If you were to Google “control freak”, you’d likely stumble
upon a picture of me. And because I am a control freak, I assure you that it
would be a sanctioned, approved photo where my hair looks good and my outfit
doesn’t make me look fat. My insane need for control makes me an obnoxious
automobile passenger (unless you enjoy gasping, foot stomping, and having the
person in the seat next to you grip your arm so hard it bruises). I am
incapable of enjoying amusement parks because rollercoasters and other thrill-seeking
rides spit in the face of my need to control my environment (and make me vomit
and urinate on myself, if you must know). I have a pathological fear of
falling, which is weird because as the least graceful person on the planet, I
trip and fall a lot. My entire life is managed via an Outlook calendar, and I’m
known to proclaim, “If it’s not on the calendar, it doesn’t exist!” There is
nary a spontaneous bone in this aging body of mine, so if it’s a good time
you’re looking for, I’d suggest you look elsewhere. However, if it’s order,
drive, and determination you seek, look no further! And if you’d like that
served up with a good, old-fashioned side of guilt and shame . . . . Well,
you’re in luck. That’s the house specialty.
In a different chapter of my life, my control freak
tendencies extended to all aspects of my life, and I was very thin. And then I
wasn’t. And then I was a little chubby. And then I was thin again. And now I’m
hovering right around what the medical profession and insurance companies call
a “normal” BMI, which means my weight is none of your business. I was born with
ovaries and estrogen and in the 1970’s – so I’ve been on a diet since 1987 and
I’ve been trained to hate the way I look, bar none. This is a phenomenon that
only chicks and gay dudes can really understand.
After I kissed enough frogs for a marine biology workshop
and found a prince, I bought a real pretty dress and a tiara so I could get
hitched. Since I had a fairytale wedding, complete with horse, carriage, and
castle, it was only appropriate that I slimmed down and toned up so I could
look like the princess I am on my wedding day. No one wants to look like a
chubbette on her wedding day, right? On the advice of my favorite author /
memoirist (is that a real word?), Jen
Lancaster, I decided to hire a professional to whip my butt into shape, and
Trainers Jared, Dan, Eric, and Aaron entered my life. In that order.
Fast forward three years and I’m still working with Trainer
Aaron. I’m 10 pounds heavier than I was on my wedding day. I’d love to say it
is muscle but unless muscle jiggles when poked and unless there is a “spare
tire” muscle I was previously unware of, I’m pretty sure this 10 pounds is
comprised of wine, pizza, burgers, and beer. And maybe nachos. I have the
eating habits of a medium sized fraternity house.
Since I’m married – which means I can get away with being as
fat and hairy as I want to be and there is absolutely nothing my husband can do
about it – my weight isn’t the major concern it used to be. I mean, I don’t
want to be a morbidly obese, walking cardiac arrest but I’m also not trying to
be a hot single gal either. Sorry, honey but you’re stuck with me for better or
for worse, and I’m pretty sure I warned you that it wasn’t going to get much
better than it was on our wedding day. My current fitness goals are simple -
I’m just trying to fit into my pants all day long. (Side note: Just about a
year ago, I had the worst fat girl wardrobe malfunction ever when I burst out
of my pants at the office. Those seams were no match for all that my thighs had
to offer. A less dedicated employee might have gone home. Me? I stapled my
pants back together and continued to kick ass until 6 PM because that’s what I do).
There are days when no pants fit and I’m forced to consider
whether or not my “dressy” sweats will meet office dress code. Worse, I’m
forced to face the fact that I need to shut my pizza-hole and get my big ass on
a treadmill. If those days happen to be on a Monday or a Wednesday, I leave
work a little early and I let Trainer Aaron force me to lift heavy objects and
put them down over and over and over again. Side note: spending two hours a week in the gym
will not undo the 300 burgers and 600 pounds of French fries you consumed when
you weren’t in the gym.
You’d think that as a control freak, I’d have this whole
weight and fitness thing figured out. It’s about the easiest equation I’ve ever
encountered – eat less, move more and your pants will fit. It’s not matter of
lacking the knowledge to be successful. No, I know what I need to do. It’s a
matter of lacking the discipline and as a control freak, there is no small
amount of shame in my total lack of self-discipline where my health is
concerned.
So the shame spiral continues. While I cognitively understand
that I’m fortunate to have a body that is able to get out of bed every day and
while I appreciate that health is a fragile and fleeting gift, I continue to
poison my body with salt, fat, grease, sugar, and wine. (Not necessarily in
that order.) I spend an inordinate amount of time sitting on my ass, completely
immobile. I’ve been known to take an elevator up one flight – and found myself
stuck in it when the power went out. I don’t celebrate what makes my body
amazing but rather, spend my time body shaming myself. I’m fat. I’m lumpy. I’m
pale. I’m hairy. My eyebrows are growing together. I’m covered in bumpy moles
like a raised relief map. I’m sweaty. My fingernails are chewed down to the stubs
as if termites have been snacking on my fingertips. My skin is dry and oily at
the same time. I’m wrinkled like a baked potato. I’m so disgusted and ashamed of
my own body, I don’t even want to be naked in the shower. (Side note: this may
be why I have such an aversion to showering.)
I try to exercise. I show up at the gym. If you don’t see
me, you’ll hear me. I’m the one whining, complaining, and huffing and puffing
as if I am in the midst of blowing some poor little pig’s house down. If you do
happen to see me, you’ll notice I look a little different than everyone else at
the gym. I’m not wearing cute, color coordinated leggings and tank tops. No one
wants to see these upper arms or my ample and sagging bosom unrestrained by
multiple sports bras. (Yes, I wear at least two at a time to keep everything
where it belongs. Elastic and wire are no match for what I’ve got going on
here.) Instead of cute active
wear, I’m in giant baggy sweats and an XXXL t-shirt that has enough room to
hide a family of refugees inside. I’m keeping it all covered up so neither of
us have to look at this mess. You’re welcome. Of course, when I leave the gym,
a sweaty and quivering mess, I immediately fling open the refrigerator and
consume everything inside.
Am I undisciplined? Maybe. Am I a terrible control freak?
Possibly. Am I incredibly ashamed by my ability to get out of my own way?
Definitely. But I think you know that I’m not a girl who gives up or gives in
when she needs to give it all she’s got. While I may take down an entire large
pizza by myself on occasion, while I may eat Cheetos for dinner on a regular
basis, and while I suffer more than the average number of wardrobe malfunctions
due to bursting out of my seams – I’m not giving up the fight. Sure, I beat
myself up both literally and figuratively – but I shroud my fat, hairy body in
multiple sports bras and baggy clothes and I get back to the gym. I log my
shameful eating. And while I may not be making the progress I could or should be,
I haven’t thrown in the towel . . . because I need it to mop up all this damn
sweat.
© 2016 Princess D.
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