Self-Love

I Love You, I’m Proud of You… Now Shut Up

/ Courtney / Leave a comment

I am fat. I have been, to varying degrees, for a significant period of my adult life. I have always struggled with my weight, so it’s never far from my mind.

scale

In turn, I struggle with my self-image quite a bit as well. I place way too much emphasis on the correlation between size and happiness. That’s not to say I don’t need to lose weight to be happier – at this point, I certainly do. I’ve had multiple ankle surgeries and had limited mobility for the last couple years, so being more active and losing some of the weight I’ve gained is important to me, for my own personal happiness.

I’ll never be a size 6, and that’s fine. I don’t need to be. But I do need to be healthier and more active to start really feeling like me again, regardless of the number on the scale. In the meantime though, I need to really work on loving myself in spite of the fact that I’m not where I want to be right now.

One of the people who has been most instrumental in helping me do this is Gil. He is the most supportive partner I could ever ask for. He loves me no matter what, and he tells me how beautiful I am every single day, and how attracted he is to me. He tells me and shows me in a million ways how much he appreciates everything about me, including my body.

He is also very much supportive of me wanting to make changes, which is another point in the “wonderful boyfriend” column. He himself has made a ton of positive changes in the last year and a half. He cut out regular soda, fast food, most sugar, and he got a job as a coach working with kids, so he is literally active all day long. And recently he has even taken up running and is getting even more serious about getting in shape. He’s lost over 40 pounds and counting. It’s incredible.

And I hate it. I mean, I love him and I’m proud of him, and it’s amazing. But I HATE IT.

I say that with as much love in my heart as possible. But we are both people who have struggled with our weight over the years, and for him to be making such drastic progress when I’m not is extremely challenging. Don’t get me wrong, I AM proud of him. But when he comes into the living room and complains that there is no way he’ll be able to eat all of his allotted calories on MyFitnessPal for the day, or how he lost another 3 pounds, I want to stab him in the eye with a fork. And then use that fork to finish a giant bowl of pasta.

My mom works for Weight Watchers and she sees this all the time. Couples come in together, and almost immediately the man starts losing weight faster than the woman (because biology SUCKS), and she inevitably gets frustrated. It’s one of the biggest challenges my mom sees her members having, when their spouse is losing and they aren’t.

When Gil and I started dating, we went the way of many couples. Lots of dinners out, weekend trips, and nights ordering in, not watching what we were eating at all. If he had a third piece of pizza, so did I. If he was going to sit and each chips and salsa, so was I.  And surprise, surprise, I gained at least 20 or 30 pounds in the first year of our relationship. Him? Probably none.

I’m not blaming him by any means. I did it to myself – it’s easy to give yourself so much leeway in the beginning of a relationship, and most of the women I know have fallen into this trap at one time or another. And if you struggle with weight and your relationship with food the way I do, it can become this weird free pass to do all the things you know are going to take you to the dark side. The side where nothing in your closet fits even though you JUST caved in and bought things a size up to get you through last season.

My mom always tells me how she would be struggling to diet and lose weight when she was dating my dad, and he would just announce one day that he planned to lose 10 pounds that week. AND HE WOULD. How he lived to father 2 children, I’m not sure.

When Gil needed to make some changes to his diet for medical reasons, I was all over it and helped get us stocked up on my healthy go-to’s. Gil wasn’t even trying to lose weight that first year – it just happened. I have never, in my entire life, known a woman who just “accidentally” lost weight.

And now that he’s actually actively working on getting in shape and really trying to watch his diet more, I can only imagine how successful he will be. And even if it makes me a horrible person for saying it, that’s really hard for me.

I have gone through so many attempts to “get started” on my fitness goals over the years, whether it was with MyFitnessPal or Weight Watchers, or whatever, but it is a daily struggle for me and it’s very slow going. There are a million reasons why, but none of that really matters. All that matters is that I am struggling to make the changes I so desperately want to make, and the opposite is true for my partner.

