I think I’m entitled to have a pout once in a while, and today I have one. Since I’ve been in Kingston, despite me being busy nearly every day and still making an effort to eat right and get exercise, I think I have actually gained weight. This is truly frustrating. I was doing so well, and this setback is humiliating. I have to go see my doctor in a few weeks and she’s gonna wonder why I haven’t made any progress. This kind of thing makes me just want to give up all together and become one of those wretched scooter people that run over people’s feet and don’t apologize.
I think this is compounded by the fact that I miss my husband. He is out in Wainwright, being all Captain Canada, and will be there for another two weeks. Then I just get him for a week before he’s gone again for another month. Sometime in June I might get to see him more regularly. (I know it’s army life, and I married into it, but this is my pout and I’ll have it if I want to.) He’s my biggest fan, my loudest cheerleader, my reason for getting up in the mornings. He makes me want to be the person I should be. And I know this fight will be ongoing and permanent, always battling against the many scars on my body and my psyche, but I also know that they feel less like scars and more like badges of honour when he’s standing behind me.
I should be kicking my own ass. I should be going on a juice cleanse or celery soup diet or whatever will make me thinner. I should be going to the gym every day and swimming until the lifeguard has to fish me out before I drown… But right now it all feels like what’s the point.
Sure, my stubborness has gotten me through a lot, and it will get me through more as time goes on, but it doesn’t really apply to dieting. And maybe because I can’t stubborn my way out of this I’m getting panicky; this IS just another example of control lost.
Which makes me think, why bother?, which makes me sad, which reminds me I’m already sad because my husband’s been kidnapped by the army, which makes me even more sad…
You get the picture.
In some ways, pouting is healthy. It helps people understand how I’m feeling inside since I don’t walk about with a sign saying “extra sensitive day today – caution” on my back. And in some ways its a step toward acknowledging that it’s all right for me to have bad days and that they are a normal part of healing mentally. But then my stubbornness steps in and reminds me that no one likes a whiner, and I should just suck it up and try harder.
Sometimes I want to punch my stubbornness in the mouth.
As I write this, I’m curled up in bed with my teddy bear (shut up, I have one and I’m 32, shut up) and am trying to decide on whether to just hibernate for the rest of April. The wind is blowing, there’s a storm coming in, and I might feel like this is an apt metaphor except I really can’t muster the effort that would require.
I’m too busy wasting it on my pout.