I stopped tracking my weight loss progress because I felt like I was too enamored with with results and not putting in enough effort to get those results.
I woke up this morning, well, afternoon… Tomato tomahto, and I decided to try on this dress that I’ve had in my closet for years. On several occasions I was supposed to wear this dress, but my body would not fit in it, and if it did, the zipper would not yield to my direction and go up.
I was prepared to face defeat once again as I tried on the dress, shimmying my rump into the fabric. As I zipped myself up, thinking “Here we go again” I realized that the zipper had yet to stick.
And then I was in it.
After years of not being able to get into the damned thing, it went on with far too much ease. For a moment, I assumed I was still dreaming, until my grandmother walked in and Told me that If I bent over it would probably fall apart. There is probably some truth to that. While I did fit into the dress, I feared that the right deep breath or the odd position would unravel the entire thing.
BUT DAMN DID I FEEL GOOD GETTING INTO IT!
So, I count this is as progress. I hope that one day I can wear it and bend over and nothing happens.
Till then, I’lll continue with my walks, runs, and other fitness routines. Fitting into this dress is but one goal accomplished. Until I have abs, then I have not reached my goal.
Peace and WOOHOO to me!
So, after reading “The Complete Guide to Not giving a fuck” two weeks ago, I decided to step out of my shell a little ( I posted it for everyone to read).
I showed up to auditions for my University’s fashion show, but honestly, I only had intentions to work backstage. The head of Student activities (and my past boss) suggested that I put my height (5’10 – 5’11) to use and take part in the show….and she also said only losers worked backstage. How rude. But regardless, under normal circumstances I would have ignored her completely, huffed at the statement, and not try out at all. However, I decided to give it a go.
I can’t walk in heels.
Or rather, I never owned heels and never had a reason to walk in them.
But…Oh well. Who cares. I’ve seen people look like an utter mess in heels and they still give it a go so why shouldn’t I? I threw all fucks to the side and did it.
I’m coming out! I want the world to know, gonna let it show! *strut, strut*
I bought a new pair of heels and I’m gonna practice the hell out them. It’s not about the walk. It’s the confidence. I think
that’s my largest flaw. But, I’ve grown so tired of feeling like I’m under the bridge compared to others. Worst of all, I’m almost 6’3 in these shoes. It’s a long way down if I happen to trip and fall and may the lord have mercy on my ankles. Still, I made a commitment and I am going to see it through until I either break a leg or get the boot.
Until then, I’ll be strutting these long legs around for the world to see.
The Curling iron, one of the many tools females use to bedazzle their hair (real or fake) to desired styles. But what really is a curling iron? Where did it come from? Clearly the tool is a weapon from hell used to scorch the scalp or any other body parts you may have mistakenly touched by accident. Ie. My forehead and fingers this morning.
I’ve been on this “Keep Self Kept” program that I made for myself. I started on Monday and the idea is to keep myself looking decent for the year. Meaning, I would be putting effort into getting dressed even if it’s just casual and breaking up with my long time lover “The dry pony tail.” And by dry, I mean I use to just put my hair in an elastic band and go out the door. No combing, nothing, just like that.
So I’ve been playing with the curling iron lately and let me tell you, it looks so simple but what a deceitful little instrument it is. It’s much more difficult than I thought it would be. I cannot count the amount of times I had to redo what I was doing because it simply did not curl the way I wanted it. Oh! And let’s not forget that I burned my scalp several times and my poor fingers had the unfortunate pleasure of touching the iron while in the midst of curling. I had to walk out of the room and take a breath and remind myself that A) Cursing the thing would be pointless because it couldn’t understand me, although I swore I saw it smile whenever it burned me and B)If I broke it, I’d be both ruining my goal and then I’d have to replace it and I would like to avoid frivolously spending money (that I don’t have).
So I managed the basics. Curl my bang and my hair even though it looks so flat and boring, but it’s not so bad. With some more practice I should get it down.
I’ll upload a picture later of the final look later, but that’s it today for my Curling Iron Chronicles.
I’m not much of a girly girl at all.
Now and again I may break out in a moment where I do the hair thing and the makeup (cough not really cough), but I really just can’t get into it like a lot of my friends. I’m not into keeping up with the latest fashion, I don’t care about style. I just want to be comfortable. I prefer T-shirts 3 times my size and hoodies and I love jeans. Most of the time I’m not even wearing clothes. I’ll be damned if I have to be fully clothed in my own home. I don’t do my hair often and I wear a durag on my head most of the time or I’m rocking the ponytail to its death. Shoe wise? My biggest problem comes in the form of the devil’s ultimate creation.
I hate those things. Mostly because I can’t walk in them and I can’t walk in them because I had no practice and I had no practice because I never had to wear them! I wasn’t pressured into wearing them. I didn’t have the type of friends that cared about things like that, and my family isn’t one of those families that care about them either. I like my sneakers and sandals. Why would I want to wear Heels, only to have them on for 10 minutes and have to change out of them into sandals anyways because my feet start to hurt? That just seems stupid.
However, lately, I feel like less of a woman because of it.
I look at pictures of everyone else going out and they look so lovely in them and then I look down at my feet and feel so ashamed. I mean, I have awesome legs, it comes with being damn near 6ft tall, so why not show them off? But at the same time I don’t want to embarrass myself and fall flat on my face trying to impress the masses who probably don’t give a damn anyways.
Curse my unstable equilibrium.
I do have some friends who try to get me to wear them and I wish they would understand that they are outside of my comfort zone and maybe they should just leave me alone until I am ready to wear them myself. Forcing me to do it will make me just run from them more. So It may make me a social pariah in the community of women, but that’s okay.
Some of them are really pretty though. I’m tempted on many occasions to buy some and practice walking in them. They do make me feel a lot sexier.
But On the other hand I like to think about it this way.
While They may look better than me wearing them, should there come a time when a derange psychopath chases us on a night out and they’re busy getting out of their shoes, I’ll be hauling ass down the stretch in my slippers.