And I am completely terrified of being the fat girlfriend with a fit boyfriend.

It was different when we were both big – it was just part of our charm as a couple. Big people, big personalities. But now I feel this pressure that if I don’t lose a bunch of weight with him, that I’m failing in some way. That people will judge. That he might decide he wants someone who can keep up with him.

It’s a terrible feeling, but one I’m going to have to come to terms with. Because I want him to share his successes with me. When he is excited about losing another 5 pounds, I want him to feel like he can celebrate that with me. I don’t want to be threatened by his progress. But today, I still am. There is still a little part of me that can’t stand hearing how well he is doing, when I am still struggling to get on track. But that’s OK – I am giving myself permission to feel that way.

Because I’ll get there. Whether or not I actually lose as much weight as he does is not the point. I’ll get to a point where I can fully accept myself. Maybe that involves losing a bunch of weight, and maybe it doesn’t. All I know is that I want us to be able to fully support each other no matter what. And even if I get struck with the occasional urge to hurl heavy objects at his head when he announces that none of his pants fit anymore, or that he COULDN’T POSSIBLY have one more bite as I’m cleaning my plate… well, I’m only human.

When I Thought My Boobs Had Flesh Eating Bacteria, And Other Problems

/ Courtney / Leave a comment

As of yesterday I was firmly convinced I was suffering from some horrible disease. Without even Googling it, I surmised my left boob must have somehow contracted some sort of flesh eating bacteria and that the rest of my body was not far behind.

There were these divet like holes in my left boob when I took off my bra yesterday, which is what led me to this completely rational conclusion. I say “yesterday” and not “last night” because I speak the truth and the truth is, fuck bras. As someone with G cups I probably shouldn’t be saying that, but there it is. Although word to the wise – don’t go braless in the bathroom – it ends badly.

Anyway, these FLESH EATEN HOLES weren’t exactly holes – more like little craters… like what a really bad acne scar might leave behind. I have a lot of struggles in life, but thankfully boobs covered in huge cystic acne isn’t one of them, so I knew it wasn’t that. So OBVIOUSLY it must be some kind of flesh eating disease.

Except that this morning when I woke up, they were gone. Or rather, when I remembered my panic from yesterday at around noon today and I investigated my tit, they were gone. I’m starting to suspect that it may NOT have been a one day flesh eating bacteria, but rather that I wound up with crumbs in my bra, and they actually left some serious indentations.

The only reason I’m willing to even concede this as a possibility is that last week after a particularly aggressive snacking session, I actually found 2 entire tortilla chips in my bra. That I didn’t notice until hours after I was done with my chips and salsa. I feel you processing that statement. Stop it. Don’t judge me until you’ve walked a mile in my bra.

I have yet to put on a bra today, so there has been no possibility of crumb trappage and so far, my boobs are looking the way they should (minus sitting about 3 inches higher, but whatever).

But while we’re on the subject, this is just one in a line of many struggles I have had with my big boobs. Melons. Tatas. Bozongas. Whatever. Big ol’ titties.

So I present to you my top five big boobs struggles (not including thinking you have flesh eating bacteria because of crumbs in your bra, since we’ve already covered that. Probably more than you ever thought you’d read about it).

Seat belts

Seriously. If it’s not getting trapped between my boobs and awkwardly cutting into me, it’s tucked underneath making them look even more indecent, and probably not going to hold me in properly if I were to actually crash. There is no good place for it.

Necklaces

Speaking of no good place to put it, when you have big boobs, your necklace game is limited. Want to wear a great long lariat necklace? Nope, your boobs will completely eat it, and it can get totally lost. Basically looks like you’re flossing your chest. Wearing a killer layered bubble necklace? Beware – the length can create a problem, and so can the shirt you pair it with. It can easily get lost in the abyss. Exhibit A:

necklace big boobs

Massages

OK, so this one is tricky because I’m not only large chested, but I’m also a plus size girl, so getting comfortable on those tables can be a challenge, and frankly a little embarrassing at times. Luckily, I have found an amazing massage therapist who helped me figure out a solution without making me self-conscious, and she’s the first. We just double up the head pillow so when I lay on my tummy my boobs aren’t completely suffocating me. Since my head is riding higher, I can breathe, and the position totally works for me. But up until her, that was definitely something that hindered my enjoyment of massages and caused a decent amount of anxiety.

