Oh, it’s Hook. Haven’t seen that movie in most of forever. I’m watching TV with the sound off, the wave noise of Civilization V playing in the background as I type this. The noise is quite soothing. I’ve heard the news about the shooting, but don’t think this space is a good one, nor is this a good use of my sympathy for the victims and frustration to run my mouth off about my opinions regarding the information reported on the shooter’s motivations. I’m sure we’ll all watch and read and see more about this in the days to come.
I think I want to talk about the diet today. It’s going really well. I won’t qualify that. It just is going well. I am exercising, eating low-carb, not craving things that are full of sugar, not flipping out about it, and feeling like it’s moving in the right direction, if only incrementally. I’m not checking the scale every day to justify doing it. I’m not sick of anything, I don’t feel like I’m being kept away from anything I want or need. Going off the diet doesn’t sound appealing.
But as soon as I start thinking about the end of the line, about what the body could potentially look like if I lost 30 pounds to be in the purportedly healthy weight range for my height, I do start to quiver a bit. I do start to think that it will never happen and I don’t want it to happen, because it feels risky and unsafe and like I’d be stepping out on a stage and asking to give up control over myself. It’s this impossible place where I am the girls I see around me, rather than this liminal being who doesn’t draw the sorts of stories I’m reading about tonight on twitter with the #yesallwomen hashtag. I’ve always been quasi-enough that I’ve only had a few scares, but I’ve always been aware of the danger and told to cover up. Even the trip to Italy has this weird connotation, of something bad might happen to you. And it might, and I will be careful, but contemplating that if I’m losing weight as even a snail’s pace, by that time, my body will be significantly less…buxom than it is at this moment. It’s sort of like realizing you’re not only going to be travelling amongst strangers, but as a stranger.
And then again, I really don’t believe that it can happen. Which isn’t a good thing to say. I want to feel 100% great about the fact that I won’t have this protective belly girding everything (that’s gross, but hey, we’re trying to get to the truth of things around here.) But it sort of feels like there’s this threshold, maybe it’s in fifteen pounds, maybe it’s more or less, but there’s this point where I can’t pretend that people will ignore my body. That there’s an IFF I’m flipping off which will turn off my cloaking device and then something awful will happen.