Not since the first summer cockroach was spotted in Casa Elizabeth Street have the words, “Die, bitch, die” been said with such conviction. Not until yesterday, that is, when I encountered myself in the mirror and noticed the new pudge forming on my outer thighs.
For those who know me beyond my blog, weight is a subject on which I could theoretically never be silenced. At the slightest mention of a knish, danish, or Kardashian, I am prone to launch into a nutritional diatribe. And likely conclude my rhetoric with a woe is me/my thighs/my hips that most certainly don’t lie.
It’s the Woody Allen character within me; I beat my opponents to the punch line by beating myself up first. Instead of them declaring my inability to achieve success as a prima ballerina, I say, “My skills would best serve, not a stage, but a fast food commercial.”
Now this in and of itself is only slightly problematic. The other component, and one I give all too much attention to, is the precarious effect this kind of thinking has in forming romantic partnerships. The one and only piece of advice I have ever taken from Cosmo is, “Guys are attracted to confidence. If you don’t radiate confidence, they buy the next girl a round.” So, if you consider yourself comparable to an elephant, you are likely not exuding come hither vibes.
Now despite the fact that I have noticed spouses of all shapes and sizes, I still have my doubts about my weight and my ability to attract a gentleman caller. I spend hours of my day scheming about how best to hide my belly rolls and jiggling jelly. Or, as yesterday demonstrated, simply shouting at my fat to disappear.
But being the in touch with my feeling sort of gal that I am growing into, I also realize how destructive such behavior is. And so despite the fact I lack a Kindle, I downloaded “Be Less Crazy About Your Body,” by Megan Dietz last night. A 50-page bible on cognitive restructuring re: the extra junk in the trunk.
Now I won’t say I awoke this morning a new biddie, but I did come to recognize that I am not alone in this perpetual battle of the bulge. And more importantly, I began to realize, as Dietz explains, that the battle is not solely a physical one; it’s a mental one as well. One in which you must be your own number one fan.
She states, “Remember to root for your own sweet self as heartily as you ever did for anyone in any book you ever loved. It’s up to you to construct the narrative that explains what the moments of your life add up to … might as well make it the best damn story about a lady realizing her own worth and power that was ever told.” And what better a way to ring in the second birthday of Living on a Latter and a Prayer than with some best damn storytelling.