Guys. Wow. You know, I joke about being popular and loved and everything, but 20 comments about my fat day? I can't possibly thank each and every one of you individually. You're too much. You're awesome. You're incredible.
You may start construction on my statue any time. And while you're working on it, think you could shape my ass to be a wee bit more muscular? If we're going to immortalize me for all time, let's do it in style, okay?
Honestly, I'm feeling the love and I am extremely grateful. My mom's post made me cry (stupid moms and their powerful words of wisdom) as did a couple of others. Some others made me sad because people who are obviously beautiful don't always have the best body image. Why? Why don't you think you're totally hot? You are. Embrace it! When I'm your size I'm going to be checking myself out in every reflective surface. I mean, damn!
At any rate, that day was what I needed to get on track. This week I hiked, I worked in the yard, I did some weights and I avoided buying any junk food. I did sneak in a few chips at a BBQ (mandatory) and some chocolate-covered fruit (a little compromise I came up with when I was in the mood for my once-upon-a-time daily intake of chocolate) but overall I've done well without complete deprivation. I like.
Today I didn't have to do The Denim Dance, which is basically me hopping into my jeans and then wiggling back and forth while sucking in my gut and forcing the button closed. Once that's done the zipper is a piece of cake, but at what cost? The buttons get very loose, and the muffin top needs to be hidden under a shirt with no waist (thank goodness for current fashion). Yet, this morning I slipped into my favourite pair of jeans with no problems whatsoever and just about humped the bedside table in delight.
What? You don't get the urge to hump things? Must be my dominating personality.
I keep checking myself out in the mirror, too. It's ridiculous. I'm noticing the shrinking double chin and, of course, the red hair. My life, at the moment, is all about the red hair. When I find my waist the red hair will step back to play a supporting role.
On Friday, Geekster and I attended a couple study at the University of Ottawa. Why? Because we want to help the next generation of lovebirds. Because we want to increase awareness of how relationships work. Because we want to help scientists figure out how successful couples co-exist.
And mostly because they paid $40 and it was a night out. We ran out the door when we were finished and had a nice dinner. Thank you, science!
The spouse and I spent about two hours answering questionnaires, playing cooperative games and trying to argue about important topics on camera. The result? We realized we're really bad at arguing as our communication skills are quite decent, and we've ironed out most of our differences over the last sixteen years anyway. Also, according to our answers on the questionnaires, we really love each other. Like, a lot.
A few of my friends are in new relationships and are in the cutesy-shmootesy stage. They get and receive dozens of emails, phone calls and texts a day saying how much Lovebug loves Teddybear. They get flowers "just because" and a lot of date nights where they get to find their new-ish partner's second favourite colour and, oh my god, it's the same as their own! It must be a match made in heaven!
After spending half my life with someone, I already know his second favourite colour, or I could at least take a very good guess. I don't find out something new about him every day, and most of our conversations over MSN involve asking if I can put the trash out or if he can pick up some bread on the way home from work. It's the reality of a long term relationship involving the hatching and care of gremlins and the paying of mortgages; the cuteness is replaced by "please pass the cereal box when you're done" or "did you really need to buy that?"
But the upside, of course, is that we've practically grown up together and thus are thicker than thieves. Even if we were terribly different at first, we've now grown into this festering mass of co-dependency. Other than the fact that I have hair and a few extra pounds on me, we're pretty much the exact same person. We like the same shows, we like doing a lot of the same things, we nod in approval to each other's musical tastes. We never argue about what to eat for dinner, whether we should brew decaf or regular coffee, and our parenting styles are practically interchangeable, meaning the kids are going to save at least half of what they could spend on therapy bills; The same issue twice over is way cheaper than two separate traumas.
Yep. When the university team has a look at our answers and recorded interview, they're going to see exactly what the future has in store for them if they continue to swap spit with the same person for many years. Also, they'll hopefully check out a couple of seasons of How I Met Your Mother, which I recommended a few times by looking in the camera. When arguing with your soulmate in the name of science just isn't happening, why not play a quick game of "Remember when they said this? Hilarious! Oh, sorry Camera. Have you watched that show? You really should."
I'm still a sucker for a good love story, however, and have been getting my fix visiting the websites of him and her. They're adorable. Almost sickeningly. In fact, I puke a little in my mouth every time I read of another fantastic/magical/glorious/fairy-dusted weekend (I try to eat something grape-flavoured first. Grape is delish even coming back up). They seem like very normal people, unlike yours truly. I probably scare them being all groupie like, but that's the chance you take when you put your life up on the internets for the world to see. You might end up getting an old married broad sighing over your sweet little nothings to each other.
Disgusting. That's what it is. Absolutely disgusting!
(I hope there's more tomorrow.)
Also, I have to mention that I just ran 1.91 miles. And by "ran" I mean jogged, and by "jogged" I mean about 2/3 of that, while taking walking breaks to gasp for air with my fat-laden, asthmatic lungs.
I'm going to call it "interval training", which sounds significantly better than what I just wrote.
Being a hot bitch is really hard work, you know.