Why?

Why do I open my stupid mouth and say things like, “I’m so lucky! I haven’t had a cold in over a year. I mean, I had a cough during my last chemo but other than that…I’ve been so lucky!”

I’m an idiot.

I actually said those words about not being sick. I said them out loud to an actual other person.

And guess what? Two days later, I was coughing. A day after that, I had a sore throat and the day after that, I was congested and miserable.

I’m so stupid.

The universe does not like smug people.

Smug people who brag about the thing they’re all smug about are just asking to be bitch-slapped by the universe.

Okay, Universe, consider me bitch-slapped. I’m sorry. Truly.

I will never, ever again announced aloud, all smug-like, that I haven’t had even a cold for a long time.

I will always bow down to the power of the universe and its all-knowing ability to slap me down and make me sorry for having a big mouth.

Now this cold can go away and leave me to my quiet peace before I crack a rib from all the coughing.

P.S. Did you know that having radiation in the area where I had to have it can weaken the ribs and just coughing can crack those now-weakened ribs? Yes, cancer, even in remission is the gift that keeps on giving. Or you know, it just plain sucks, even after it’s gone.

Reason #7064 Why I Need to Chill

Last week I suffered a great deal of angst over the whole physical therapy thing. I was stressed over having to drive five thousand miles on a regular basis just to have my stupid arm massaged to make sure it doesn’t balloon into a cartoon version of itself.

This was on top of the fact that my doctor makes me feel like Fatty McObesity.

So I was kind of a bitch at home for a few nights.

I skipped a few dinners to punish myself for being…well, me.

I also walked and was miffed when Tom and Olivia wanted to walk with me because, hello, they don’t need to be punished!!

I took a few breaths, slept pretty well for a couple of nights and ended up calling the original physical therapy place back to schedule a consult.

I figured I could drive the million miles for a consult. Consulting with a PT didn’t mean I HAD to go back for any more therapy.

Basically, I started to get my shit together.

The very next day after I called the clinic that is on the other side of the sun and scheduled an appointment, I received call from the rehabilitation center at my local hospital telling me they’d received orders from my doctor referring me for physical therapy for lymphedema and did I want to schedule an appointment for the next week?

This would require a drive of two miles from my work to the hospital for this therapy.

Yes.

If I’d just chilled my stupid butt out, it all would have worked out without a lot of angst and tears and pissing my poor husband off.

Sigh. I might never learn but I am going to try.

See, wait. To give myself a little credit, the scheduler (Sandy) at the doctor’s office TOLD me to call the PT office that I originally called. At first, she wanted them to call me once she’d sent them the doctor’s referral. She had my cell # but I told her I didn’t receive calls while I was at work and that I didn’t have any voice mail set up.

Since I’m technologically challenged, she said she’d send the PT orders to IPT (the original clinic) and I could call them myself to schedule the appointment.

When I first called, the day I declared I was NOT driving to Pluto for therapy, the person answering the phone did not see any referrals for me.

What I think happened is that Sandy called IPT, they told her that their clinic is in the Delta Quadrant (REALLY FREAKING FAR AWAY) and so she decided to call the hospital’s physical therapy clinic, which is practically in my lap. Since they had openings, she sent THEM my referral and, hey, would you look at that, they called me a mere two days after my original doctor’s appointment.

Whew.

What a mess. But really, the mess is only in my head and that’s clearing, just as I knew it would. It always does. Those first couple of days after the appointment are always so awful and I know, logically, that things always get better. I need to remember to just keep to myself for a couple of days and my stupid mood will even out, I’ll calm down and everything will work out.

Oh Nothing, Just Over Here Feeling Sorry for Myself

I saw the radiation oncologist the other day.

I’m fine.

Everything’s fine.

I show no outward symptoms of recurrence; which means he gave my stupid boobs a thorough rub down and all is well.

Except…I’m fat.

He was quick to remind me of all the studies that show that pre-menopausal women who develop triple negative breast cancer have a much lower recurrence if they reach and maintain a healthy body weight.

Duh.

I know that.

I KNOW THAT.

And yet, there we were, me in a stupid hospital gown, talking about diets and exercise and blah blah blah.

I was able to tell him that I’ve been walking thirty minutes each night for three weeks. I’ve lost four pounds since my late April appointment with the chemo oncologist.

Alas, that’s not nearly enough.

Did you know that muscle burns fat even when you’re sleeping?

Yeah, me too.

But Dr. R was quick to remind me of that fact as he suggested adding a weight resistance routine to my walking.