Accidentally looking provocative 

“It’s not my fault!!” This was basically my mantra in high school every time my mom would chastise me for showing too much skin. Seriously, I was just buying clothing that fit, but my high school DD’s had a way of making even plain t shirts look a lot more… adult. I can be wearing exactly the same thing as one of my smaller friends and I will look as if I’m “trying” to show off more skin. Because I have more skin. It’s a catch-22 really – I love the way I fill out so many things, but when I’m heading into an interview and the button on my shirt pops open, that’s not how I want to get the job, you know?

Bras

I know. There are endless articles out there about how to get measured properly and find the right bra no matter what size, but I have to say, I’m still searching for my unicorn. Most days it’s a battle between adjusting the shoulder straps and waiting in fear for the underwire to bust and hoping I’m wearing my glasses at the time so I don’t lose an eye. Heads up pregnant friends – no promises I won’t give your kid a black eye if the underwire gives out when I’m holding it – they have a mind of their own. At this point, I’m totally into this wireless bra from Lane Bryant – it’s missing the support of a regular bra, but DAMN it’s comfortable. That will have to be my baby holding bra. I have to protect the children.

There are other struggles to be sure, but these are the ones that top my list right now. Not that I’m complaining really – I wouldn’t trade my boobs for anything, but there are definitely days when they make things a little more challenging. And days when I think they’re trying to kill me, when in reality it’s the tortilla chips that are after me.

Want To Look “Perfect”? There’s An App For That

/ Courtney / 1 Comment

I recently discovered an app that is either the best thing ever invented or actually everything that is wrong with the world. It’s Perfect365, and IT BLEW MY MIND. I can never trust my eyes again.

By this point, we all know that the pictures in glossy magazines or on big name websites are all Photoshopped. Sometimes it’s done tastefully and they still look human, and sometimes it’s so gratuitous they end up missing a limb somewhere. But basically all mainstream images are retouched in some way, and in no way represent what “normal” looks like.

We all know this, but the internet still basically explodes anytime an untouched, potentially unflattering photo of a celebrity is leaked. We’re hungry for it. We want some proof that cellulite exists outside our own chubby asses and thighs, that wrinkles and bags under the eyes don’t discriminate. Because so much of what we see of celebrities and models is unattainable, and can have a very real impact on how people (and women in particular) feel about themselves.

I accept this, and I am constantly working to accept myself without comparison to these perfect images. As is. With my rogue chin hairs, under-eye circles, and pesky zits that didn’t get the memo that WE’RE IN OUR THIRTIES NOW, YOU CAN CHILL THE FUCK OUT.

I arm myself with the knowledge that I could look just like Scarlett Johansson or Kate Upton with the proper Photoshop expert (shut up, don’t take that away from me). I carry the knowledge that ScarJo and Kate don’t even look like the versions I see of them.

But I don’t think I had fully processed the idea that every person I follow on Instagram or see on Facebook has the tools to basically Fairy Godmother the shit out of themselves and transform into a perfectly complected, wrinkle-free, bright-eyed version of themselves. TRUST NO ONE.

Want proof? You got it.

courtney3

I posted this first picture on Facebook to show how crazy the difference was, and to make sure people were aware that this existed. I mean, I could just be living under a rock, I’m never totally sure.

In the caption I wrote that I like the original picture of myself and felt good about it, but after transforming into a wax figure version of myself, I actually kind of got sucked into liking the “perfect” version. And my friends and family (who are basically the best people in the world) jumped to reassure me I looked great in the original and that they actually preferred it.

