It turns out to be perfect that I missed my Sunday post this week with my weekly health and fitness update. I decided to hold off and figured I would post something on Tuesday (writing this on Sunday night) as I have scheduled a book review to go live on Monday, and just wasn't up for back-to-back-to-back posts.
Anyway, here I am, trying to precisely word where I am at this week (post-last week) and I'm lost. I'm stuck. I don't have that much to say. I don't know if it's because this morning (Sunday) I weighed in and dropped .2 lbs. Or because yesterday I ate just around 1/3 of my calories before noon. Oops.
So I'm honestly OK and happy enough with the .2 lbs. Seriously satisfied that the digits didn't go up at all.
And then as I sit here thinking, and deciding what to write about my first and second experiences with my new Zumba for Wii workout.
And I check Write on Edge. The prompt is as follows:
This week we’d like you to write about a time you found yourself comparing yourself, unfavorably, with someone else. Focus on how the comparison affected you, negatively or positively.
Well, thank you very much.
I've always been the chunky girl. Even when I was at what I now can look at and define as "my skinniest," I was the chunky one.
Pictures of myself from a trip with friends to Puerto Rico. South Beach. Cancun.
I was happy. But was I?
I was never the one in the two-piece suit. Always in the matronly one-piece.
Yes, in my early twenties I hung out with friends who flashed more skin than I'd ever dare.
And I loved these friends.
But I'd be lying if I said I didn't compare myself to them sometimes.
I'd be lying if I said that when I got to college and looked at the friends of mine who were able to get dressed in pretty much anything without an inch or more of flab or fat showing because they barely had any to spare.
We'd go out, I'd feel like I was dressed to the nines - as much as one could be in college in the '90s - and I'd look in the mirror and feel that I was ready to go. The music was blaring. The wristbands were on (acquired under the radar, I was definitely not 21 yet) and there I was. And then I'd get in. Everyone was dancing. I was, too. I had fun. I felt free. I felt friendships. I'm honest, they were and are legitimate. I'm still friends with these people. Friendship and a sisterhood before so much else.
It wasn't them. It wasn't their fault. They never looked at me as anyone but me. They never took an inch of their bare skin and intentionally made me feel like shit.
I did it to myself. 100%. Completely me.
I put myself in a corner at mixers and crush parties. Not always - mind you - but sometimes. Sometimes my mind got the better of me and won.
Was I depressed? No - not exactly. But I probably had a mild state of it. Between that and the generalized anxiety that would go undiagnosed for years to come, I'm sure my world felt to me as lame as it could. And I did it all to myself.
Have I been there again as an adult? Yes. As a mom? Yes. Do I want my daughter to EVER feel that way? NO. N-to the -O. Will she? Sadly, sure. I'm sure she will. I hope that I give her the independence and strong will to fight it and avoid it. All girls feel it now and then. I felt it in my childhood. My junior high years. High school. College. And beyond.
But now I'm fighting it. It flashes back to me now and again. That girl who lives somewhere inside. She's not gone. I know she'll never truly disappear. But that's okay. I'm supposed to live with her. I'm supposed to teach her. Guide her.
And with the effort I am putting in these days for myself. For my health. My mindset. My fitspiration. I hope all of that combined with being a mother to an amazing young girl will help me keep my own little girl inside, locked away and feeling secure enough to never have to come out and play again. Because she's not fun. She's sad. She's lonely. And she doesn't belong here.
Because the stronger me wins out. She stands tall. Well, as tall as my 5' 2-1/2" frame can stand these days.
I think I might have to start wearing heels again ...