I am so tired and so stressed at the moment (work) that I feel constantly as if I might burst into tears. It's only the thought of conceivably not being able to stop that prevents me. And what does stress make? It makes Peridot gorge on sugar, that's what. It's like a panic reaction - I don't even think, my heart is pounding and my head is screeching and to dim it all and soothe it away, I eat the sugar that's around the office. Of course, this makes me anxious about putting on weight - and the best cure for anxiety? Why, sugar of course.
Certify me now.
It's like being in a mirror maze - not pretty if you're me and avoid mirrors. You think you see a way out until WHAM! (NB not the pop group - although that would be quite scary too) you walk smack into a barrier you can't get through. You know how the smug self-help people say sanctimoniously that the definition of insanity is to do the same thing and expect a different result? Well, colour me certifiable all over again. But part of that repetitive behaviour is knowing that I want to be slimmer, continuing to try, gritting my teeth and getting it right 20% of the time. And looking for clues to push that 20% up. Clues gratefully received, cluesters.
I have escaped work relatively early for a change to buy stuff for my week's walking in Dorset. Even I know that walking in jeans is not a good idea - given the rain, showers and monsoons which describe a British spring (and summer, and, and...). In fact, I got caught in heavy rain walking in Suffolk on Saturday, and an unpleasantly clammy and soggy experience it was too. But I look particularly awful in trousers (the accursed belly hang) - jeans are bad but not actually terrifying to the mentally vulnerable, but my only other trousers are fleece joggers (practical, warm, comfy and quite unfeasibly visually vile) or cheapo cotton ones which are a) too tight and b) kicked off this last year of utterly loathing of the way I look when I saw myself in them in photos in Derbyshire. What to do? I wandered around fingering variations on jeans (see above for practical reasons not to), joggers (stretchy is good as I can fool myself on size - but not flattering) and cotton trousers (not buying them in a size up, not, not, not). I could not bring myself to try any of them on. I knew how much it would hurt and I just could not do it. Vaguely I remembered a time - maybe 2 years ago - when shopping metamorphosized into something almost exciting, a world of unseen possibilities. I was 2 stone lighter. Today I was back to my pre-LL thinking - not having the luxury of chosing colours I like or flattering styles but having the single feature of damage limitation. Or camoflage - difficult to do at my size, alas! And it's not camoflage to blend unseen into the background as much as to blend into 'normal'. For under £50. A tough ask you say? Well, you may be right! I tugged on some tops, considering if I broke the hem by stretching whether it would conceal that which should not be revealed. It was a singularly joyless experience. But I walked past a Ben's Cookies with my head high, my mouth watering and my heart rebelling; Reader, I did not cave in. (Although I ate a peice of fudge over the last two days which is about 2/3 the size of an A5 sheet of paper - even though it made my heart pound with the sugar rush until I hurt)
I accept now that I am going to be a lump of lard for the Naughty Wedding. Well, so be it. It's not about me but about seeing Naughty R, beautiful, radiant and happy, moving into the next phase of her life. I can celebrate that. It will be another occasion where I could look at the photos with guilt and regret, so I will look at the ones of R instead of me hiding in the background, hoping to be partically obscured. Maybe, just maybe I could lose a stone before then. I doubt it, but anything off will help (just having had a view of an incipient double chin I didn't realise existed bouncing merrily around the various mirrors in the cubicle in Debenhams).
What I am setting my sights on is my birthday. It's at the end of August and I'm (probably) having my first party since I was c9 years old, either mid August or the beginning of September. This time I'll be 40 (although I mourn the lack of party bags this time around!). I want to be able to wear a dress - a dress! - and feel good. If I were to lose half a stone a month (I know, a big ask for this tubster) I would be under that magic weight, where still fat though I undeniably am, I feel better: my curves are (over-generous) curves, not blubber rings, I can hold my head up and meet peoples' eyes, I think, 'well, I could be worse' (I have been worse. I AM worse). I think I need to be at this point at my 40th for my sanity and my self-respect; I do not want to be frumpy, fat and forty. I have no choice on the last - and little ability on the first - but the middle, ah, that's the key.