I’ve been staring at this picture for awhile now. It’s on my fridge, which is where I put pictures people send me in the mail. This particular photo shows six or seven women. Everyone is wearing black and I am wearing an ivory top with an overlay of floaty ruffles. It’s a beautiful piece, one of the prettiest things I own. But it makes me look like a marshmallow. At least in that picture.
I have read enough self-help books to understand that hating myself for the way I look in a picture (You should see how fat my face is! A big bloated puff ball. And my bangs, even after all my work– spray, flat iron, spray again–still ended up in the dorky curl they seem to do these days!) is just going to make me sad.
I kept that picture on my fridge for a week. Maybe two. I loved that I was surrounded by friends, and we were all celebrating. But I couldn’t get over the image of myself. I even went downstairs to the scale. Because sometimes a photo will make me start or renew a diet and fitness program. About a month ago I quit sugar and I have only had sugar once since then. No cake, no cookies, no ice cream. Okay, well, there was an ice cream incident. But only one.
So I’m already trying, is my point in that last paragraph. No meat, no sugar, yoga, meditation. I still overeat at lunch, but yesterday I had a banana/chocolate soy protein shake and it really satisfied me. Anyway, the scale. I took it into the bathroom because it was on the carpet and everyone knows you don’t weigh yourself on carpet. The number was well past what I have ever weighed and it couldn’t be right because I would not be able to zip up my jeans if that number were correct. So I moved the scale to a more level space and the number was so low I knew it couldn’t be right because if it was my jeans would fall off.
I need to buy a new scale and throw that picture into the trash.