Okay, see, I know that walking isn’t the best exercise there is. I also know that I’m not going to go to a gym. I’m not going to join a yoga class (OMG, can you even imagine? Picture my fat ass in a pair of yoga pants and a sports bra in a class huffing and puffing amongst a group of strangers. Oh, that’s right, THAT’S NOT GOING TO HAPPEN.)

So walking is the best I can do right now.

And let me state AGAIN that I will never, ever take on a weight-resistance or lifting routine again in my life.

I showed Dr. R my biceps as proof that even with minimal weights, I put on bulky muscle. He admired my stupid muscles and said he was jealous.

I eyed his scrawny arms and told him I was jealous of his.

Oh yes, I did say that. I am not even making that one up for story-telling purposes. Nope, I told my skinny doctor I wished I had his peewee arms.

Tom told me that Dr. R was probably not flattered by my statement.

I deadpanned, “I didn’t mean it as flattery.”

I’m sure you can figure out that once again following an appointment with this doctor, I’m in a REALLY shitty mood.

I hate myself so much right now.

I hate that I let him get to me. I hate that I’m so fat. I hate that being this fat could cause my stupid cancer to come back. I hate that I hate exercise. I hate that I eat too much junk food. I hate that my body is so gross. I hate that I’m a brat and an antagonist. I hate that when someone makes a gentle suggestion, I take it to heart and then just want to cry my stupid eyes out.

Oh… and even better still? My left arm is three centimeters bigger than my right arm.

Sure, I’m left handed, so…makes sense right?

Apparently this could be the first signs of lymphedema. Joy!

Dr. R wants me to start physical therapy on my left arm to at least keep the lymphedema at bay.

Okay.

I called the clinic near where I work yesterday. I was in the process of giving all my information when the scheduler said something along the lines of, “As of right now, our lymphedema clinic is at the Dupont Hospital campus. But on July 1, they’re moving to Clinton Avenue.”

I stopped her right there, “I’m not driving that far for this.”

I was probably bitchier than I meant to be but I was already in a horrible mood and being told that I’d have to drive a minimum of 40 minutes one way for this therapy pushed me right over the edge from annoyed to furious.

I held back the tears that threatened as she tried to assure me that the clinic wasn’t moving that much farther away than it already was.

“Are you familiar with Dupont?” she asked.

I am. I take Olivia to the dentist in that area.

“Do you know where Leo Crossing is?” she continued.

Nope.

“How about The Rusty Spur?”

I told her that I am not familiar at all with Fort Wayne and so nothing she was saying was ringing a bell.

I then told her I’d have to call her back. I was going to go home and research lymphedema and see how important this stupid therapy really is.

I think I apologized and told her I wasn’t trying to be difficult but going all the way to Fort Wayne on a regular basis simply wasn’t something I was interested in doing.

I mean, come on! Even if I had a 4pm appointment, I’d have to leave work at 3:00 and if the appointment lasted an hour, I’d not leave for home until 5, and because of traffic, would probably not get home until after 6.

No.

So after spending a little time on Google I learned that the therapy involved in treating lymphedema is 75% massage. They also wrap the affected limb and teach the patient how to care for their skin.

I got home after all this and had to take a minute before I could talk about it with Tom without crying.

I’m such a freaking baby.

Tom tried to help. I know he did. But he really just made it worse for me.

He followed a link from the site I found about therapy that talked about surgery. Right. Sure. Let’s just jump right to surgery.

The morning after the doctor’s appointment he said something about how I could drive to Fort Wayne once to meet with the PT and see if it is something I even really need.

I could. I might.

I need to calm down first though and get my head straight.

On the bright side, I don’t have to see the radiation oncologist for another year. That gives me plenty of time to get out of my funk and maybe figure out how to motivate myself to lose some freaking weight.

Radiologist

On the eve of seeing my radiologist for the first time in a year I’m a little pensive.

Am I worried he’ll find something?

Maybe.

Am I worried he’ll just give a quick exam that couldn’t find anything even if there was something to be found?

Possibly.

I like this doctor just fine but he’d the one of the many doctors I see who reminds me each time I see him that I’m a chunkalunk. He’s suggested I go on the Mediterranean diet.

He’s the one who made me think that, because of the above mentioned chunkalunkiness, I’m to blame for my cancer. I don’t think he meant to make me feel that but it happened all the same.

I want to be healthy. I want him to give me a thorough exam and declare me fit as a chubby fiddle.

