chick things.

I've been anxiously awaiting my period for the last week (no joke) for several reasons. Let's start at the top:

- Ever since that one voicemail disaster I have severe anxiety regarding my childbearing abilities. I'm allergic to babies, no joke.
- My medication has been messing with my menses and I spend about two weeks of every month being a hormonally imbalanced psychopath. I'm a nightmare to be around.
- Despite being on TWO prescribed diuretics, my body hangs onto every drop of fluid during this time and it plays tricks with scale.

It's very discouraging dealing with girl issues when trying to lose weight. I've been eating nothing but lettuce, tomatoes, and the occasional avocado for weeks and in the span of three (THREE!) days, the scale went from 254.5 to 259.0 even though I exercised every day.

I'm on the brink of starvation, my body is broken and I'm having to hobble around like a cripple because I'm exercising so hard, and one stupid useless organ (I'm looking at you, uterus) wakes up from its monthly nap to fuck things up. WHORE.

Like losing weight isn't already hard enough without becoming temporarily psychotic, bloated, having the world's worst cramps, and having to make frequent trips to the ladies' room. FUCK YOU, UTERUS. FUCK YOU. But no one talks about it, because it's unpleasant or unladylike or inappropriate. So screw you and your freaking etiquette, I'm going to say it: having a period sucks. For (as long as) two weeks, I have to work even harder at fighting my own body just to see that I gained a fucking pound?! Are you f-ing kidding me? Yeah, I'm sitting at 256.0. FML.



Other chick things:

There are things in my closet that I avoid on principle, but they stay in my closet for a sunnier skinnier day. Somewhere along the last thirty-seven pounds I guess I forgot that I've lost thirty-seven pounds. I still avoid that polo shirt because it's snug around the arms and that cami that's too short and the blouse that's too tight. It's just a matter of habit.

If there was ever a time that I needed a pick-me-up, it would be this week. This week I'm fighting the bloat, I'm fighting a running injury, I'm fighting my own mind as I debate having another bite of the chocolate cake that's currently sitting a foot away from me on my desk (dear guest, thanks a million, but you're a jerk). Encouragement this week is coming from silent screams in my closet: the new pants that I bought just a few weeks ago... baggy; the ruched navy-and-cream polka dot blouse I got on Black Friday... beautifully drape-y; my favorite pair of blue satin panties... dangerously close to falling off my ass.

I was hoping to break into the 240s by the end of this month, but I need to be real with myself. I don't consider this a failure, just a realignment with reality. But it's important to remind myself of where I'm going and how phenomenal the road has been so far. So... to put things in perspective:

Today, Thursday 23 February 2012, I have lost 37 pounds to date. I currently weight 256.0 (AND MY PANTIES DON'T FIT). On this day, I am 11 (ELEVEN!) pounds away from a sig-fuckin-nificant number of 245.0, which will mark the sexiest skinniest that my boyfriend (and most people I know these days) has ever seen me.



I am so worth it. (PS - living off green tea and rabbit food = great for my wallet)