Thursday 22 January 2015
To eat or not eat the pizza.
So my last post I wrote about packing clothing for the kids. In this post I am going to be brutally honest about the anxiety I have had about packing clothes for myself for this six month holiday.
Clothes have always been a topic of distress for me. I know I know, you will either read this thinking WTF is she talking about or you will read this and nod your head and know exactly what I mean. Its probably not going to make much sense to any of you but bare with me. Or is it bear with me........ Anyways...
Lets rewind to when I was 18. I had just met Craig. I was actually quite thin, although at the time I thought I was fat. So it would be a date night and I would spend hours trying on different outfits. Putting these pants with this top. I would then pile it all in a huge mound on the bed and sit on the floor crying because I had nothing to wear. This would almost always result in my mum coming in and kindly letting me pick something from her wardrobe. Or she would come in and say ok wear this top and these pants and go and wash your face and brush your hair and you will be ok. And I always was ok.
Then came the early twenties when I had moved out of home and no longer had the comfort of borrowing mums clothes. Or the comfort of her words to tell me that I was 'enough'. I was getting ready in a small unit with Craig. So the pulling all the clothing out on the bed in a mound ritual would result in him huffing and puffing frustrated at the door. Shan you have lots of clothes just put some on or we will be late. And me and my ugly crying eyes would throw something on and make a vow that I would do something about it so I didn't feel like this again.
Mid and late twenties saw me in a even bigger clothing pickle. I was pregnant, or breast feeding, or just plain fat from being pregnant or breastfeeding. I had about four different sizes of clothing in the wardrobe. I didn't want to throw out my expensive size 8 Levi jeans, but I was more comfortable in a pair of elastic wasted massive maternity pants. In those days I had less luxury of time to choose an outfit. My time was more so spent mashing banana for a baby, teaming together a cute pink outfit for a toddler, and negotiating with a three year old that she didn't need to wear plastic high heel princess shoes to the pub for dinner. I would have five minutes to throw something on. I avoided mirrors and would have a baby or a pram or an "I'm so tired" excuse to hide behind.
Then came the time I hit 30 and I had a momentarily lapse of 'I don't want to do this anymore' with the clothing game. So I lost some weight, got a few decent items and threw everything else in the Salvation Army bin. I felt ok for six months or so. Felt like I was on top of the 'I don't look good enough' brain saga for once in my life.
Alas, all good things come to an end and for some stupid reason (or reasons) I fell off the wagon. And then the wagon pulled me along the road, and I got gravel burn.
Metaphorically it actually sounds better than it was. I would have much rather literally fallen off a wagon that what I did to myself. I let myself go. Again. And my size 10 jeans got tighter. And I had to go shopping for more clothes. bigger knickers. Size 10 got space bagged under the bed and was replaced in my wardrobe for the comfy big patterned pants and black leggings (I hate leggings so much). And every time I skipped a workout or I ate that bit of cake I told myself it would be the last. But it wasn't. I took an 'I don't care' attitude. I don't care if I am fat. What does it matter. Its not like I have to impress anyone. Its not like anyone looks at me anymore. Its not like I work and need nice clothing to look smart and professional. So I hid. And continue to hide today.
My weight has always been in conjunction with my happiness. The happier I am the less I weigh. The less I weigh the happier I am. Its as simple as that. As vain as it sounds. Craig has tried comforting me that 'I'm not fat'. Then when he realised that wasn't working he has begged me to 'do something about it'. He has made every logical point. That we have enough money to join the gym, buy fruit and veg etc etc. Its something that is quite embarrassing really because I am depressed that I am too FAT! seriously. There are children right now on the other side of the world who have nothing to eat. And I am complaining about cake and cookies. Another guilt notch to add to my belt buckle.
Here I find myself at 32 years old. Fatter than I have ever been in my life. Yep I weigh as much as I did at 9 months pregnant. Fuck me. What have I done to myself. Why did I do it. Where did I go wrong.
And I have a suitcase than will need to be packed in two months. packed with clothes that I don't have because nothing fits. I could pack the clothes that fit in a plastic shopping bag right now. Like some bag lady. My leggings and patterned pants in a plastic shopping bag.
And when I went through everything in my wardrobe on the weekend and piled them all on the bed and cried on the floor, for the first time there was no mum at the door to offer me one of her tops to feel better. There was no Craig at the door scoffing at me that surely I had lots of clothes that fitted. Or to hug me and say he loved me anyway. Nope. I was on my own. Actually, I wasn't alone. I had three little faces staring at me. Wondering why mummy was so sad. And why her wardrobe was thrown around the room in a rage of anger. Some role model I am. Pass the cake, emotional eating time people. Followed by an 'Im not eating dinner cause I ate cake' rationale.
So what do I do. Do I make some unachievable goal to lose weight by the start of our holiday so I can pack my nice wardrobe. Do I make myself anxious and try every.diet.known.to.man in a desperate attempt to be 'good' enough to fit into my small Lorna Jane pants.
Or do I just shove everything back in the wardrobe and close the doors. And give myself some more time to contemplate.
For now there is no post on this blog about how many t shirts will fit in my suitcase.
Nor is there going to be a post of my mad juicing cleanse, pre holiday. Im done with that shit too.
I am not sure. I am lost. But I will work it out.
Its only clothes right.
Mesnwhile watch this. The first time I saw it this made so much sense I actually real life LOLed. But maybe I have taken it a bit too far. Hold up on the pizza.