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I am my own worst critic, A.K.A. who is that fat girl in the photo?

I am my own worst critic, A.K.A. who is that fat girl in the photo? (more info at palomacruz.com)

“Big.” “Chunky.” “Plus-sized.”┬áThese are all words my loved ones would use to describe my appearance. Others would just call me “fat.” The medical community would use the word “obese.”

Strangers and acquaintances alike take it upon themselves to try to shame me, to make me understand the way that I’m destroying the world by insisting on being fat. There’s an entire industry (several, in fact) dedicated to trying to solve this problem for me. And I’m told every day, in many many ways, that if I just stopped being fat I would be better, happier.

Most days I manage to drown out the external and internal voices that try incessantly to let me know that I’m a failure, that every “extra” pound is one more mark against me. Most days I’m just louder than the voices, so they don’t make an impact on my day. Some days I’m not.

I want to have the courage to wear a bright red fitted dress without thinking about the muffin top or the love handles. I want to have the boldness to have my photo taken without dreading the split second where I see just how fat I am compared to the others. I want to stop seeing myself, and judging myself, through the eyes of others. I want to stop it all … now.

And I don’t mean that I want to lose weight (though I want that too). And I don’t mean that I want better clothes (though I always want new clothes). I just want to love who I am, in my current size and shape, without having to work at it.

I guess when I achieve that I’ll know I’m actually, finally, a grown up.

In the meanwhile, I’ve challenged myself to try to take more selfies … and I’ve been failing at that too. But I will get better. And I will keep trying. At some point I’ll stop dreading the photo … eventually.

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Sometimes I sound like my sister

 
It’s a running joke in my family that my sister is … well … high maintenance I think is the polite version. We’ve used other words within the family, but most of them are not suitable for the blog, so I won’t go there.

I love her. We all love her. But, she wants what she wants in the way she wants it. No deviations are permitted. No small changes are allowed. No excuses are accepted. 

She picks the restaurant. She chooses the cake. She decides the time. And she has veto power over others’ choices. The rest of us have just learned to go with it. Really, it’s just easier this way. 

Today I was at a store buying a gift card. I asked for a gift receipt and the cashier acted like I’d asked her to translate the card into Chinese or give me her first born or something. Can I really be the first person who has asked for a gift receipt? I always include a gift receipt, in case the recipient has problems with the card. It’s happened before, so I just make sure I include the gift receipt just in case.

Because the cahiser didn’t have a clue how to give me a gift receipt, a manager was called out. And she didn’t know  either. Between the two of them they couldn’t figure out how to give me a gift receipt for the gift card.

So, in the end, they decided that the only way to do this was to run a balance inquiry on the card. Which would have required that they scratch off the code in the back and pull it off the cardboard. 

“Do you think they’ll mind?” the cashier asked me, wondering if the recipient would really care if she did this. 

“I mind,” I responded in an exasperated tone. “Don’t do it. I’ll just risk it.” I told her after thinking about my options for a moment. “And you better hope she doesn’t have any trouble with the card.” 

Two minutes later I was sitting at a table addressing the card and it hit me … I sounded liked my little sister. A lot. I think I even used her tone of voice. I never thought I’d see the day when that happened. 

I’ll never tell her though. 

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A better day

Amazing how energized I feel after a few good meals with friends and colleagues.
A dinner where I made plans for the future.
A lunch where my brain was picked for the phenomenal content I keep in it.

I feel much better.

It helps that no one yelled at me today.

jill111 / Pixabay

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Love at first sight

joakant / Pixabay

From the first date, the first day they met he was different with her than with all the ones that came before.

She would find out later that it was unusual behavior for him to go pick up his date, to bring her presents, to surprise her, to woo her. To her, this was just the way all of her boyfriends behaved. To him this was just different.

“How do you get him to do that?” her friend would ask when he did the wooing things. And my sister would look at her, baffled, not understanding the question. To her it was simple, this was the standard of behavior she expected. Anything less would have meant there wasn’t a second date, or a third.

She hadn’t realized how seriously their relationship was to him because he wasn’t the effusive type. He was quiet and self-contained. And she never had a clue.

They’d been going out for less than six months when he proposed the first time. She wasn’t ready and asked him to take the question back. Five months later she was ready for the question and answered “yes.” It wasn’t until then that she realized that this was serious to her too.

And they agreed on the wedding plans. And they agreed on where to live. And they agreed on how to handle their finances. And they agreed on many many things… {{to be continued, since the story is still being written.}}

image source: joakant / Pixabay

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