I’ve been walking for a half hour each night for almost three weeks. That’s something ,right?

I guess, after all the excellent care I got while going through treatments over a year ago, I’ve felt a bit adrift over the past year. Sure, I’ve seen my surgeon, my chemo oncologist and my gynecologist each twice in the past year, that doesn’t compare to the weekly appointments I was having back in the thick of treatment.

I’m grateful for the reprieve but also feel lost knowing we’re not currently actively fighting cancer.

Sure, there’s probably not any cancer in my body to fight but…what if there is? What if we’re just sitting around, going about our days and cancer, that insidious bastard, is just there, in my body, throwing a party and inviting all its cousins to come over and start colonies in my liver and my lungs?

What if?

That’s the big unknown, right? And we all know that the sooner we know the better but as long as I’m ignorant of any problems, I can pretend that I’m fine.

And honestly, I’m probably fine. The odds are that I’m fine.

Of course, when I think that, my stupid mind goes to the fact that the odds of Olivia having 5p- syndrome were 1 in 50,000.

The odds of me having breast cancer were 1 in 8.

So…yeah.

First Job

The summer after I turned 16, I got my first job. I was a waitress at the Dairy Treat in the small town where I went to school.

This is not to be confused with the ‘town’ where I grew up, which was even smaller than the town my school was in.

Whatever, that’s not even the point of this post.

The point is, I started working when I was sixteen. It was…fine. It wasn’t fun by any stretch of the word but it wasn’t always awful. I worked with a good friend, Cheryl. I think she’s the one who actually got me the job in the first place. I got excellent tips from the construction dudes who were building the boardwalk along the lakeside so there’s that.

I learned that 99.9% of waitresses are working their butt off and when you’re a customer, you should be kind and understanding when they might seem like they’re ignoring you. To this day, I’m an over-tipper.

All this (five paragraphs? OMG, Tommie, get to the point or shut the hell up!) to say that on June 13th Alyssa started her first job.

My BAYBEEE is growing up…I’m so proud of her. And it’s kind of breaking my heart because that first step is one of the biggest steps away from childhood and I want her to cherish her childhood, to hold on to it for as long as possible.

But a job is a rite of passage. It’s the chance to find out what you’re made of.

Honestly, I think everyone, EVERYONE, should have to work in the service industry at least once in their life. And by ‘once’ I don’t mean one day of serving at McD’s or waitressing. No, everyone should have to hold down at least one service job for three months or more just so they can learn how to NOT be an ass to those who do those jobs for a living.

I don’t care if your name is (oh dear heaven, I almost wrote the name that is not spoken. For those not in the know, we simply call him 45 because I can’t even stand his name these days…)

Anyway!! I will try and keep the digressions to a minimum (too late!) from this point forward.

Where was I? Oh yes, I don’t care if your last name is Hilton or Zuckerberg or Jobs. I don’t care if your parents are bazillionaires. Everyone should have to spend a summer waitressing or standing behind a counter serving hamburgers or scooping ice cream, or scanning groceries at their local Wal-Mart.

Because if they do this, they might, just might, be kinder to the people who do these jobs.

Alyssa’s working in the cafeteria of a boy scout camp. She’s serving snacks and meals to campers.

It will build character and remind her that most people are working hard at whatever their job is and maybe they’re having a really crappy day and if they are, they’re probably not being rude AT you, they’re probably exhausted and other customers have probably been awful to them.

Okay, this is going nowhere. I have lost cohesion (everyone likes a vague Stephen King reference, right?)

But you get it right? Kids need to work because even when they’re good kids, they learn from being around people who aren’t their parents. They learn how to treat people and how not to treat people. They learn to get places on time and hopefully how to manage money.

They learn, which is the whole point of these big lives we’re all living.

Even when it’s hard for us parents out here to loosen the apron strings, to watch our kids drive away to their first job, their first date, their first night away from home. We want all those things because we want our kids to have the best lives they can.

Picking Strawberries

So, Tom hurt himself (shhhhh, he doesn’t want me to tell anyone) and so he’s been kind of down for the count for about a week. He slammed his shoulder into the corner of an archway and yeah, he’s broken.

The day before he hurt himself, my mom invited us over to pick strawberries. She’s got a bad knee and so picking berries or any kind of gardening is kind out for her right now. She, because she’s smart, been to the doctor and is doing the things necessary to hopefully get better.

Tom…because he’s a stubborn dude, hasn’t seen a doctor but I made him start wearing a sling about three days after his injury. We’ll see how that goes.

