Sometimes, even though we can see something clearly, it isnt until we see it in an embarrassing light, that we really see it.
I had to buy jeans last month. I had two pair and one pair ripped, so I figured, as winter is approaching I'll probably need something warmer than my pajama pants, so time to buy jeans. We drove out to the outlets so Peter could buy some things and he pushed the kids around in their stroller so I could hit up a store for women. For "real women" as their slogan says. But let's be honest, we could say "full figured" and we'd all still know it's a euphemism for bigger girls. But I digress...
In my mind, I go there for the bras. I've been well endowed with false advertising (which I tend to think of my boobs as, since I am a believer that their true purpose was breastmilk production and they fell short on that job!) in or around the 44DD mark. Not too many places sell boulder-holders that support and last longer than a month, so I've been shopping at LB for years, ever since VS told me they didnt have my size. But I never thought of myself as "plus" sized. Big boned, but not fat.
I picked up two pair of pants, one in the size I wasnt happy about being, and one in the next larger size (you know, just in case). The latter fit. Barely. I wanted to cry. I bought three pair of the bigger jeans and got out of the store as quickly as I could, Peter close behind. He said all the right things, that it was just a number (and a crazy number at that- he hates the way women's clothes are sized, but dare I tell him that you couldnt tell a woman she was a size 30 and expect her to be happy, even though a 30 inch waist is nothing to be sad about), that I was beautiful, that he loved me no matter that I had put on a few pounds since college. (It's more than a few, but he's sweet for still thinking of it that way).
When my dress for the wedding was ordered, it was ordered in a size I wasnt happy about, but the sales woman told me, as she wrote down the size, not to worry. "Wedding and bridesmaids gowns are always sized way larger than real sizes." Of course! Not to worry! I'm not that fat! But, I smiled, nodded, and agreed. And ordered away. Yesterday, the dress barely fit. (No one's dress fit well; we were carb-loading the night before like we had a marathon to run... Probably not the best choice!) I had to go sans-bra because it would close with my strapless on. That resulted in me feeling quite a bit more showy than I'd hoped, and constantly adjusting my dress. But, we all laughed, it's the way those dresses are! It wasn't us! It was the tailoring!
And, given we were beautiful.
But, seeing the picture tonight, really brought me face to face with a face that I've been struggling to face.
I'm not this girl anymore.
My waist isn't 29 inches. I dont weigh 150lbs. My pants size is not single digits and I sure as hell can't fit into a pair of Peter's old pants.
Yes, I've spent years pregnant, but I haven't been for a year. And, I'm ashamed to say, I've gained back most of the weight I lost right after Bobby and Maya were born. Training for the Tri didn't inspire weight loss, either. It toned a few things, but that's it.
Weight gain in spite of a healthy diet and exercise, and having a difficult time getting rid of it, is a prime symptom of PCOS. But, let's face it, I can't blame PCOS alone when I'm the one turning to food for comfort. I can't blame this $&@(#*$&#(*$&(#@% disease (even though I REALLY want to) when I'm the one drinking soda after soda, popping back a bag of mini donuts, and eating God-Knows-What (for the few meals I do it). My body is alternating between starvation mode (because I dont eat when I should) and GAINWEIGHT mode (because I eat crap when I do eat). I havent been to the gym in forever. I have run less than a half dozen times since the Tri (almost 2 months ago).
And this, this isnt PCOS's fault. It's mine.
And I have such a self loathing about it.
And, because I'm so angry internally, it is coming out in my every day life. My patience is thin, and my marriage is suffering because of my personal animosity. Peter has the patience of a saint, but I'm not sure how much more of my Irish Temper/Weight Anger he can take with a smile. Nor should he have to. I've such a short fuse because of this self hatred.
And, more than wanting to drop "a few" pounds, I want to be a positive role model for Bobby and Maya- especially Maya. I struggled with a good body image (even though my weight was fine) all through high school; I dont want that for her. I dont want her to see a mother who is constantly at war with the scale (and the size of her jeans).
I have no will power. I can work out when I have a race goal, but otherwise, I'm a couch potato. And food. I love food. Wait, i LOVE food. I love to cook and I have no desire to make it into something healthier. I want to eat what I want, when I want it.
And this is bad. For a multitude of reasons.
Well, Peter just came downstairs and gave me a dirty look for being on the computer when I'm supposed to be cleaning the kitchen. And he's right. I need to get my butt up and do something other than blog and watch football. Especially since he just started a load of laundry.
But I needed to get this off my chest. I dont know where it will go, but I know it's probably going to be a recurring them until I can get my $h!t together.