Thanks guys. 🙂 Mission accomplished – I feel pretty and loved. But don’t worry – I wasn’t actually having a personal appearance crisis. Is that a thing? A beauty meltdown? Whatever. No, I like my face. My eyes look just like my grandmother’s. I have my mom’s smile. I have good hair. I have the best eyebrow waxer in the world. I look just fine.

I wasn’t posting the picture comparison to fish for compliments (I mean, I’ll take em, sure). No, I think this instant and easy access to “perfect” was just a little alarming to me and I needed to share.

On the one hand, I freaking love it. I can easily “fix” little issues that pop up on my face and enhance things in my pictures to make sure I look like the best version of myself. But on the other hand it’s a slippery slope, right? Where do you stop? Where do you draw the line? I’d essentially be buying into the idea that “perfect” is even possible, and at that point how can I be trusted to control myself (not my best strength to begin with)?

courtney

I am all for looking your best, and doing whatever makes you feel good. Whether it’s a full face of makeup, a string bikini, bright blue hair, whatever. Rock what you got. But turning yourself into a wax version of yourself complete with “enhanced smile” and skin so smooth you can’t even see the outline of your nose (seriously, it’s kind of missing in this picture) is going down a rabbit hole I think I want to avoid.

It’s like plucking your own eyebrows for the first time when you’re 15. Just a little at first, no big deal. But then a little more… and then you need to even it out. And then you need to make the other side match because that one looks just perfect…. and then you realize you’ve plucked half your eyebrow off and you can’t just “undo” that. You would have been better off not doing anything at all.

I can’t promise I won’t ever use this devil-app, because let’s be real – it’s kind of amazing. And if I have a big event and a gnarly zit that’s ruining my whole look I’m probably going to smooth that out in pictures. Nothing wrong with a little retouching, and if this app makes that easier, sweet.

But once I start smoothing everything and softening all my lines, and even MAKING MY EYES BIGGER, it gets a little out of hand. So I think I need to lay off using this as a regular photo editing app. Because I won’t be able to stop… I’ll just keep plucking, keep searching for that “perfect” that doesn’t exist. And while wax-doll Courtney is OK, she’s a little creepy.

courtney2

Every Body Is Worth Shopping For

/ Courtney / 2 Comments

I keep buying THINGS. Mostly clothes and shoes. Oh, and makeup.  I think it might be developing into an actual problem. I told my boyfriend last night I was going to return yet another pair of boots that didn’t quite fit, and that I was really going to try to cut down on all my online shopping in order to start saving more. Because you know, taxes. And down payments. And other boring adult things.

And yet I JUST bought a bunch of clothes online. As in, 30 seconds after I hit “purchase” I started writing this. I mean really though, it was buy one get one half off so it almost would have been irresponsible NOT to buy them now, right?? This is the warped logic I can use to convince myself of just about anything. I work in sales and I like to think of myself as a fairly persuasive person. But when it comes to myself, that shit is dangerous.

I know I need to cut back a little, but clicking and spending and buying is so much FUN. It is, you can’t deny it.

But I’m running out of room for all the things. You see, when my boyfriend moved in he got zero hanging closet space – just a consignment nightstand with 2 drawers I shoved in the back corner. That’s it. I kept the rest of the space, and even then, my stuff was overflowing.

So for the sake of our relationship, I’ve been forced to purge my closet at least twice since he moved in. As in, 4 or 5 garbage bags worth of clothes to donate to Goodwill. Not counting shoes. Seriously, I had so many clothes I needed to get rid of.

But that’s the thing when you have fluctuated in size from a 12 to a 22 in the span of about 5 years. You hold on to all those size 12’s because, come on. They are so cute. And so small. And it wasn’t THAT long ago that you fit into them.

On top of which,  you spent good money on them, and someday they’re TOTALLY going to fit again and it would just be a waste of money to re-buy everything. They’re sexy. And inspirational… and such a tease… and actually kind of soul-crushing when you start to think about it too hard and hold them up and realize that isn’t you anymore.

