Since we are on the topic of new year's resolutions, I thought I'd blog a bit today about my weight. I know I have a whole other blog devoted to this very subject but guess what. They're both my blogs! So I can do whatever I want!
Phew. Glad we got that out of the way.
My battle with the bulge has gone back for ages. When I was younger and weighing a mere 150 pounds, I thought I was fat. In February of 2005, when I began blogging, I weighed 165.5 pounds and thought I was fat. Since then, it has been a vicious cycle of gaining and losing ten pounds here and ten pounds there. Now, I'm in the high 180s. The difference is, I don't think I'm fat.
I credit age and Prozac to this current mode of thought. I'm not fat. If anything, I'm overweight. I can stand to lose a few (or forty but who's counting?) and gain some muscle tone but my reflection doesn't disgust me. I'm at the baby making age. These hips will come in handy when I have a pregnant belly to support or a wee one propped on my side. My softness is the exact ingredient needed for a good old fashioned cuddle. My ample rear? Well it cushions my fall when I speed off a wet slide and glide through the air to land on my rump.
So though I would like nothing more than to get down to 150 pounds for my wedding so that I will be a breathtaking bride, I refuse to beat myself up or call my names in the meantime. Know why? Because I love me for me. Not for my reflection. And if I love me for me, you'll love me, too - regardless of what the scale says. And so ends today's cheese.
MORAL OF THAT STORY: The new "F" word is fat. Don't use it or I'll wash your mouth out with soap!