Anyway. We picked strawberries on a Saturday. The following Tuesday afternoon I got home from work and the first thing Olivia asks me if if we can go to Gram’s.

I kind of shrug and say I don’t really want to.

But Tom pipes up with the suggestion that we do go to Gram’s because those strawberries aren’t going to pick themselves.

Sigh.

I hate picking strawberries.

I hate gardens in general because they’re so much work. There’s the planting, the weeding, the harvesting, the preserving of the harvest.

Ugh. So much work.

Alas, I am currently the only able-bodied adult in our immediate family and so the strawberry picking falls to me.

Tom instructed Alyssa to help…and she did, to a point.

But she’s a teenager, she doesn’t have a lot of gardening experience. She wandered around the strawberry patch, picking the occasional berry that caught her eye. She didn’t stop and bend and move the leaves of the plants and find all the berries that hide beneath the plants. And it’s fine. I didn’t tell her to do any of that.

About a half hour into our picking spree, she declared she was done. I think she might have swallowed a bug or touched a spider or something but she was completely over being outside in a strawberry patch. I made her trade bowls with me since mine was three-quarters full and hers was…not.

And to be fair to her, she’d been outside all day at high jump camp. She was tired too.

I picked for another twenty minutes or so, through my mom coming out onto her deck to yell that I could be done if I wanted to.

Yeah, except too bad for me, there were still berries to be picked.

All I could think about when I thought about quitting was that if Tom or my mom were out there and able to pick those stupid berries, neither of them would stop picking until there wasn’t a single ripe berry left to be picked.

Those two put the rest of us schlumps to shame. Their work ethic makes me feel like a lazy schmuck who never puts in a full day of work.

Which…isn’t necessarily wrong, but I don’t like to be made to feel like that. I mean, I fully admit to being lazy but it’s awful to be reminded of it on a regular basis.

But hey, to end on a positive note, since I sweated my ass off in a strawberry patch for over 45 minutes, bending and stretching and kneeling and wheezing, I didn’t have to drag my big, lazy butt out and walk that evening. Look at me, always looking for the bright side.

Bad Influence

So apparently, I’m the mom who leads the children of others astray into lives of deception and lies.

Alyssa decided to play social director one day last week.

She created a group chat with about seven of her friends. She and these friends then used the group chat to make plans to go swimming on a Friday afternoon. The swimming party would then move along and become a pizza party which would end at N’s house with a sleepover.

Among the friends was Zane, one of Lyss’s best friend, who just happens to be gay. He’s a sweetheart and I worry that his parents are in denial of his sexuality.

His dad will not let Zane spend the night with female friends.

As another of Lyss’s friends put it: Apparently, Z’s dad thinks the gay goes away after 10pm.

Zane would not be the only male attending this swim/pizza/slumber party.

D would also be there.

So…being the devious person I am, I suggested to A that she suggest to Z that he tell his dad (or mom, whichever parent he had to suffer that weekend) that he was spending the night with D.

I mean, it’s basically true. I’m sure that D and Z would be in living room on the couches while Lyss, N, A, S and K would be in N’s room.

So not really a lie, right?

Except, yes, it’s still a deception; one I suggested my teenage daughter tell her friend to tell his parents.

I’m a terrible person.

Yes, it’s true. And I feel almost bad about it.

But honestly, shouldn’t these teenagers be coming up with their own ways to lie to their parents?

Why is the 48 year old mom over here being more dishonest than the teens?

What is with this sweet, honest generation we’re raising?

In Other News

I am so tired of hearing myself complain about walking for exercise and the misery that accompanies it.

So what else is new?

Oh, hey, yeah, Alyssa got a job.

She doesn’t start until June 13 but she’ll be a working girl then.

I know! Can you even imagine it?

She’ll be working at a scout camp on Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays from 8am to 7pm making food/snacks for the campers.

I’m so proud of her.

She was referred by her choir teacher who worked for the scout camp for nine years.

Lyss was originally interviewing to be a life guard but because of scheduling for training and Lyss’s own summer plans, that didn’t work out. But one of her besties, Tessa, is going to be doing the food thing at the camp too so that ought to be great fun for both of them.

Next week Alyssa is attending a three day high jump camp as suggested by her track coach. We’d already paid and registered for the camp when she interviewed for her job so that cut into the life guard training.

And then…THEN, she’s starting voice lessons the week after that. I know, we’re getting all worldly around these parts.

