12W12S2P Update: STFU, N00bz

Two more pounds down this week. Officially down 23 lbs., unofficially down at least 40 lbs. I had to give up my one major indulgence, my Mountain Dew, my tiny little baby can of Mountain Dew, to get this far, but it was either that, or give up dessert after dinner, and I decided that I love ice cream sandwiches too much. A real Sophie's choice, that: soda or dessert? I've cast my lot in with the Dairy Gods. I hope they don't let me down.

I'm getting to a point now where I have to give in and buy new clothes, because everything is too big and too saggy and too long and too baggy, but I am hoping that I can hold on for a little while longer. There are some sweaters in my closet that I think I can make work, and sweater season isn't too far off. Pants are an ongoing problem -- I still have a jelly-belly, but no so much with the thunder thighs any more, yet I have to get a bigger size pants than I actually "need" so I can get them buttoned. I keep digging in the closet, hoping for hidden treasures.

People at work are starting to notice, starting to talk, and it's making me feel paranoid and ugly. To my face they are complimentary, but their eyes are dead and cold, or worse: angry, hot, vicious. I see them watching me, analyzing everything I eat, judging my choices. Especially on Wednesdays, when I allow myself a "splurge" for breakfast, usually two frozen waffles or pancakes, with low-calorie syrup and turkey breakfast sausage. There are a lot of Weight Watchers here, and they are using a different math than I am to count. I can tell what they are thinking: How is that diet food? I thought the same thing, myself, not all that long ago.

I can hear the whispers, too: She spends a lot of time in the bathroom. Maybe I am hypersensitive, but I get the implication. People think I have an eating disorder, probably bulimia. Never mind that I don't, that no one has ever seen or heard me do what they are suggesting that they think I do. They wonder why I can eat waffles for breakfast and still keep losing, while they eat popcorn for every meal and don't. The Weight Watchers have been grumbling. Losses are slow for them now. Some of them have stopped losing all together. But I have not, so it must be me who is doing something unseemly or untoward or unfair. They think I am cheating.

No, I am not cheating. I am just drinking a lot of water, so I have to pee a lot. Throwing up is gross. Seriously.

My heart hurts when I think about it, and my head pounds, and I want to tell them all to shut up and mind their own damn business. This thing I am doing, this lifestyle change, this is HARD WORK. It's really, really hard. Especially for an emotional eater whose peaks and valleys in appetite levels have much to do with feelings and fatigue. I spend a part of every day stressed out, and so I spend a part of every day hungry. I must pass a hundred restaurants when I am driving home from work, and I can smell every molecule of deliciousness that they are serving. Chinese food, Mexican, steaks, pasta, white sauce, butter, fresh baked rolls with olive oil and rosemary. Some days are worse than others, when I need to exercise every ounce of self-control that I have to not pull off the road at the next exit and stop at the first place I see and just chow down until I explode.

And some days are worse than that, even: some days, I don't want to eat anything at all, just to show these bitches that I can, just to piss them off, just to be petty and spiteful, just to make them feel as ugly as they make me feel. Sometimes I feel like I can survive the day by doing nothing but smelling other people's food. These are the days that make me wonder -- do I have a problem? Do I really have some kind of disorder, maybe one that does not have a name yet? Probably I do. Probably we all do, a little bit. How we handle our disorders is more important than the disorders themselves, though.

Of course I want to say that it doesn't bother me, but obviously it does. The superficiality of all of it is disgusting, frankly. I am not trying to change anything about myself except how I look. Who I am is fundamentally not changing. Why should the rest of me change? There is nothing wrong with who I am. Do other people change their personalities when they change their dress size? Do people think that I am so terrible a person that when I lose more weight the demon inside will surface and slay them all? Why? That doesn't make any sense.

Although, neither does eating popcorn for every meal and expecting to lose 20 lbs. overnight. So I suppose none of this should surprise me.