I have a problem. A big one. A BIG one, if you catch my drift.
I am too big. Chubby, to put it gently. (I don’t like to be too hard on myself. More on that later.)
After conducting zero lots of research, I have not been able to conclude the title for my exact issue. Perhaps there is no name for it.
It’s just that serious.
But I have come up with my own very scientific name for it. No, seriously.
Reverse Body Dis-morphia
(Not to be confused with RBD. Just because I married a Mexican doesn’t mean I am obsessed with all things Mexican. God. Don’t be a racist. Alright, so he’s Mexican-American. Still, racism isn’t cool. And still, my recently discovered illness is nothing to joke about.)
So here is my self-diagnosed medical issue: I’m really hot.
In my head.
You can see how this would be a problem, I’m sure.
No, Annie, that old man doesn’t want to hold your hand. He was just looking for some change.
The young Jersey Shore-type who asked for directions? He was genuinely lost, dummy.
The married guy who keeps looking over at you and smiling? Oh, wait, he is actually just a scumbag. But a scumbag who thinks you’re a hottie! Go Annie!
Dammit. His wife was right next to me…smiling back at him.
Living with RBD can be humiliating. Degrading.
Mostly, it’s just incredible awkward.
Every morning, I wake up, look down at my super skinny toes and think, “Damnnnnnn, Annie! You still got it! Have you been working out lately? Starving yourself? Xenadrine? Triathlons? You should treat yourself and eat whateeeever you want today.”
And then I do. I eat like a damn trucker all day. (Clearly you can see how upset all of this makes me. I never cuss on my blog and I have used the horribly offensive ‘damn’ in all it’s glory like 7 times already in this post.)
But without fail. Without fail. There is a moment in my day where I catch a glimpse of myself in a store window as I pass. Or a bathroom mirror at work. Or, the worst one, a photo someone just took of me and is showing me briefly in order to get my ‘okay’ on it.
They never do.
Because every time I see an honest image of my current “status,” I cringe. I want to cry. I feel defeated.
Um, do you mind erasing that one. I don’t look like myself in it. It’s really not the most flattering angle. Thanks.
What I really feel like saying is, Oh my God! What happened to me?! Who is that person?! Sure, you can use that picture. Fine. But do you possibly have $30,000 you could give me so that I can have some full body liposuction done? Or at least pay my bills so that I can take a month off and hire a personal chef and trainer and focus solely on my weight? Thanks. You’re a pal.
Because the image that confronts me in any photo of me in the past few years does not match the image of myself that I see in my mind.
Not even close.
So, I’ve got to stop taking it so easy on myself. Losing 3 pounds doesn’t mean I can then eat pizza and drink beer. I still have a loooong way to go before I am back at a healthy weight. I can’t reward myself for every pound I lose because every ‘reward’ puts 3 pounds back on.
At least I have finally diagnosed my problem.
Now I just need to find the cure…