Of pudge and realizations

Sometimes I think to myself, Self? Wouldn't it be better to not blog about cellulite and chin fat? 

Because cellulite and chin fat are embarrassing. In real life, and also when you write about them.

I am not the kind of fat person whose face does not gain weight when her butt does. My body is an equal-opportunity employer of fat cells. You may live in the cheeks, whether they be ass or face. You may live in the neck or the arm flaps or the ankles or the thighs, although we are running out of room in the thighs. Prime real estate, that is.

The good news about 2010 is that I have not gained weight. The bad news is I have not lost weight. It's a weird year. I maintained. We are rolling into 2011 at the same size we were when we rolled into 2010, pun fully intended.

You know how sometimes you'll be sitting around staring off into space and wondering to yourself, Self? Why is losing weight so hard?

Maybe you don't wonder that, but I wonder that a lot. I think frequently and fondly of a time when I lost weight and I build a chart in my mind, trying to compare myself now to myself then and figure out what is different about me now that makes losing weight more challenging.

And ya'll? I figured it out yesterday. It's going to sound dumb when I say it, but I never claimed to be smart.

See, the difference is that when I embarked on a lifestyle change that resulted in me losing about 40 pounds of El Flabbo, I was in my 20s, and I had never embarked on such a well-planned diet and exercise program before in my life.

Now that I'm in my 30s, I've embarked on several well-planned diet and exercise programs and failed at all of them. Dozens of them. I set a precedent of failure and am somehow surprised when I continue to fail.

I am too big. I'm a dark shadow reflected in a window. I can't pull my elbows and shoulders in enough, make myself small enough when I want to be smaller. On a plane or in a crowded car. There is too much padding on my hip bones and my ribs.

I am tall and thick. Sturdy and heavy and immovable. Slow and creaking. Muddy and apologetic. Overly kind to strangers because that's what overweight women have to be. I wrap myself in long, draping, dark fabrics and go where I need to go quietly, quickly and politely.

That sounds dramatic. It's not as bad as all that. Only when I'm really down about it.

So I had my realization about the precedent of failure, which is something I've half-realized probably 30 times before yesterday, but completely understand only now. I drew up a new plan, new goals, new baby steps. There are a certain number of months filled with weeks during which I will or should be doing certain things to accomplish certain goals, and when I put it down on paper, it's not bad, really. Not that many months or that many pounds.

Although I do fully understand December is not an optimal month to start a diet, nor is a Thursday, nor is wintertime. It goes against my diet code. Which hasn't been working so well for me.

I hope to move slowly and make wise decisions.