So on Saturday I went to buy a new winter coat, and while I was pretty happy with the coat I got, I was pretty unhappy with the number on the tag.
...and I don't mean the price. It was on sale, plus I was within the "early bird" hours, plus I had a coupon...
But there is no such thing as a coupon to take numbers off of the size, unfortunately, and I would gladly pay double price if there were.
I've struggled with my weight my entire life. I can't remember ever, and I mean EVER, feeling good about the way I look. I have a pretty face. I have decent hair. I have a good complexion (most of the time, anyway), but I'm fat.
There, I said it. I am fat.
I'm going to be the MOH for my friend Amanda this December in St. Thomas. And I'm going to be the MOH for my sister next October. And I'm really sick and tired of being the fat bridesmaid, and I'm even more sick and tired of wanting to cut the tags out of my clothes so that no one sees how big they are (as if no one will notice that I'm fat if they don't see the size on my clothes. Ha.)
So Jenny has been doing Weight Watchers, and has been wanting to start a blog support group. I told her this weekend that I was in (but to give me a couple more days to pound leftover Halloween candy before I start, of course). She sent me the rules tonight.
She wants me to post a "before" picture of myself and my current weight. Not the weight on my driver's license, but my real weight. On this blog. This blog that everyone I know reads. The blog that you are reading right this very minute. God only knows who is reading this thing. Half of my hometown might be reading this, for all I know. I get a lot of hits from Grammaland.
I mean, even at the Weight Watchers meetings, you don't have to stand up and announce your weight, or how much you've lost. You can sit in the corner and cry over the fact that you were really good and ate nothing but zero point soup and fat free Jello and you gained 4 pounds anyway because clearly God hates you and wants you to be Jabba the Hut, again, for Halloween. They don't bug you if you do that. Believe me, I know.
I don't think my mom even knows how much I weigh.
I don't know if I can do this.
Because, what if I fail, again?