…and apparently I’m now a size 10.
This isn’t fun any more.
I have been eating cheesecake, and when I got sick of cheesecake for breakfast, I switched to bacon. I grant you, unpacking burns a certain number of calories, but I haven’t been hiking or anything. I am eating as much at a sitting as I can stand. I’m drinking chai lattes instead of tea when I remember, to try to get some extra calories in there. I have been mowing through the Halloween candy. I replaced my diminished pasta intake with rice as much as possible, so I’m eating a helluva lot of Chinese takeout (mostly beef and broccoli.)
And still…down another size. What, do I have a tapeworm or something? Consumption? Demonic possession?*
I look great, don’t get me wrong. The hips and ass are still pretty well intact, and I’m still a D cup. But I want this to STOP. I was happy at 12. 12 was fine. 10 is just getting stupid on a woman of my height and bone structure. Back when he was helping me move into my apartment, my ex-husband hugged me, said “My god!” stared a bit, and then said “Your waist is waaaay too small for the rest of your body.” I have recently been accused of being petite. I have not been petite in ten years. (Actually, I currently look better than I did in college, when I was skinnier, but had no rack to speak of.)
Now, I realize nobody’s got any sympathy, and trust me, I don’t blame you, but here’s the thing. I wouldn’t mind–I’d be delirious with joy–if it would just STOP. I was anticipating that after I went on the meds, everything would stabilize and I’d gain back five pounds or so, go back to my regular exercise and stir-fry regimen, and life would be beautiful. But the fact that I am STILL losing weight is really…just…messin’ with me. Where does it end? Crimony. I don’t want to lose the curves! I like the curves! The curves are me!
On the bright side, now that it’s fall, the large fluffy socks that I love are back in all the stores. I wear them with Birkenstocks. It is a dreadful fashion faux pas, but these days, I’m pretty sure nobody’s lookin’ at my feet.
*I would actually find that the least alarming of the three, particularly if it could be persuaded to take over some of the grunt work.