It’s finally happening. I’m giving my website a new look. Mind you, this is a work in progress that may take until January to finish, so please forgive the patchwork texture of the blog. I’m trying to think up a spiffy design for the entries.

You know what I’ve discovered? I’m eating more now that I’m near my health goal. Some psychotic trigger has awakened since I’ve come close to my trainer’s target dress size of 7. I did not want to become reed-thin again, I wanted to stay (as some people put it) voluptuous, just more muscularly so. I like having boobs (mine are…missing), I like having a rounded figure (it’s still round but, uhm, solidly so), and I like having my skin firmly attached to my body parts (it is kind of sagging at the elbows, knees and neck). I am happy to report that what’s left of my boobs and my derriere are no longer drooping to the floor, and that my boss hasn’t died laughing at my latest scheme to finance my full-body lift.

Right now I’m a size 9. I wouldn’t mind staying a size 9 with a lot of lean muscle mass but noooooo…Macy’s got me doing workouts aimed at a size 7. There are 20 more sessions with her before I am left to fend for myself…only 20! Yet here I am, chomping down on pizzas and burgers and pasta dishes that I wouldn’t dream of touching just a month ago!

I’ve analyzed this and think I know what’s wrong. I have a fear of success. Chortle if you want, but it sort of fits into my pattern of:
– not taking people up on their offers to employ me for more money and better working conditions,
– ditching my best boyfriends at the critical moment in our relationships,
– keeping the idiotic boyfriends even though I know we’re headed for disaster, and
– never believing the compliments I receive.

I’m going to have to work on this issue of mine — pronto. I’ve already tossed my “fat” clothes and can’t afford to buy them all back…