When I Got on the Scale, it Said "Bacardi"

151. One hundred fifty one pounds. WHAT THE HELL? I can't even blame the cruise. I can't blame the week after the cruise where I was recovering. First, and you won't even believe this. Actually, you probably will. I mean, you've already read all about my mother. She calls me into her office a couple of weeks ago. I'm struttin around because I worked out the night before and felt good. She looks me dead in the eye and says, "You can do whatever you want, but if you are trying to look like a body builder, you're well on your way. Women shouldn't use heavy weights because it's not attractive to be all bulky." I was in shock. See, I had just that morning been complimented on that very fact. Someone made a passing comment that I'm looking good, arm definition, etc. But, something about when mother says something like that to me...ugh...I thought fine. Screw my hard work. Screw eating healthfully. Screw working out. Maybe that'll make her happy. Well, and I did just that.

I don't even know if she noticed. But, I did. I noticed my energy level dropping, my clothes fitting differently, the definition in my arms, stomach, etc disappearing behind a thicker layer of blubber. Oh, get this. And then, to add insult to injury, I get hit with interesting news. You see, I had this, oh, what shall we call it.....I had this "thing" with my trainer. And the past few weeks he had gotten a bit flakey. Finally, he called to tell me he needed to tell me something and that he'd tell me at a party I was hosting for my networking group which I got him into. Fine. A few days pass and it's the day of the event. Fucker sits down and informs me that he's separated and his wife is in Canada. He starts his boo-hooing campaign about how she's messed up, they've been together forever, he's here and she's there and he wants to do whatever he can to work it out.

Luckily for him, I had spent the better part of the day making and drinking my famous margaritas so I was in somewhat of a jovial mood. And then the party ended. Everyone cleared out...we started putting the house back together and this conversation kept echoing in my head. I realized that I wasn't upset that for all intents and purposes it was "over" whatever "it" is/was. No, I was/am upset that he looked me dead in the eye and lied to my face all under the auspises of laying all of the cards on the table before we even started working out! So, what did I do? What do we do? Well, we feed, drug and happy hour our emotions.

Don't forget. I'm still a fat person in smaller clothes. When a trauma hits me, I act as though I'm back at my starting weight. As I keep saying, the body may be fixed, or at least getting there. The mind, however, is all fucked up...and probably always will be.

I'm lucky to have amazing friends who understand, who have been there, who have seen me be there...and well, that's where I'm at today. Weighing in at at least 151lbs. Pissed off. Hurt. Shocked. Amazed. And yet, I know that if I call any one of these little guys or FTPO as a bunch, we're all in this together.

I just realized, I have no idea what I've eaten over the past few weeks, if I liked it, how it tasted, how much it cost, where I got it from or if I used a napkin. Just goes to show ya (and me), that It's Not About The Food.