I haven't written a blog in three days, but don't think I haven't tried. It's just that every blog I've started turned into a collassol whine fest and I don't much relish the thought of having my grumpiness preserved for posterity on the internet.
But since this dark cloud over my head doesn't seem to be going anywhere, maybe a great big vent is in order.
But please do keep in mind that this is a protein-fueled tantrum, as I am currently carb-deprived, doing the Atkins diet for what must be the gazillionth time in a (futile?) attempt to lose weight (therefore, I'm probably not even in my right mind). Just writing about this never-ending battle of mine is enough to make me violent and hysterical. I have fantasies about lobbing hard bread rolls at naturally skinny people (like my husband, who hasn't gained an ounce since high school)--because I have never, not for so much as a milisecond in my entire life, been classified as skinny. Healthy, yes. But I was cursed with my father's (damned!) big bone structure and propensity toward stockiness (which isn't sexy in the least). And now that I've borne two children (one by c-section that obliterated my abs) and reached my mid-thirties, I look like a flabby, stretched-out, unpleasantly plumper version of just-barely-tolerable-in-the-first-place me. I look in the mirror and want to fling myself on the floor and just wail in dispair. I don't want pictures taken of me. I would rather disappear than be confronted with the fact that I look the way I do. I am crying as I sit here typing this because the holidays are coming and I know if I don't stick to this diet, I'm going to be fat and unhappy forever. And this means no baking cookies, no making gingerbread houses, no hot cocoa, not even so much as a freaking bowl of popcorn. I'm also crying because I am in actual physical pain from going to two weight lifting classes at the gym this week, and from the frustration of knowing that what I want to do doesn't matter anymore, because if I don't do what I have to do, I'm going to end up fat, with the diabetes and heart disease that's so prevalent on every branch of my family tree. And let me just say for the record, I HATE going to the gym. I have never been naturally physically active. Given my druthers, I'd never get off the couch, spending my day writing or sewing or reading or cuddling with the boys. And since my life is full of have-tos these days, not getting to eat what I want, or sit down and veg when I have the chance, royally pisses me off.
So I'm full of internal self-loathing and anger as I try to get into the holiday spirit this year, and obviously, I am feeling neither holly nor jolly. November is a bad month for me in general, because as soon as the weather starts getting truly cold and all the leaves drop off, my zest for life drops with them. I've been trying to get my mind off my diet by throwing myself into holiday shopping, but I can't help but find it irritating beyond belief. Last weekend I went to the mall to get a down coat and it was total holiday pandimonium. And forced holiday pandamonium, to boot, with a whole mall decked out in holiday decorations and sale signs screaming at me from every corner. I feel enough pressure on me to come up with the perfect holiday gifts in this wretched, wretched recession. And now cynical me sees all the ways retailers are trying to manipulate me into spending money and I get mad all over again. As I said in my last blog, I don't need anything you can buy at the mall, and Christmas isn't supposed to be about scoring the best doorbuster. The whole atmosphere of consumption--literal (all those Christmas treats I can't eat) and figurative (the bombardment of ads and flyers and supposedly-too-good-to-pass-up deals that I can't afford)--has me tied up in a great big unfestive knot.
So if I don't write another blog for awhile, this is why.