friend of mine convinced me to join him for karaoke. Welcoming a chance to leave the house and be with friends, I obliged and that’s when I started drinking more regularly and heavily. Liquid courage for the karaoke thing, dontcha know.
We finally moved out and into our own apartment a few months later, but the drinking monkey had already attached itself firmly to my back and got progressively worse over the next five years when our marriage took the final death blow.
Drinking became the cure for what ailed me. I went from drinking a few days a week to drinking every day. Bad decisions were made, a DUI/reckless driving charge was had, a night in detox was had…good times. Good memories. Due to a series of extremely unfortunate events, I ended up having to participate in an outpatient alcohol addiction program, which I flunked out of due to even more unfortunate events and well, drinking while in the program. Not the proudest point in my life, but you’ll have that.
My drinking did wane for a bit, going back to a few nights a week instead of daily. This went on for a few years. I fooled myself into thinking I didn’t ever really have a dependency on the stuff because I could go a few days or a week or so without a drink. See? I can be sober for a week and not be bothered by it! I don’t have a drinking problem!
Oh, Erin. So young and naive. Bless your heart.
But every time I drank, I couldn’t have just a drink or two. Oh, no. I had to drink to get drunk, every time. Why bother drinking if you don’t get shitfaced? It’s un-American! Our Forefathers didn’t dump goddamn tea into the goddamn river for us to spend our lives sober! No sir! They fought for our right to party! Hell yeah, brothers!
I also drank to lessen my inhibitions. When I drink, I get talkative and chatty and more open with my thoughts as compared to my normal state of hating to talk/being tight-lipped. If I knew I was going to be around people to whom I have a hard time talking with, I’d pound a few drinks to “calm my nerves” and to be a Chatty Cathy. It’s a win-win for all involved! Never mind the fact that I’d get drunk and often forget about the conversation and then have a healthy dose of self-loathing the next day when I tried desperately to recall conversations from the night before and came up with fragments. Cool, Erin. Cool. Nope, no problem with drinking. You clearly have, as the kids say, got this.
No, I didn’t “got this.” Not even close to getting this at all.
The last few months proved this yet again. Due to Partner In Crime moving, I began drowning my sorrows in the bottle again, drinking nightly. I discovered that Mike’s Hard Lemonade makes 16oz cans of Mike’s Harder Lemonade which pack an impressive 8% ABV per can, so in the right conditions, drinking three of these sonsabitches gave me a pretty good drunk. I started doing this every day: get off work, stop at the gas station up the road from home, buy four cans of this crap and drink them all. Wash, rinse, repeat. Obviously, I’d wake up feeling like warmed-over shit in the morning, to which I’d falsely tell myself that I wasn’t going to drink that night, but golly gee, what did I end up doing anyway? Yep. The bottom shelf of my fridge was full of beer and MHLs. I kept a giant bottle of whiskey in my freezer, too, because of course I did.
Shamefully, I also took to having beers while driving to see my mom, as well. My rationale behind that was that since she lives in Kansas, and Kansas beer is weaker than Nebraska beer because Kansas sucks balls, I’d crack open a few cold ones while driving to go see her. I never, ever claimed to be smart because clearly this behavior illustrates that very well. Even more stupid about that is had I ever been pulled over for a traffic violation of some sort, I’d most likely had gotten slapped with another DUI. What a goddamn moron.
Luckily, all this changed when I decided to enroll in this weight loss program. Knowing full well that not only is drinking daily a general poor idea, it’s also just empty calories and I have no idea how many calories were in those goddamn cans of MHLs, but I bet you I would unknowingly drink a solid 800 calories or more a day without giving it a second thought. And I wonder why I had gained weight. Dumbass.
Like I said, save two occasions since July 9, I haven’t had a stitch to drink. I don’t have any alcohol in my house, save 1/4 bottle of Irish cream liquor that’s sitting on the top of my fridge. No beer, no whiskey, no sugar bombs of Mike’s. I honestly and truly do not miss drinking. I thought I would, but I don’t. On those two occasions I did drink, I was so overly concerned about the caloric intake that I didn’t enjoy it as I once would have. I was silently freaking out about how those beers were robbing me of my precious calories I could be using for food, and since I’m on a reduced intake to begin with, knowing that you just drank 200 calories of booze when that could have gone to food really pisses you off. God-fucking-dammit! I could have eaten that!! FML!!
Plus, it’s nice to not wake up feeling like shit for once. Or feeling stupid. Or verbally berating myself for being so foolish for drinking. It’s really nice, actually. And truth be told, drinking makes me feel gross during, too. I had noticed over the years that my tolerance for some beers had waned and I’d develop a headache after drinking a single beer.