Olivia…well, she broke her tablet earlier this week.

Sigh. Poor kid.

But wait, it wasn’t completely her fault.

First of all, her dad was chasing her through the house, as he does.

Second, the case she carried her tablet in was wearing out. Lyss had duct taped it together for Liv so…yeah, it’s not that surprising that the tablet slipped out of the case and fell to its death on the kitchen floor.

Of course we’re going to replace it.

Sure, Liv shouldn’t have been carrying the tablet around but, well, these things happen.

When Alyssa heard we were going to replace the tablet because it’s not really fair for the rest of us to have phones/computers/tablets and Livie to not have anything, Lyss kind of shrugged and said, “It’s her fault it broke.”

To which I replied, “I don’t care.”

Apparently, I said that a little more harshly than I’d intended because Alyssa looked a little surprised at my response.

I tempered it with, “When you dropped your phone last weekend, if more than the case had been damaged, wouldn’t you have wanted to replace it as soon as possible?”

Well.

When you put it like that, Alyssa was quick to agree that Olivia needs (first world need, I fully admit) a new tablet.

Sure, she’s got a bunch of books, she’d got DVDs and Netflix/Hulu but being able to sit and do her thing on her own electronic device is just a nice way to spend an afternoon/evening.

So yes, we’re replacing it. And I’m fully aware that we’re lucky to be able to do so.

But hey, now that the community pool is open, Liv and I plan to spent many a Saturday afternoon there.

I’m also going to take the occasional hot Friday afternoon off and stuff myself into a swim suit and hit the pool with her. It will get her off the aforementioned new tablet and out in the fresh air and sun, getting us both some much needed exercise.

And that’s our plan for the summer.

Okay, Fine

In an effort to be transparent (because when am I not?), let me confess that I’ve continued to walk for a half hour each day after work and while the actual walking part is still miserable and unpleasant, the aftermath hasn’t been nearly as awful as it was those first few days.

Please don’t take this to mean that I’ve finally found my endorphins.

No. Not even close.

But I’m not nearly as sad and miserable as I was those first few days.

I’m not happy by any means but I can smile and find things to enjoy in the evening hours after my walk.

I don’t sit there and bask in pleasure at having actually walked but as long as I don’t have to get up and walk around on my sore, tired feet, I can laugh at the stupidity of ANTM Cycle 20 and enjoy my time with my lovelies.

I can be amused by Tom’s never-ending optimism when he leaves out half a tomato and half a green pepper, thinking that if they’re on the counter, I might actually eat them.

Ha.

No.

If I’m going to drag my carcass out into the yard to walk for 30 minutes, I probably am not going to be ingesting any calories afterward.

Please be reassured that I am not starving myself. I eat plenty during the day to cover the caloric deficit of the evening hours.

I’m just at an age where I know that if I eat after a certain hour, I will be miserable in the night. So no matter how light the meal is, if it’s eaten after 8pm, it will cause heartburn.

Damn. I’m middle aged, aren’t I?

How sad.

Though…the alternative is even sadder. So hey, let’s spin it another way. Yay, bring on middle age!!!

The aches, the pains, the occasional insomnia, the checking the clock to see if I should skip the caffeine, the heartburn, the covering the gray roots, the thin, sagging skin…the list goes on but again, the alternative is worse than anything on this list.

Bring it, middle age!

"There He Is"

Some of the men with whom I work seem to think it’s cool to say this to every single dude they come across.

And sadly for me, these guys happen upon other dudes near my desk all day long.

So on a regular basis I get to hear, “There he is.”

This phrase is then followed by a chortle because the dude saying it thinks he’s so clever.

It’s eye-roll inducing on the best days. On my worst days (which seems to be the current mood) it’s rage inducing. I just want to punch someone in the nuts.

I might be losing my mind.

And Another Thing

Have I ever mentioned that I hate cooking corn on the cob?

Well, I do.

And yes, I know it’s just boiling the stupid things in water for less than 10 minutes. I still hate it.

I hate it so much.

Boiling eggs? No big deal.

Bringing water to a boil for potato soup or mashed potatoes? I can do that all day long.

But boiling corn on the cob makes me want to cry.

Why?

I have no idea. I just hate it so, so much.

Oh, I also hate shucking the corn before you boil it. The silks get freaking EVERYWHERE and you can never get all of them off the ears of corn. And you have to do it outside to avoid making a stupid mess in your kitchen.

Corn on the cob is so annoying.

