I bought a swimsuit the other day. Not just any swimsuit, but the swimsuit I've dreamed of for years: A very modest tank top (black, with red seaming, but you can't have everything), shorts that come midway down my thighs (solid black), a keypocket in the shorts (closes with Velcro!); in short, the only thing I could wear that covers nearly as much as a swim burqa without looking like an idiot. (I should mention here emphatically that swim burqas are the bomb. The only reason I would look like an idiot is that I am Not Muslim. It would be like me dressing up in, oh, a kimono. Or a hula skirt. I would not be workin' it.)
I got this swimsuit in a size 16W.
I am not pleased by this.
Not at all.
Now, I'm fairly mobile. I'm short and stocky and still quite strong, despite not having seriously lifted (read: lifted at all) since Atilla moved off to the Big City. But I am Not Happy with wearing a size 16W.
I should mention here emphatically, and not at all parenthetically, that I am not fat hating. People come in different shapes and sizes, period. What is healthy for a woman who was born to be a 16W is much different from what is healthy for me, who has the bone structure and genetics to be a size six. I am not fit or healthy (look at that waist measurement: it speaks of increased risk of stroke, heart attack, diabetes) at the size I am now.
So it's going to change. I thought about starting another blog to chronicle what I'm doing fitness-wise and diet-wise, but I got stumped by the title. "Fat, Flatulent, and Forty"? "Dammit, No, I'm Not A 16W"? "Holy Shit, That's A Lot of Beer"?
I decided to just do a weekly check-in here. According to SiteMeter, I get about 10,000 hits here a month (Hi, everybody!) and I am going to need every single last one of you to keep me accountable. Weight Watchers might be easier and more personal, but I am counting on the level of impeccable snark that you guys have displayed over the last five years to get me where I need to go.
Because not everybody wants to hear a blogger whine about how haaaard it is to do 3 miles in 44 minutes on the treadmill (Dammit! I used to be able to do it in 25!), I'm segregating the Wednesday Whining posts with a tag, with title, and sticking to one day a week. Y'all can scroll on by if you don't want to read about what I did with my treadmill during the past seven days.
It's scary to do this. I'm scared it's too personal. I'm scared I'll fail. I'm scared that there's some weird metabolic thing that has nothing to do with Cheetos or sedentary living or too much Mirror Pond going on, even though I know that that's highly unlikely. I'm frightened of putting this much of my not-anonymized life out on the Intarwebs, though you've read damn near everything else I've done in the last five years.
Join me. Bitch away in the comments about the cramp in your lats or how much you hate eating frigging vegetables in the morning.
One very important note: Anybody who posts fat-hating or attack-dog bullshit will be deleted. I don't care if it's about me or toward another commenter, it's going to go. Save your keystrokes for something else; you get a predetermined number in this life. (I wouldn't be this cranky about it, but I've been reading comments about Regina Benjamin and whether she's qualified to be Surgeon General because (*gasp*) she's fat!)
Next Wednesday: First week's schedule, goals, and comprehensive bitching about shinsplints.