I haven't made a decision.
I've sputtered and puttered and cried and cajoled myself to make daily better choices, in fact to make the right choice and choose a better future for myself. And then I've done nothing. If I choose the way I think I should go, the way I really want to go, the way that holds the most promise, it is going to be very, very hard. And I don't seem to do hard things very well.
I'm scared. I feel alone. I wish I was better.
Most of my life has been spent wishing for a different life. Wishing for a different body usually. I've felt that life dished up a big, fat serving of unfairness and I've been wading in it all of my life.
Do you sense the overpowering self-pity here? I didn't come equipped with "let-it-roll-off-your-back" attitude that might be a life preserver to me right now. I tend to let life's injustices and petty issues sour and curdle in my gut until they affect my outlook, my focus and my beliefs. And the biggest one, the one I always hang my hat on, the one I return to over and over and over again is: my fat body.
I never had it easy in that department (I know, strike up a thousand tiny violins for the woe-is-me party that is coming down the pike like a freight train). I never had a "thin" life. Never had the ease of a lithe, supple body as a child, never had the glory of a tight, lovely body as a teenager, never had the attraction of a gorgeous, womanly body as an adult. My reality has been filled with meaty thighs, a too-generous tummy, and a full double chin. And I have always struggled with that reality.
I've hated myself and wished thousands upon thousands of times for a different reality. A chance to wake up from this very bad dream. An opportunity to live out the life I was meant to live in a beautiful body that is my rightful inheritance.
It hasn't come. And I've spent my life wishing away the life I have.
It is painful for me to be in my thirties, unmarried, unhappy with my work, and still struggling with an overweight body. If I could snap my fingers and change my reality, I would have a lithe, beautiful body, a strong work ethic, a sunny, effervescent personality, and a gem of a husband with a few darling children as accompaniment. I would always be organized and my house would be clean. I would have a PhD in counseling and be an established author. I would spend my days caring for my family, decorating my home, seeing clients in my private home office, gardening in my lush outdoor backyard, and writing compelling, bestselling books that would make me independently wealthy. I would even have time for some radio work and television appearances.
Oh, and let's not forget that in all times and in all places I would look amazing and beautiful and strikingly gorgeous (I'm sorry but now it seems that my alternate reality has dipped into a Harlequin romance-esque type of universe). Oh, and I would cook tempting, delightful, wholesome meals for anyone who stepped a foot over my threshold. And be beautiful while doing it.
Yes, wouldn't that be nice.
But for all of my wishing, my moaning and wailing and gnashing of teeth, I am still just me: chubby, too-thoughtful, easily depressed, tree hugger, messy, bad-at-motivation-and-discipline, struggles with commitment, not-living-up-to-my-potential, totally imperfect me.
If I'm going to get anywhere in my life, I think I've got to learn how to embrace and love this version of me. Or I'm going to make myself sick and miserable by wishing my life away.
Yes, sick and miserable. It sounds like a charming way to do life, doesn't it?
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