This started out as a post about my diet. Honest.
The thing is, I've been doing really well with it, that is, until last weekend. I went spectacularly off my diet. I went horribly, badly, overwhelmingly off my diet. We're talking half a sack of candy corn, grilled cheese and tomato soup, big bowl of buttered popcorn, ice cream and a meatball sandwich, didn't burn a single calorie off my diet.
Holy cow, was I bad. And I fully planned to write a post full of self-loathing at my complete inability to do this right. At my weakness. At my wretched, chubby self.
And then I decided maybe instead of a rant, I should look at the root cause, here. Why did I sabotage myself? What made me decide that all that junk was filling a need? Or a hole that I dug within myself?
What made me decide that all of that was worth the loss of all I've....lost?
It's time to face the awful truth.
I am a coward.
See, the problem is that I promised myself that once the divorce was finalized and I got down to my "dating weight," I'd get "out there". I'd put that profile up online, check off the box that says "fit" on the description, date like crazy and get naked without the slightest qualm when I'm ready to get good and naked.
And I assure you, I am ready to get good and naked most days. I really am.
But, of course, I can't do any of that, you know. Because I'm still chubby. Darnit. And as long as I keep myself chubby, I don't have to do any of that.
I don't have to take a chance that I do all of that, and get hot and sexy again, and tell some guy I'm as old as I am, or I have a kid who might be living with me for life, and he decides to walk away.
I don't have to take a chance that I go on a great date and don't get a call after that.
I don't have to take a chance that I go on a string of lousy dates with lousy men who are looking for a night of companionship, rather than weeks, or months, or a lifetime.
I don't have to take a chance that somebody actually does want a lifetime, when I'm not sure I have a lifetime left in me to give. I'm broken in places, still. Cracked. Leaking.
I'd love to tell you I'm a glorious Phoenix, rising from the ashes of the scorched earth I was buried in, but most days, I'm a mole, burrowing deep in that smoldering dirt, pulling it over me like a blanket and telling myself it's all just as well. It probably wouldn't have worked out anyway.
Oh, the lies we tell ourselves...
Oh, the lies we tell ourselves... The lies that sound like truth, because there's a chance they could be truth. And I wonder if I'm really strong enough to bear it if they are.
All of this is borderline ridiculous, of course. I'm honestly not that fat anymore. I can even say chubby and not have it be an exaggeration. And if I surfed an online dating site and saw a guy as overweight as I am right now, I wouldn't hesitate to click on his profile or shout him out if I think he's interesting. I actually kinda like guys who are a little chubby. There's more to cuddle.
So why do I think I have to squeeze into a size 4 before I can find somebody to laugh with?
Part of me knows that when I hit my goal weight (and I will - I jumped right back on that wagon today), I'll find something else to keep me from doing this. I'll tell myself it's safer to wait, and it is.
But it's lonelier, too.
So here I sit, typing this in the wee hours of the morning, tears streaming down my face and whispering under my breath:
Find me. You're out there somewhere, I know you are. Find me and save me from myself.
And I swallow hard, and I wipe off the tears.
Because I realize I'm talking to me.