And, because I baby the hell out of my children, I cut the corn OFF the cob before they eat it…so what the hell is the point of the cob, I ask you.

I know they’d tell me that it just tastes better and yes, sure. Of course fresh corn cut from the cob moments before being consumed is better than grody old canned corn but it’s also A LOT more work…for me.

And since these days my moods are all about me, there you have it.

Funk

Sigh.

I’m having a tough time.

I’ve made myself walk thirty minutes each day after work.

I’ve only done it three times at the time of this writing but each time has been a miserable experience during and after.

What I want to know is: Where the hell are my endorphins?

I read up on it and obviously, not everyone gets a ‘high’ after exercise. Just reading the comments on one person asking if they were the only one who didn’t get that good, good feeling from exercise pissed me off.

Not the question, obviously. The question helped me feel less alone in my misery. But some of the responses…ugh! What a bunch of assholes.

Those people out there who advise: Exercise is awesome, it makes me feel so good! You just have to find the exercise that works for you. Find something you love and you'll WANT to exercise!!! Blech.

Whatever.

Walking ‘works’ for me because it’s free, I can do it right there at home. I don’t have to go anywhere, pay someone, blah blah blah.

But I don’t enjoy it. I don’t get some rush when I’m done.

In fact, I’ve been in a horrible mood each evening after I’ve walked. I am sad, angry, and disgusted with myself and the whole stupid world. As punishment for my crappy attitude, I don’t eat dinner after I’ve walked either. Which I know is stupid. I KNOW. No one has to tell me how stupid that is. I know.

But I do it anyway because I’m so mad at myself.

Then I read more of those stupid comments and get angrier and angrier.

One such comment:

“I hate exercise too, especially working out alone. But when I join group activities, I get such a rush.”

Oh, fuck you.

I hate exercising in a group even more than I hate exercising alone. I hate knowing people can see me, can hear my stupid breathing, can probably see me sweating and watch my blubber flap as I move. It’s just all so awful.

Let me just say that I know I’m a contrary bitch. I have issues with people telling me what to do, even if they’re just making a suggestion. For example, Tom bought a bunch of vegetables one day while I was at work. When I got home, after my walk, which is the WORST time to suggest anything to me, he pointed out that I could have one of the cucumbers with my dinner.

He suggested this because he knows I love cucumbers. I eat one every single day for lunch at work. He’s a great guy, right?

But, because I’m a beast, I refused. I didn’t say it to him, but in my head, I whined that I don’t like COLD cucumbers. The ones I eat every day at work are taken

Apparently, there is no pleasing me. I’m hateful and awful and exercise just makes me worse.

I need to fix this, me. But I don’t know how. (Can you hear the whine in those words? Ugh!)

For what it’s worth, as I sit here writing and feeling sorry for myself, I do plan to walk again this evening, even if it makes me miserable. I’d rather be thinner and miserable than as fat as I currently am and still miserable. So…there’s that.

Triggered

Whew, last post was vicious. Sorry about that.

I guess reading that blog post about the mom of 14 who manages to work out for an hour every single day triggered some serious anger inside me.

I was in a horrible mood for the rest of the day.

When I got home I made myself walk for a half hour. I hated every single minute of it. I hated hearing myself breathe hard; I hated how much my back hurt. I hated that I got sweaty and that my stupid face got all red from exertion.

I’m just so angry with myself.

Why can’t I be one of those people who gets a rush from exercise? Why can’t I have a high metabolism?

Why do I love sweets so much?

As further punishment, I didn’t snack after dinner.

That should not be a punishment, by the way; since I’m a freaking adult that should be the norm. You eat dinner at 6ish and then you. Just. Stop. Eating.

Duh.

I’ve had a few people commiserate with me, telling me that it’s okay that I’m a fatty, I don’t smoke or drink, after all. So I should give myself a break because we all have to have our vices.

Yeah, but not really, right? Shouldn’t we all practice a little self-discipline? I mean, if I didn’t eat like a twelve year old left alone in the candy aisle of the local grocery store, I wouldn’t be in this predicament.

I want to be happy for people who find success in diet and exercise. I really do.

But I’m not that good a person, apparently.

Instead of rejoicing for them, I lament for me. I sit and feel sorry for my stupid self, wondering why I can’t do what they’re doing.

Then I berate myself, listing all the things I hate about myself.

It’s a vicious cycle.

I need to get off this merry-go-round because even though I like to spin, going round and round like this isn’t healthy, not physically and definitely not mentally.