Wednesday, August 15, 2012


So, I woke up in a pensive mood today.  Actually, I stepped off the scale in a pensive mood, which, actually, is quite a different feeling than I normally have when dealing with that monster.  Pensive because my weight had fluctuated by 5 lbs from yesterday, so I was immediately like..."what the fuck..." but not in an angry or confused way, more like a calm acceptance of the fact that the scale really is not an accurate tool in which I should judge my success or failure at this diet experiment because I seriously have not adjusted my caloric intake by the extreme amount that it would take to make that much of a difference in my heft...or lack thereof.

And this got me thinking...sure, I originally started this lifestyle change to achieve what most women want...physical perfection.

Even though I lie to myself and say it's because I want to get healthy.  Or lied, I should say, as in the past tense.

See, I work with a very sweet girl that I like very much who lives with lupus. It is a horrible, debilitating painful disease for which there is no cure.  She lives in pain every day, and never complains, is warm, friendly, funny, kind, and spiritual.  In a very non-annoying way, because normally, these are qualities that I disdain in a person (Kidding! I joke!  Kinda...)

And it got me to thinking about my own health and how blessed I really am that I don't wake up every day in pain, that other than a few extra pounds, an occasional backache, or a bloody stump of a toe, I am relatively healthy and pain free.  So what the hell am I bitching about?

The fact is that I have been so lucky to enjoy relative good health in my life, other than illnesses caused by my own foolish behavior.  And how easily have I forgotten that a little over 18 months ago I was in an intensive care unit while this amazing body that I detest and deride every day fought as hard as it could to keep going.

This body that I take for granted, that I criticize for sagging or bulging or wrinkling has actually served me very well these past 40 years and still I complain about it and treat it like shit.  I have pushed it to the very limits of its endurance, and still it carries on, gives me very little problems, and keeps me going.  Literally.

While I was recovering, after one of my numerous blood tests, my doctor informed me that he was concerned about my thyroid levels.  They were a low, and he wanted to keep an eye on them because he was hesitant to put me on any medication to treat it because he wasn't a fan of taking that serious of a step and he wanted to see if the problem would correct itself.

Well my body was like:

And boom, it took care of business.  Next visit...perfect thyroid levels.

Even during the times I didn't want to go on, it never gave up, and kept fighting.

So, my philosophy has changed.  I'm not going to berate myself or it by denying it when it wants a piece of chocolate, but neither am I going to torture it by forcing down a double whopper with cheese because of misplaced anger or frustration.

And I'm not going to stare in the mirror making fun of it, degrading it, or humiliating it any more.  Quite frankly, I'm going to work hard at showing it the respects it deserves, and cherishing it for everything it has done for me.

My Mood Ring(tone) Of the Day:

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