So you purge. But purging your skinny clothes is hard. It feels like defeat in so many ways. It feels like admitting you’re in this fat body for the long haul, and don’t believe you’ll ever get back to that size. It makes you feel so crappy about yourself that you want to sit down and eat a whole bag of Goldfish. Or is that just me?

Anyway, I purged. I said goodbye, because you know what? It was time. And I needed the closet space. And not just so my boyfriend wouldn’t have to store his clothes in the trunk of his car. But because I finally decided in the last year or so to really start shopping for my current body, and to start dressing it in things I actually liked.

I’ve always been a person who loved fashion and took a lot of care in the way I dressed, whether it was silver platform sneakers and matching metallic jacket, or the perfect maxi dress and beaded necklace. But something happened when I got to a size I didn’t like. I stopped shopping. So I literally had nothing to wear, since nothing in my closet fit me anymore.

hanging clothes

I relegated myself to yoga pants and baggy tops pretty much every day. I didn’t go out and supplement my wardrobe, didn’t get different sizes in the styles I actually liked. I had this warped idea that I should not be spending money on THIS BODY. That THIS BODY wasn’t worth anything, financially or otherwise.

That somehow, I’d magically lose the weight and be back in a body that was worthy of love, and worthy of fashion. And in the meantime, I would dress my ugly, frumpy body in ugly, frumpy clothes. And stare at my size 12 jeans and halter tops while I wept into a bowl of ice cream. (The reduced fat kind, because you know, that’s healthier.)

I almost felt like if I punished myself hard enough for being in this fat body, I might somehow shame myself into changing it. Turns out, that’s not how it works. It just starts to feel hopeless. You start to value yourself less every day.

But at some point last year, something clicked. Some part of my brain recognized I am still beautiful, that this is not the final destination on my journey, and that I deserve to decorate, celebrate and otherwise embrace myself as I am right now. Size 2, size 12 or size 22.

Part of that probably has to do with the fact that I was in a great place in my life – good job, great friends and family, and the most supportive boyfriend on the planet. I have to give Gil a lot of credit for helping me learn to love and accept myself again because he’s played a big role in it. And honestly, he still loves my body more than I do, but I’m working on it.

So I shopped. I clicked. I bought. And I remembered how fun it could be. Especially since there are a lot more plus size options available today than there were a few years ago. I filled my closet with leopard-print tops, black leggings, wide calf boots, bold print maxis, V-neck tees, fitted blazers, and SO MANY STATEMENT NECKLACES.

It didn’t feel like defeat – it felt amazing.

And then a weird thing happened. Over time, I started to like how I looked a little more. I started to feel a little better. I started to want to celebrate my body in other ways, like trying yoga for the first time. I mean obviously I’ll have to go shopping for some yoga outfits first, but I’m on the right path.

Turns out my incessant shopping has actually been an important step in the right direction for me. At that’s exactly what I’ll remind Gil every time a new package shows up at our front door.

The Unicorn Blues

/ Courtney / Leave a comment

Every now and then I’m struck with the crippling, overwhelming feeling of “not enough” or “less than.” Usually it’s relatively fleeting and can be silenced by a weekend getaway or a really good movie. Or frozen yogurt… sometimes frozen yogurt is all it takes.

And then there are those weeks when you turn 31 and you just, like, CAN’T BREATHE for a second. Which is silly because you have no gray hair or wrinkles yet, were born without a biological clock, and are actually living a pretty perfect life right now. Wait, did I say you? There’s a chance I might be talking about myself here.

So my life is pretty good, and 31 is the new 21, right? But WHY AM I NOT A PUBLISHED AUTHOR YET? HOW COME I KEEP GAINING WEIGHT INSTEAD OF LOSING IT? WHY DON’T I SPEAK MORE THAN ONE LANGUAGE?

