Most of the time, this isn't problem because I'm all, "Girl, I'll see you from inside my sweaters, leggings, and converses" (but seriously, this is my official outfit for 60 percent of the year), and then I can stress about my choices in March.
But this year I am in a bit of a bind. In 2014, I lost close to 20 lbs, and by spring of 2015, I had lost a total of 24 pounds. That was all well and good.
Since this summer, I began losing hair and I lost about 2 full cup sizes in my chest.
And that is not so cool.
Full disclosure, I realize these recent unfavorable occurrences are the result of stress and changes in medication. Hormones, friends. They are a bitch, if you are a bitch. I refuse to believe that, comparatively, men find themselves at the mercy of their bodies as much as women do - though I do realize this is not true in every individual case.
You know when you are sick, and I mean really gross sick, and even with excellent grooming, you still look like a stop motion Burton monster? This is how I have felt for the past several months. I am channeling the final days of Howard Hughes, but only if HH was a bit more pear shaped than he was used to being. The other day I looked in the mirror, and for the first time I looked my age, and then some.
This is when I realized that I am indeed, harboring the heart of a girly girl, somewhere deep under yet another new bra that doesn't fit; a secret lady who doesn't want to be valued for her looks, but would certainly like to value the way she looked. A secret lady who was ready to embrace every ounce of narcissism and shallowness, if she could only return to the pleasant balance of reasonable attractiveness and sporadic wine bloat that she had enjoyed earlier in the year.
But theeeeeeeeennnn... That was also when I remembered, looking effortlessly good looking, takes a lot of effort. I shower. I put on moisturizer and tinted lip gloss. Recently I've added little powder and blush because in addition to my hair and boobs disappearing, my complexion has been, well, like the early decaying hide of a sick old man.
I realize that this is a phase, and one that will go away after the wedding has passed, and after a decent hair cut and color, But when I am about to have a few hundred photos taken of me in just a few short weeks, I would rather feel a little vain, and a lot confident, than like the trash bucket outside of a Captain D's.
I tried to casually bring this up to Mike, about the "Homely" phase that plagues most people at some point in their lives, but apparently, he is so attractive that he had no clue what I was talking about. But seriously, it went right over his cute head. Part of me feels extremely lucky to have a guy who has a particularly miraculous set of love blinders (if he was more of a drinker, then we'd call them Drunk Goggles, courtesy of the Simpsons), and part of me feels like, "This fella has some sort of eye disorder. Surely he sees what the damage is".
Earlier this year, I made fun of every wedding website that featured
7. Start Bridal Workout
on their wedding checklists, and I still make fun of them. But I put on my dress the other day and had a wave of self absorbed pity. I don't think that my wedding is the only huge event I have to look forward to in my life, but I would like to feel proud to stand up in front of a large crowd and present myself as myself for a change, and not worry about how not-toned my back is, or how my eyes look like those of an 80 year old drug addict.
I keep hoping that my body will mellow out, but so far no luck. Plus, I am experiencing the Thanksgiving Spill Over, when every thing that I ate that didn't come back out is spilling over my hips.
Thanks Hormones. You need to get it together, or get on up and go home. You're not drunk, you're just an asshole.
If you need me, I will be eaten copious amounts of vegetable soup and random protein fillers for the next couple of weeks. I will be sugar angry. Just don't touch my tender hair, and all will be well.
All will be well.