Have I gone completely sober? Well, I mean technically no since I have had drinks since I started this program, but that’s still hard to say at this point. We have such an odd relationship with alcohol in this country and I haven’t worked up the mindset that I don’t need booze at all yet. I’m not mentally prepared for the onslaught of “why don’t you drink anymore?!?!” questions I’ll get if people realize I’m not imbibing like I normally would. I’m silly like that.
Now, back to this weight loss adventure thingy.
I think I have body dysmorphia. Why do I say that? Because even though I’m down over 21 pounds so far, and lost inches because clothes are getting looser, I still see myself as weighing what I did. It’s so bizarre. I can look at an article of clothing, visualize that it is either too big or too small yet, but still not compute it properly in my mind. Or I’ll look at myself in my birthday suit and see a difference, but yet I still feel like I take up as much space or more so than I do. Right? It’s mad fucked up. There’s also a healthy dose of impostor syndrome–or maybe that’s not the right term, but I can’t think of anything better to describe it–going on, too. Like…who the fuck am I to be this suddenly healthy eater and exerciser? I keep thinking to myself that I’ve done this shit three times before, as in I’ve lost a decent amount of weight in the past and what have I done? Gained it all back. Yes, this last time was due to having a few unexpected knee surgeries that took a bit longer to recover from than I had anticipated, and due to that the activity level took a header into the toilet, but still. I often find myself wondering why in the good-goddamn I’m even doing this because I just know I’ll regain this shit back in a year or two because that’s my pattern. Be fat, get tired of being fat, start eating better and exercising, lose 40 to 60 pounds, keep it off for a hot minute, something happens, weight comes back. Obviously I’d like to say this is the final straw and I’m going to do my very best to keep this weight off, but will I? Will I really? Time will tell, I guess.
My brain, I swear. I’d ask for a refund, but I don’t think anyone wants this shit back. Assholes.
It wouldn’t be a post from me without mentioning The One That Moved Away, and I can’t disappoint the three of you who read this, so here we go!
Still miss him, which is laughable because it’s cute of me to think I ever stopped. Oh, he moved away? Huh. Weird! I hardly noticed! Obviously some days I handle it better than others, but it’s always a niggling thing in the back of my mind. It’s goddamn near impossible to be here at home and look around and not find something to remind me of the man. The bookshelves he assembled, the speakers and sound system–one component is actually his that he graciously let me use…it’s rough. I act like the guy died or something, but as far as I know and based on a “like” I got on Facebook earlier today, he’s still kickin’ it, just not within a 10 mile radius anymore. A fun game I like to play with myself is daydreaming that one day soon, there’ll be a knock on my door and his goofy ass will come sauntering in through the kitchen like he used to. That’s a good daydream. Unrealistic, I know, but there’s no law that says daydreams have to be 100% factual. That’s why they’re called “daydreams,” dummies.
I know I’m being dramatic about it all. I know I am. I’m fully aware of this. He moved. People move. But as I know I’ve mentioned before, I’m supposed to be the wishy-washy flakey one and up and vanish. He’s the constant in the equation, I’m the loose cannon. He disrupted the nature of things! What a jerk!
Like I keep saying, I just miss the guy. I guess I should be grateful we had something that does make me miss him as much as I do. Silver lining? Sure. He was/is one of the few people I could claim as a person to whom I hardly ever grew tired of, or annoyed with. It’s true. Oh, there are little, trivial things that would make me roll my eyes, but that’s completely normal. No one is perfect in that regard. I think what I miss most about him, and something I don’t think I ever told him, is that whenever he was around, my mind quieted down. To him, I’m sure he thought I was either bored to tears or totally disinterested, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. He calmed me. My brain didn’t race a million miles like it normally does. It was such a welcomed reprieve from all the constant worry and overthinking I always do, but around him, this old lump of grey matter between my ears was almost like, “you can relax now,” and I did. Again, what a fucking jerk. I hope I get to see him again some day.
Well. On that happy note, let’s wrap this up, shall we?
To recap: my cans are shrinking. I don’t think I am, even though I am. I don’t drink hardly ever anymore and I’m almost completely fine with that. The One Who Moved Away is missed and is also a jerk (kidding, I kid).
And that’s about the long and short of it! Yay!
It’s time for bed now. I kicked my own ass at the gym yesterday and my pal RD and I went on a bike ride this morning and I am pooped now. I’m old and tired. I’m okay with that.
As always, thank you for reading.