So, the other night, I decided to turn up the '80s station on digital cable and jam out while I was making stir-fry. What initially caught my attention was Billy Ocean's "Get out of My Dreams," and I was set. However after that song and "Electric Avenue," this super slow song came on that I knew I recognized, but couldn't place until I heard the chorus, "How can I fall...how can I fall, when you just won't give me reason, when you just won't give me reason...at alllll," and I was instantly transported to riding around Macon, Mississippi, in my sister's '77 powder-blue Chevette (HAHAHAHAHA...I got a way newer car when I got my license, although it was an Oldsmobile Firenza that I think they recalled, but I know they don't make anymore.
I digress...actually, we had to have been in a car with a working tape player, so it may've been my mom's car, but my sister had met some guy who was somebody's cousin, his name was Thad, that's all I can remember, but she was quite the smitten kitten. But Thad didn't call...so she changed to words to Breathe's song "How Can I Fall," to "How could I fall, how could I fall when he just won't write or call me....when he just won't write or call me....at alll..." She is going to kill me for that, but I had to get it out, because it really disturbed me that I knew the words to that song.
I am a beached whale....I found out at my yearly check-up the other day that I have gained TWENTY-FIVE pounds in the span of a year and three months...That's like three newborn babies...although I'll tell you what it is...it's Emily refusing to exercise unless at gun point (now THAT would be boot camp), gall bladder surgery, which threw my eating habits and digestive system completely out of whack, and my father going from sick to sicker to death's door and beyond, and my eating to fill that hole I felt while he was getting worse and after he died. I'm not making excuses, God knows, it's pure sloth and Emily that led to this, but, by God, to quote my favorite President, "Yes, we can." (insert eye rolls here)
I am starting the South Beach Diet on Monday, and I am serious about this. I'm making a grocery list, although requiring that you keep salmon on hand is a bit short-sighted in this economy, and I am doing this. I don't want to be a size 4 again, it's been 13 years since that happened, but I want to be healthy and not get out of breath when I walk across a room, and I want to see one chin and one chin only when I happen to look down. I will fit into clothes I fit into when I lived in Pennsylvania when I lost weight, and I was a size 8. I am perfectly happy, and I don't even care about the weight. I care about the fact that my arms do that old-lady turkey-neck jiggle thing, I have gone up 3 sizes in 4 years, I abhor taking pictures because there is hard evidence that will last for infinity that I am a fatbody, and I want to have a baby in less than 2 years, and I do not want to start off at my present weight of 187..yah, that's right. I said it, because I want public accountability.
I am still super hot at this weight, but can you imagine the pure magnetism if I get back down to 130, which is my ideal goal weight? Kingdoms will fall...no, seriously, I don't feel bad about my appearance so much because I have the love of a person who genuinely doesn't care what weight I am, but I want him to know that I care how I look to him and to myself, and frankly, those are the only two people who matter.
So, possibly, as I cut out pasta, rice, bread, fruit (what kind of diet restricts fruit? It's from the Lord, I'm just saying...), and they said alcohol, but I'm omitting that one...oops, my book smudged that word, it looked like pine and beets, not wine and beer, so I'm going to interpret it my way....I may be writing about why I'm going to hunt down Mr. South Beach and force him to eat Twinkies...stay tuned.
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