I took the weekend off from work. I sat in a Pep Boys and wrote a blog post that I consequently forgot to post. Why? Well partially because I was in a Pep Boys and wasn’t sure if what I wrote was coherent. And partially because I simply forgot.
I also got a haircut this weekend. This haircut was a little special for me. I realize of course that it’s just a haircut, however, this cut removed the last of the artificial color that I put in it two and a half years ago. I’ve been coloring my hair since I was fourteen years old. Now, twentyish years later I am finally sporting an entire head of hair that is one-hundred percent my natural color. Unfortunately, that color is blonde. It’s definitely blonder than I remember it being. I hate my natural color. It’s why I covered it for so long. This particular brand of blonde is bland unless I’m in direct sunlight. Considering how much I hate being outside…? Well, it’s going to remain bland. I decided to stop a while ago because of my eyebrows. Dying my hair dark brown made me feel fantastic. I finally felt like myself.
Maintaining blonde eyebrows to appear brown is simply too much work for multiple reasons. The first being that when I dye the eyebrows brown, suddenly my not shaping/tweezing them matters. Blonde eyebrows are easy to ignore when there are stray hairs here and there. No one is getting that close anyway. Dye them brown and they scream LOOK AT ME!! Secondly, I’m not going to spend time attempting to color in my eyebrows with pencil or marker or shadow or with whatever the thing is these days. 1) it’s a pain in the ass and I wouldn’t be able to drawn them on in a straight line. 2) I touch my face too much. I’d be constantly worried that I was somehow schmeering the makeup everywhere. I’ve already reduced my daily makeup to coverup and mascara. I don’t want to do more. Honestly, if it weren’t for the raging red roscea on the sides of my face I wouldn’t wear any makeup at all. I cover it up as best I can, but it still shows through everything by the end of the day. Not completely though. If people could see how red it really was I think I’d get the good ol’ fashioned point and stare. Or whispers as I walked past. For the most part I think I’m exaggerating there.
I get paranoid about stuff like that. I don’t want to live in a world where I’m judged by my appearance, but that’s just how it goes. I’m never going to be a petite 5’5” woman. I’m always going to be a giant. I’m always going to be big boned. I don’t have to remain overweight, but I don’t have the gumption right now to fix it. Please know that I’m not hiding behind the concept of “big boned” as in “I’m not fat I’m big boned”. It’s two different things. Right now I’m both. I got my Dad’s Midwestern build. I’ve just chosen to eat things that taste delicious and not to exercise. I’m in a fat prison of my own making. It’s funny, when I was younger and thin? I thought I was fat. I had people call me fat to my face. I was most definitely not fat. Now that I am fat? No one calls me that to my face. In fact. No one notices me at all.
I guess part of me likes it that way…with people ignoring my existence. I keep telling myself that any dude who would care about how much I weigh is not the dude for me. But it doesn’t work that way, does it. Regardless as to whether or not I think it should matter, it matters. I had a conversation at work with a manager who is also on the heavy side. It was implied to her and then implied to me, that if I wanted to rise higher? I needed to lose some weight. I heard this nonsense right before I went of my twelve day vacation. It helped me to better ignore work while I was gone. For the briefest of moments it even motivated me. Who the hell would want to work for a company like that? I know! I’ll work my ass off, lose all the weight, get super hot…get promoted and then quit.
That spitefulness lasted until I got home and I realized that working two jobs is entirely too time consuming and unless I’m willing to start giving up on my sleep, that’s likely not going to happen.
And I feel like a giant hypocrite. Because I’m not attracted to super big guys. Big guys? Sure, but when we get into obsess territory I just can’t. And I’m sure that there are some perfectly nice guys who are the same. It’s a shallowness that I can’t shake. I want to blame society and movies for making me this way, but it’s not that. It’s the thousand little things. It’s both my Mother and Stepmother being obsessed with their own weight. It’s the way my Stepmother says the word “fat” like it’s dirty and disgusting and like it would make her throw up to think of anyone being fat. It’s the way my Father told my youngest sister not to eat so much junk food or she’d get fat (as if she ever could, she’s a stick AND fuck that she was a kid). It’s the way the ex-husband actually wanted me after I lost all that weight when he was cheating. It’s the conversation I overheard when I was seventeen “why would I want to date her? She’s fat” (I wasn’t). It’s going out with thinner friends and watching guys fawn all over them and ignore me. It’s knowing that I can’t complain because I’ve done it to myself. It’s knowing that I’m the only one who can change it but also knowing that I’m just too tired. It’s crying because I had to go up a size in pants so that I can sit somewhat comfortably throughout the day. It’s never being able to find anything that fits JUST right. It’s my achy knees. It’s my sleepless nights.
It’s the fact that I gave up smoking, and drinking, and pot. It’s that I use food instead to fill the hole in my heart (whoooaaa…kind of literally). It’s not wanting to die early, but eating myself into an early grave.
At the time of this writing, I’m at 280ish pounds. I need to move more, eat better, and eat less. How do I find the motivation though?
This post has been overly whiny. I think I’ll sign off now. Comment freely. Though, douchebaggery will not be tolerated.