A sweaty session doing Tabata HIIT sessions on the upright cycle left me pondering a few things, especially after I weighed myself and found I had dropped 6 pounds in 3 weeks (!!!). I decided to have my body fat and all that measured, only to find out that a) I weigh *12* full pounds less than I did 7 months ago (is that alarming? Or normal for an active person? Something to be proud of? Or ashamed of? Were the scales accurate???) and b) my body fat percentage is less than 20%, which is pretty ideal for a lady. In fact, I was in the "Ideal" range according to the Microfit equipment.
Even though I'm actually back to my high school weight (whoda thunk? I'm still reeling from this stellar stat), I feel heavier and less sexy than I almost ever have. I flip through Facebook photos and think, gosh, my eyebrows are a little crooked, my part is stupid, my skin is so shiny, my knees are too big, etc., etc. Getting dressed last night, all I could see was the bulge my freshly fed lower belly was adding to my otherwise decent profile. This led to nearly 45 minutes of outfit-altering, but each addition or removal only led to more disgust and self-loating.
I felt sort of okay while out dancing, but I think it was all the weed and mushrooms I consumed before heading out.
This entire week I have been filled with utter disgust with myself. I have actually thought, very concretely, that I'm ashamed I don't have the self-control to be anorexic. And you know what? I am ashamed. I'd give anything to be that tightly controlled in my life, to be able to deny myself pleasures that my immature, instant-gratification-seeking self simply must have. But alas, I am me, and that is someone who cannot resist carbs (although I'm doing waaaaay better than I was), dessert, afternoon naps, and married men.
To further add to my vastly underwhelming evening of much-anticipated dancing and release, the music last night was lame, and my company, although very, very well-intentioned, was more burdensome than relaxing. What is wrong with me that I have to be so damn picky? There I was, handsome man in hand (literally), kissing in my car while the cold rain dripped around us. The perfect opportunity to frolick forth and fuck, n'est-ce pas? He did nothing for me. I was thinking about the other man in my life, my hang up, my agony, the source of my recent self-loathing: my married boss.
The exquisite difference between the two is that I literally cannot be in the same room at work, nay, the same office, without actually dripping with desire. My face flushes, my breathe catches, my words elude me, my skin quivers, and, I truly believe, my molecules reorient themselves so they can best bask in his masculine power while my entity as a whole disintegrates into mush. My heart actually skips a beat when he walks by unannounced.
Skip to last night, which was in utter contrast to this week. Barry is handsome, employed, fun, generous, a good dancer (that part was actually enjoyable), and best (or worst) of all, into me. Having tasted heart-quickening attraction as recently as 4:50 pm on Friday afternoon, I know when my mojo just ain't interested. Much to my dismay. Where's my "on" switch? Why can't I just be a slut? While sweating at the gym this past week, I read a stat in Self that lowered my spirits even more: There's a huge percentage of single women getting laid every single week of their lives. I can't track down the exact number, but whatevs - that was my chance! My libido should have been vibrating itself to orgasm by the prime opportunity at its fingertips. But alas and woe is me. I think he figured out pretty quickly that my mind was elsewhere, and graciously bowed out of my evening before I had to kick him out.
My logic right now is this: if I can kick my own ass and get my body fat percentage down a few points, maybe I'll be sexy enough that I can finally snag the man I really want. I want to be irresistible. At best? It works! At worst? I'll be in the best shape of my life. Here's to self-experimentation!
Cheers,
Gillian
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