- My weight loss—I have less to lose than I've lost
- My eating—I'm eating way less than half as much junk as I used to eat.
- My thinking—I've grown so accustomed to healthy eating that I no longer feel like I'm eating less than half as much food as I used to. It was never true, but it certainly felt that way at first. Not any more.
- My clothing size—Last night I tried on some clothes—like in an actual store—to see what was what. I could button the pants up in my dream size, but I felt a little guilty doing it—stressing the button for the true owner and all that. I could definitely button the next size up, but they were still so tight I wouldn't buy them. But the size after that, now THAT was too big to buy. Which I realize means that if I needed to buy new clothes for something important, like, right now, I'd be shit out of luck, but we're missing the point, people! The point is that the size that was too big is two sizes smaller than where I was when I started losing at the start of the summer which means I'm exactly halfway between my old shape and my goal shape.
It took me a good night's sleep to figure out that last one out. Because when I came out of the dressing room and had to give back all those rejects, my newly cut shoulders were a bit slumped; I kept thinking: all that work and I'm only down two sizes??
Only my skinnier little ass.
To cheer myself up, I bought a bright pink-and-orange striped sports bra and a pair of yoga pants, that, while mostly black, have a hot pink stripe around the waist. Because though the jeans were a little out of my league right now, I know the TV lady in me (see day 25) knows how to rock workout clothes.
For me, though, color is an acquired taste. As I've been adding clothes back into my closet (and there's another last half—I'm more than halfway through my piles of don't-fits), I've noticed that I've got the kind of fixation with black that might be appropriate if I were a goth, but unfortunately that particular adolescent stage passed me right by. And yet my closet is more than half black. And most of what's not black is brown or maroon—in other words, dark, dark, dark.
There are a few bright spots—I have a white shirt here, a blue shirt there. And apparently, in one particularly Polyanna-ish fit of shopping psychosis, I deluded myself into thinking a coral shirt (that's fashion for pink, people, pink) was something I might actually want to wear. Which begs the question: do the colorful islands in my closet really count among the members of my wardrobe if I pretty much never take them off their hangers? So I bought myself a splash of color. I'm wearing it now, in fact. And while the shade is awfully cheery (note the emphasis on the word awfully), I can't help but wonder who the hell thinks a bright pink splash around your equator is a good idea. Or horizontal, bright-colored stripes across the breast, for god's sake.*
I choose to believe that my fixation with black is all about camouflage—I dress like a ninja because the dark color makes me feel less like I'm walking into every room flab first. And I've been wearing black so long it's the only color I really feel like me in (my compromise has always been black near the face and whatever I want on the bottom—with some exceptions, of course. I mean, seriously—is it me or do most women look just plain goofy in plaid?).
The point is I bought myself some color last night to commemorate my progress. Would it have been better to reward myself with something that didn't make me feel like a clown? Perhaps. But it's my keen hope that one day I'll wear color and prints happily.
Who knows? Maybe there's a "Bo-Bo Knows 30 Days in Technicolor" somewhere in my skinny-me future—I have a friend who would probably let me borrow her pink wig. For now, though, I'm just glad that I've finally moved into the last half of this healthy-me journey.
* Yes, men. Oh, ha, ha, ha!
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment