Yesterday I was given a picture of Geekster and me which was taken at a wedding in late August. It's a nice picture and one that is now on my fridge for me to smile at as I hurriedly prepare meals at least one family member will loudly decline with a grossed out look on his face (It varies as to who will make said face, which makes it somewhat exciting. Kind of like a lottery, or bingo.)
What I immediately noticed - and what shocked me more than anything - is how big I am in the picture. And I'm not a fat-hater - really I'm not. I've been overweight most of my life. In that time, I've been a healthier fatty and an unhealthier fatty. I don't think being skinny necessarily equals health, just as being un-skinny doesn't necessarily mean one's heart is going to explode in a mess of Cheetos. But in this particular picture, I realized just how sick I look; the bad kind of overweight. The bloated, tired, sluggish kind of fat. I was a few weeks away from hitting the proverbial wall and desperately attempting something that would end up changing everything for me. But at that time, I just felt like ass.
Liking this photo - and having it on the fridge for all to see - is a big step for me. Generally speaking, I hate pictures of myself. I loathe, despise, am disturbed by pictures of me. Ironically, this means I take a lot of them (more on that in a bit). You'd think that years of being tagged in sometimes less-than-perfect poses on social networking sites would make me more accepting of myself. Sadly, not so. I'm a girl, after all, and I have self-esteem issues. They're a lot better than they were ten - or even five - years ago, but there's still that nagging voice in my head that likes to tell me I'm far uglier than you.
The big difference yesterday, however, was not only that I liked a photo of me at one of my heaviest weights, but that it was the first time Geekster and I really saw how far I've come in the last three months of gluten-free eating and, more recently, natural adrenal gland support. The first thing I did, after picking my jaw up off the floor, was drag my hubby over to the camera and snap a current picture of the two of us to compare it to:
Not too shabby, right? I should of gazed in amazement, made it my Facebook profile picture and stopped there.
But you know I didn't.
I'm an addict. Most of my addictions haven't been exercised in several years. However, there are a few - like chocolate and caffeine, for example - that I drag out to a dirty motel and make sweet love to whenever the mood strikes. But there is another nasty habit that I simply can't stop doing once I get started. It's so bad that I keep checking for hair on my palms for days afterwards. While less frequent a guest star in my situational sitcom than the aforementioned yummy food, it still likes to come out and play every month or so: taking pictures.
Now, as I mentioned before, I'm not too keen on Maven photos. Self-esteem issues = a fear of flashes and full-length mirrors. When I take pictures of myself, I generally snap a few dozen, then dig through them until I find one that doesn't want to make me want to eat a bucket of ice cream. Sometimes I get one - and furiously edit out everything I possibly can until it looks passable enough to share - and sometimes I dislike every single one and await the little black rain cloud that will follow me for the rest of the day.
But something happened yesterday. I actually liked the pictures I took.
I mean, sort of.
I liked the difference I could see in my eyes, my skin, my shrinking double chin. There was just one problem: the hair. I'm long overdue for a hair cut and the coif wasn't cooperating. Observe:
In this picture, I'm trying to show myself the difference between August and January. But I have a scarf on, and my hair is different, so I figured I should probably let the hair down and get my neck naked. It was all downhill from there.
Alright, not too bad. Angled shots are funky and make me look like I'm not aging from stress far too quickly as a stay-at-home-mom. Smile's good, not too much shine or makeup. But, um... The hair is kind of plain. I should probably try doing something with it, so I attempt to give it a little bit more body with my fingers...
Anyone read Dilbert cartoons? I do because my doppleganger is regularly featured. Alice is one of Dilbert's coworkers. And when I don't get a haircut, I look just like her (this is not a good thing):
There is bird watchers' club in my neighbourhood, and I may just invite them over to have a look at whatever just made a home behind my neck.
I was getting desperate. It was tussle time. Let the hair go a little wild and crazy, like a supermodel's. Yes, I could be a supermodel! So that's exactly what I did.
Dear god. All I need is a pair of fishnets and a sign with numbers and this could be a mugshot. Note to self: supermodel hair is styled to look messy. This looks more like I'm trying to find my missing pipe.
The whole ridiculous attempt at boosting my own ego made me laugh. Did you catch that? It made me laugh instead of cry. How cool is that? I'm thirty-four and I finally find this vain excursion hilarious. That's growth. Growth as I shrink. Ironic, isn't it?
And then, finally, unexpectedly, the picture. I like this picture. It's not edited. It's not posed. It was effortless, and it was what I needed to see after all that (hot) mess:
I'm getting healthy. It looks good. It feels amazing. And I'm going to keep documenting it every so often so I can remind myself of how far I've come.
I deserve that for all the bagels I'm giving up.
 |
| August 2010 |
What I immediately noticed - and what shocked me more than anything - is how big I am in the picture. And I'm not a fat-hater - really I'm not. I've been overweight most of my life. In that time, I've been a healthier fatty and an unhealthier fatty. I don't think being skinny necessarily equals health, just as being un-skinny doesn't necessarily mean one's heart is going to explode in a mess of Cheetos. But in this particular picture, I realized just how sick I look; the bad kind of overweight. The bloated, tired, sluggish kind of fat. I was a few weeks away from hitting the proverbial wall and desperately attempting something that would end up changing everything for me. But at that time, I just felt like ass.
Liking this photo - and having it on the fridge for all to see - is a big step for me. Generally speaking, I hate pictures of myself. I loathe, despise, am disturbed by pictures of me. Ironically, this means I take a lot of them (more on that in a bit). You'd think that years of being tagged in sometimes less-than-perfect poses on social networking sites would make me more accepting of myself. Sadly, not so. I'm a girl, after all, and I have self-esteem issues. They're a lot better than they were ten - or even five - years ago, but there's still that nagging voice in my head that likes to tell me I'm far uglier than you.
The big difference yesterday, however, was not only that I liked a photo of me at one of my heaviest weights, but that it was the first time Geekster and I really saw how far I've come in the last three months of gluten-free eating and, more recently, natural adrenal gland support. The first thing I did, after picking my jaw up off the floor, was drag my hubby over to the camera and snap a current picture of the two of us to compare it to:
 |
| January 2011 |
Not too shabby, right? I should of gazed in amazement, made it my Facebook profile picture and stopped there.
But you know I didn't.
I'm an addict. Most of my addictions haven't been exercised in several years. However, there are a few - like chocolate and caffeine, for example - that I drag out to a dirty motel and make sweet love to whenever the mood strikes. But there is another nasty habit that I simply can't stop doing once I get started. It's so bad that I keep checking for hair on my palms for days afterwards. While less frequent a guest star in my situational sitcom than the aforementioned yummy food, it still likes to come out and play every month or so: taking pictures.
Now, as I mentioned before, I'm not too keen on Maven photos. Self-esteem issues = a fear of flashes and full-length mirrors. When I take pictures of myself, I generally snap a few dozen, then dig through them until I find one that doesn't want to make me want to eat a bucket of ice cream. Sometimes I get one - and furiously edit out everything I possibly can until it looks passable enough to share - and sometimes I dislike every single one and await the little black rain cloud that will follow me for the rest of the day.
But something happened yesterday. I actually liked the pictures I took.
I mean, sort of.
I liked the difference I could see in my eyes, my skin, my shrinking double chin. There was just one problem: the hair. I'm long overdue for a hair cut and the coif wasn't cooperating. Observe:
In this picture, I'm trying to show myself the difference between August and January. But I have a scarf on, and my hair is different, so I figured I should probably let the hair down and get my neck naked. It was all downhill from there.
Alright, not too bad. Angled shots are funky and make me look like I'm not aging from stress far too quickly as a stay-at-home-mom. Smile's good, not too much shine or makeup. But, um... The hair is kind of plain. I should probably try doing something with it, so I attempt to give it a little bit more body with my fingers...
Anyone read Dilbert cartoons? I do because my doppleganger is regularly featured. Alice is one of Dilbert's coworkers. And when I don't get a haircut, I look just like her (this is not a good thing):
 |
| Alice and I even think alike |
Next, I tried ridding myself of the Alice 'do by holding my hair up, all cute-like:
There is bird watchers' club in my neighbourhood, and I may just invite them over to have a look at whatever just made a home behind my neck.
I was getting desperate. It was tussle time. Let the hair go a little wild and crazy, like a supermodel's. Yes, I could be a supermodel! So that's exactly what I did.
 |
| Canada's Next Top Inmate |
Dear god. All I need is a pair of fishnets and a sign with numbers and this could be a mugshot. Note to self: supermodel hair is styled to look messy. This looks more like I'm trying to find my missing pipe.
The whole ridiculous attempt at boosting my own ego made me laugh. Did you catch that? It made me laugh instead of cry. How cool is that? I'm thirty-four and I finally find this vain excursion hilarious. That's growth. Growth as I shrink. Ironic, isn't it?
And then, finally, unexpectedly, the picture. I like this picture. It's not edited. It's not posed. It was effortless, and it was what I needed to see after all that (hot) mess:
I'm getting healthy. It looks good. It feels amazing. And I'm going to keep documenting it every so often so I can remind myself of how far I've come.
I deserve that for all the bagels I'm giving up.