Went to Target yesterday for the usual run of stuff one goes to Target for, and decided to look at their skirts/shorts/etc, since…well…the Boots.
AAAAnd apparently I’m down to a size 8.* Right before I got separated, I was a size 16. I’m half the woman I used to be. Great.
This is…well, really Not Cool. I went off the meds three weeks ago! I should be gaining weight again! My appetite isn’t huge–still at one and a half to two meals a day–but I’m definitely able to pack away more than I was. But I’d…kinda expected it to all come back, ya know? I was really expecting my appetite to return to the usual levels, and that I’d have to worry about suddenly packing on thirty pounds. But apparently my metabolism reset itself sometime in the last six months, and my body now believes that I am supposed to be this size.
Huh.
I mean, sure, I’m hot, but I was hot at size 12, goddamnit, and I have a wardrobe for THAT. Do I have to go back on the cheesecake breakfast diet or something?
Yeah, yeah, there are worse fates, cry me a river, but I keep remembering a buddy of mine in college who was a recovering anorexic, and could NOT keep weight on, despite her best effort. At one point I ran into her after she’d been stressed out for a few weeks, blinked, and blurted out “My god! You look like a ten year old with a big head!” (Tact. I has it.) This haunts me.
Oh, well, nothing Waffle House can’t fix, I suppose. In other news, Ben is still sneezy, but has new antibiotics–mouth ulcers healing up, but still not gone.
And I have too much work to do. And tomorrow I have to add up all my taxes pronto for the tax guy on Friday. Uff da.
*Brook actually eyeballed that at the Con, but I scoffed it off–size ten, sure, size eight is just crazy talk. Pardon while I eat crow.