Let’s not dwell too long on the fact that I have never attempted to write a book, have been consuming more calories than I burn, and have yet to install those “Learn French” and “Learn Italian” programs my dad bought me. BUT WHY AM I SO WOEFULLY UNACCOMPLISHED IN LIFE????

Seriously, where do those thoughts come from? By all accounts, I’m doing just dandy – better than most even, depending on how you look at it. But that’s just it – it’s about how you look at it. For whatever reason, this birthday temporarily messed up my perspective, and I seem to have misplaced my bedazzled, rose-colored glasses.

Part of the reason I’m having a harder time shaking these thoughts this time is that 31 sounds so much OLDER than 30 to me. 30 was a big deal – it was a milestone, a celebration of grandiose proportions. Seriously – I threw myself an over the top masquerade ball, complete with DJ, bartender and photo booth. And I was focused on celebrating all the positives in my life: my relationship, my career, my friends and family. And the reality is, since then, those things have gotten even better.

So why this strange melancholy over the big 3-1? Why the inability to look at things in a positive light? Honestly, I’m not sure, but I have a feeling that the multiple ankle surgeries, constant pain, and subsequent weight gain have a little to do with it.

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t had to battle some depression when my second surgery rolled around last fall. It was tough, but I made it through. And Gil and I didn’t kill each other, so that’s a real accomplishment. But all signs point to recovery (as slow as it may be), so I can’t really blame it all on that. And I can’t exactly put my finger on what else is going on, but I have some ideas.

Mainstream media would have me believe that it’s just my constant dissatisfaction as a millennial – my belief that I’m a special little unicorn and deserve more out of life somehow than just a good life. Well, I AM A SPECIAL FUCKING UNICORN. A BIG PINK ONE. AND I DO WANT MORE.

cartoon magical unicorn

If you ask me, this is not a character flaw of the millennial generation. A blatant sense of entitlement, an unwillingness to put in the legwork or the inability to be open to constructive criticism are major character flaws, but those are separate issues. The true belief that one is special and can accomplish anything is pretty damn powerful. And because we live in the age of social media, we can see the results of that power every day. I can see when every single one of my peers gets promoted (thanks LinkedIn). I know when anyone decides to travel the world (hi Facebook). I even know what they paid for their dream house (helloooo Zillow).

And I can also see this information about strangers. People my age or younger who are starting their own businesses, writing books, travelling the world, and following their dreams. These become weird, out-of-context, unattainable benchmarks. Not in small part due to the fact that I’m only seeing one very shiny version of reality on my computer screen. There is no way to keep up with that. And there’s no point either.  Comparing myself to others isn’t going to get me anywhere. Except maybe a shrink’s office for Xanax.

Using their success as an inspiration isn’t a bad idea though. I just need to adjust my perspective.

I need to track down my bedazzled, slightly smudged rose-colored glasses and look at those success stories as inspiration instead of another reason to put myself down. Instead of “not enough” I need to train myself to think “not yet” – because it IS possible whatever “it” may be. I AM A UNICORN.

Or rather, I CAN be, if I put in the time. There are more opportunities than ever to succeed and excel in ways that weren’t ever possible before. If I really want to write a book, I don’t have to get picked up by a publisher – I can self-publish and promote on social media and oversee the movie version starring Scarlett Johansson as me. Or you know, the lead character inspired by me. Whatever.  I mean, I have to WRITE the book first, but I don’t want to get too bogged down in those details.

I need to move past this destructive idea that I need to be achieving the same things I can see other people achieving on the same timeline in order to be special.

Maybe I’ll never write a book. Maybe I’ll never lose all the weight. Maybe I’ll only ever speak one language. The reality is, some days when I get home from my office job after my hour plus commute in the evenings, I am MUCH more inclined to take off my bra than take over the world. Some days bad TV and a glass of wine are going to win out over French lessons.  That’s OK. I’m already pretty special, every pound and all 31 years of me.