It’s 8 a.m. I’m awake and have been since 6. I’m almost caffeinated. The puppy is sleeping under my chair. The cats are… somewhere. My man’s probably dozing at his desk. It’s on its way to being a gorgeous day outside. My flowers outside made it through the frosts as of late (frost? It’s May fercryinoutloud!). I’m thinking while the puppy is sleeping I’ll work on my novel. But first, a bit of self-loathing.

I’m a traitor. Not the right word, but it will suffice. I’m a scrawny bitch that sees fat rolls. I wander down the diet aisle of Target/Walmart/Kmart/wherever and tell myself it’s not financially sound to buy whatever gimick is on the shelves, that most women would beat me senseless for standing here, that I don’t need this shit. I have a bottle of metabo-something sitting on the counter in the kitchen. I think of it, but don’t take it consistently. I think MB thinks I’m nuts for buying this crap. My sloth keeps me from being too religious about this stuff, but my tummy reminds me every time wear a tight shirt or look down in the shower that hi, I’m still here and there’s at least three places within six blocks I can by a bag of Doritos. To my left at my desk here is the box of chocolate graham crackers. I’m fairly sure the last sleeve is now stale since I didn’t put them away the other day, but I certainly annihilated most of them. All that’s left of the ice cream sammiches is a piece of the box that got ripped off somehow. I desperately want a snack and am thankful that we usually don’t keep such items in the apartment unless we’re having company over.

When I graduated from grad school 5 years ago, I was a 4. Now I’m an 8 — I know, I know. I stepped on a friend’s scale not too long ago to tease/torture myself and nearly passed out when I saw the number. For my height, it’s healthy. I don’t know where all those pounds are hiding, but I suspect they’re in the GBT region — that’s Gut, Butt, and Thighs for those playing along at home. I was blessed with hips like battleships and a genetic line that says in the next ten years or so I’ll resemble a pear or some other unflattering fruit. I’m already thinking of what I’ll look like post-children and they’re not even on my radar yet.

I have body issues. I stand there in the diet aisle wondering if anyone saw me enter it, and if they did, are they judging me: “What the hell is she doing there? She’s a skinny bitch, she doesn’t need that crap.” Et cetera ad nauseum. I don’t calorie count, I don’t pay too much attention to fat content. I have a couple workout DVDs and only use one maybe twice a month, if that. I have the ambition of a slug and the paranoia of a tweenie. All I can think about is being able to fit into my wedding dress that I haven’t even bought yet and worrying that my weight will fluctuate too much for me to afford alterations.

To add insult to injury, I’m starting to gray. Not in large chunks, just a stray strand here and there, reminding me that even though I’m routinely mistaken for a college student I’m still far beyond that stage in life. In fact, just yesterday a couple people were shocked that I teach at a college rather than attend it. No, I’m not 19, I’m 28. 30 minus 2. The math is simple.

I didn’t think I’d be a body conscious person. Yet, here I am, skinny complaining bitch who’s afraid of her thighs.

Now back to your regularly scheduled blogging…