Due to my admittedly severely lacking vocabulary…and a stupid quiz on Facebook about a year ago that tested your word stock, I signed up for a daily word through Merriam-Webster in a small effort to help boost my knowledge. I’m happy to report there has been a small amount of words I didn’t know, so good for me for expanding my little world. One of the WoD this week was “mea culpa”: noun: an acknowledgment of one’s fault or error; Latin meaning “by my fault.” I wish to have this phrase inscribed in my tombstone, please and thank you.
I would like to mea culpa the fuck out of this post. I also apologize for not knowing how to use the phrase in context, apparently. Mea culpa…?
I would like to start off by confessing I have had a week. Not necessarily good, not exactly rotten, but that kind of week where you teeter precariously between the two. Why? Because I bought a scale shortly after Christmas and have been weighing myself daily, that’s why.
I’m not sure what happened exactly, but after Christmas, I lost weight. I lost a decent amount of weight, as in six pounds. I have no idea how I lost six pounds, but by golly, I lost six pounds. And then I lost two more pounds. At one point, I got to 194, which of course put me over the goddamn moon. Elated, I was. Thrilled.
Then, then I gained eight pounds last week somewhere. I’m participating in a clinic-wide weight loss challenge at work and we weigh in weekly. It was $5 to sign up and if you gain weight at the weighing in, you have to pony up $0.50. Imagine my utter dismay and feelings of betrayal and inadequacy when I hopped on the scale and found out I had gained. This obviously and clearly paved the way for my mood the rest of the week and boy howdy, was it ever a foul one. Enter the familiar thoughts of “you fucking suck,” “you’re always going to be fat,” and “give up now, you fat fuck.” You know, real positive, happy-feely shit like that.
What could have possibly caused me to gain eight motherfucking pounds in a week?! I haven’t eaten anything to constitute an eight pound gain! I’ve gone to the gym! I met with a friend of mine to ride our bikes in her basement on her trainers! What the motherFUCK?!
I had to try to talk myself off the proverbial ledge. I hadn’t been the best with drinking water, so most likely fluid retention because I would have had to gorge on over 3,500 calories a day in order to gain fat weight. Okay, that’s feasible. The trainer at the gym also kicked my butt fairly solidly, as well. I did the other days I went to the gym, too. This could be my body going “you know what? Fuck you,” and adjusting to this. I also know a person’s weight fluctuates naturally throughout the day, so okay, start tiptoeing away from the edge, woman. Be rational and logical here, for chrissakes (lollolol).
Despite my talking to myself about probable causes, I couldn’t shake it. I felt disgusting. I felt I looked like I still weighed almost 260 pounds. Ridiculous. I fell off the wagon slightly for about two days, too. I had the feeling of defeat and well, I wanted to give up. Might as well, right? You’ve proven you can’t maintain this, or make any more progress, so let me throw this towel in. Fuck it. We had a food day at work mid-week and I grazed off all the snacks all day long. In retrospect, I don’t think I ate as poorly as I certainly could have and used to frequently and daily, but after six months of changing my food habits, it definitely felt like I was eating nothing but pure garbage.
I think I finally snapped out of it Thursday. The friend I rode with Saturday sold me her old trainer for a song and a dance, so when I got home that night from work, I rode. I rode Friday morning and met with the trainer in the afternoon. I rode this morning and then went to the gym afterwards. I’ll ride tomorrow morning and hit the gym again. I’ll ride, I’ll ride, I’ll ride.
On a positive note, I am rather fond of the bike trainer and am so grateful my friend decided to sell it to me. It’s a simple gadget, but effective. I have not been that drenched while performing an exercise in a while, so to pretend my sweat was all the negative, nasty things I’ve said about myself this past week was pouring out of me as I pedaled? That was a good thing. I’m still fairly green when it comes to this cycling game, but that’s okay. I know enough to make it work, and you only get better by repetition, right? Right. I also somewhat foolishly signed up to do a 62 mile ride in May, in addition to the other long charitable rides I like to do, so hopefully this spring and summer is the one where I am efficient at cycling and don’t feel like dying after I ride…save the still smoking thing, which you know, but whatever.
Thank you for the trainer, Sandra. It might be my savior.
I was texting with my best friend earlier today and she mentioned that she would always be there for me if I needed to talk and I had to chuckle at that. This bitch has known me for fifteen years and I would think by now she knows getting to open up and be that dreaded vulnerable word is excruciating to me, but bless her heart for offering. I’m glad she hasn’t given up on me yet, despite having plenty of opportunities to do so. I’ve discovered I must be truly awful to be around because my friend base seems to be shrinking. Mea culpa…? Did I use that right this time? Probably not. Dang it!
Since PIC left, I’ve been isolating myself, even more than I usually do. I eat, I work, I go to the gym, and I go to the grocery store. Those are my three happenin’ hangouts. Truth be told, I’m mostly okay with this. I have learned I do actually enjoy being alone, but feeling lonely gets to me. I miss PIC, not that he and I were constantly together, but quality not quantity. I haven’t been right since he’s been gone and I suspect it’ll be a good, long time before I am.
When my dad’s last wife died (Jesus Christ, man) in 2009, I don’t know if I’ll ever forget him falling to his knees beside her hospital bed in the living room, clasping her cold, dead hands in his, and wailing about never loving anyone ever again, and by god, that stubborn fuck kept to his word. He spent the remainder of his life by himself. I remember thinking that so overly dramatic and attributed it to the intense grief and pain he felt at her unfair loss due to cancer, but I admit I kind of understand it now to an extent. PIC and I have/had a unique dynamic. I mean it when I say that he’s one of the very few people that I can tolerate for extended amounts of time and not feel like murdering him. Only a little bit. (Joke, mostly.) We have a tremendous rapport, or at least I think we do, and I love(d) being around him, even though I wasn’t always the best at showing it. He quieted my constantly thinking mind, and to find that kind of peace around someone is rare. But he’s gone now, and I feel empty. I use the gym as a way to preoccupy myself. I mean, the poor guy didn’t die, but some days it feels that way. I don’t mean to equate his moving away to how my father felt losing his wife because that’s a bit over the top, but I do understand it much better now.
The dramatic apple doesn’t fall far from the dramatic apple tree, I type as I flail my arm over my face, falling onto my velvet chaise lounge, waving my silk handkerchief, as I sob loudly. Kidding. My chaise lounge is more of a tweed fabric.
Sorry for the weirdness; I decided to imbibe in some wine this evening and apparently when you go from being a borderline alcoholic to drinking rarely now, this shit hits you a little harder. I’m also sleepy as heck, but that could also be because I get up at 3am. Or the wine. Or both. I’ve had a single glass and I’ve been nursing it for the last hour. Jesus wept over my intolerance to his sauce now! Not a bad thing, by any means.
Speaking of booze, the popular thing all the kids on Facebook have been sharing this week is the 10 year aging thing, aka “thanks for updating our facial recognition, schmucks!” I found a photo of myself from 2008 that truly horrified me for a lot of reasons. It was taken in the bar I used to frequent twice a week. I am at my absolute heaviest weight, almost pushing 270 pounds. My cheeks are red–guessing from the copious amounts of alcohol consumption I used to drink back then–and my skin looks awful. It’s pale save the cheeks, and I had a breakout. I saw that picture and gasped. It’s been a while since I’ve seen it and I did the side-by-side comparison and sweet lord have mercy on us all. It was quite stark in the contrast. Yikes.
That’s all for tonight. I’m tired. I’ve lost steam as I write, so no rambling on for over 3,000 words tonight. Consider it my gift, but thank you for reading, as always.