More specifically: an actual, delicious, custard filled, chocolate fudge covered Bismarck FRICKING DONUT. In my belly. And it were tasty.
Normally, I try to stay away from donuts, fricking or otherwise. Unless they are VERY GOOD DONUTS and then I make an exception. In this scenario, there happened to be a box of uneaten pastry units from a nearby meeting room. In most cases, by the time the meeting is over and the donuts are discarded they are of NO VALUE, being dry and certainly not worth 300 calories. HOWEVER, not only was there a jewel of a sugary morsel available (said Bismarck), these units were from the very best local donut monger (Roth’s, if you’re local or passing through Salem for an eclipse- more on that later).
So in spite of the fact that I’ve been attempting to diet, there have been quite a few exceptions lately. And I have to wonder if the dieting is worth being unfriendly with the donuts. Because DONUTS.
So when I read Total Fatty, a blog by my friend Ingrid, at first I didn’t really think it had anything to do with me. I told myself: I don’t have a problem with dieting or my relationship with food. I’m just trying to get into a size 8. I just want to look good in a selfie at ANY ANGLE WITHOUT A STICK. I just want to look like a SUPER MODEL. WTF IS SO WRONG WITH THAT?
So she wrote this amazing post about body dysmorphia. Really good post that got my brain-hamster all riled up. To be clear, I think I have the opposite of this. Let’s call it “body utopia”, whereby I am pretty sure I look BETTER than I actually do. You see a lot of this at the Walmart. BU is uniquely responsible for the entire muffin-top epidemic, skinny jeans, and men’s non-competition Speedo briefs. Perhaps you or someone you love suffer from BU. BU is magically cured by fluorescent lights and multi-angle mirrors in department store dressing rooms.
Regardless, reading Ingrid’s blog has made me question my unending desire to be smaller than I am (in spite of my self-diagnosed BU). The only thing I can really come up with is that I have an entire wardrobe waiting for me in the “correct” size. However, if I already had the same wardrobe in the size I’m in now, I wonder if I would bother. But even as I question my motives to lose weight (or rather a clothing size and some of the gelatinous-ness of my mid-area) I then question my motives to give up. Is it because of donuts (and peanut M & M’s and frappuccinos)? Am I lazy? Sick of going to the gym? ALL OF THE ABOVE?? And then what happens when I get there? Do I beat every extra kilo off my ass with a stick?? Do I fight constantly to keep control of the hill? IT’S EXHAUSTING.
Now then, because I don’t drink booze, I have A LOT OF ROOM to think about this shit in the mind-space previously occupied by the obsessive circular alcoholic thought-vortex (OCATV). You may have recently escaped from this. You may still be in it. Personally, worrying about eating a goddam M&M is infinitely preferable to the OCATV.
So here we are again, all of us enjoying my first-world problems. The takeaway here is that no matter what I eat or what I weigh or give up, whether or not I count calories or bench press (UPWARDS OF 55 POUNDS!!), I’m never going to have to worry about the OCATV again. It makes everything else seem quite manageable by comparison. Additionally, I have very good photo editing app on my phone that allows me to modify not only an unfortunate double chin showing, but the crypt-keeper-like wrinkles on my mug. Get one!
In other news, I had a LEVEL 3 PMSI (“pms incident”) a few weeks ago, involving another employee whom I felt was being an unreasonable and difficult asshole. I’m afraid the bitch-o-meter may have spiked at some point. I’m not sure because I don’t actually remember most of it (except for my head exploding). However, at one point, my co-worker became my handler. So this is a PSA: if you have LEVEL 3 PMS (or the male version–don’t pretend like you don’t know what I mean, guys) then do yourself and everyone else a favor and STAY THE FUCK HOME. By the way, Mr. Betty was thrilled (and simultaneously horrified) that someone else caught the PMS train.
Too bad that fucker didn’t catch me on Donut Day.