I woke up with a horrible case of the meanies. All I want to do is lash out and destroy things. And cry. Maybe. I can’t tell. I only know that I am so very thankful that I am single when these few and far between moods hit. I think if anything, or anyone had been in my way this morning I would have hit them with a loaded bat, and then run them over. Maybe even backing up once or twice before breathing a sigh of relief and moving on.
Prison attire just isn’t my thing, you know?
The very first time I recall this mood was at about 9 years old. I had a love/hate relationship with this doll and written about it before. That’s how strong the memory sticks. The doll was Velvet; silvery blond hair, and violet eyes. She was supposed to have this gleaming shiny long hair that you could extend in length by pushing her belly button, or shorten by winding the knob on her back. I loved that doll, but her hair soon turned coarse and frizzy for reasons I honestly did not understand. I don’t recall treating her bad. My cousin had her counterpart Chrissy, and her hair was never frizzy. In retrospect I think the fibers of the hair were very different, because I’ve seen many a fuzzy haired Velvet over time.
One morning when the meanies hit, I had a hold of Velvet and was trying to tame that coarse mane of hers, I completely lost it and threw her across the room. I mean I grabbed her by her fuzzy long hair and chucked her. And I chucked her again. It felt good momentarily. Did Velvet cause the meanies, or was she the victim of them?
I suspect both.
Today there is no Velvet doll. I know realistically I cannot run someone over. I did flash my lights at an asshole who got in the fast lane of a two lane highway and decided to go the speed limit on my way to work. That could have happened on a regular day though. I know the mood is just the right ingredients falling together that create a perfect storm emotionally. The frustration drills down, leaving me ultimately feeling like Stuart Smalley. I am pissed this cleanse cost me so much money and doesn’t seem to be doing shit for me. Pun intended. I feel taken, and unable to do anything about it. Then I feel like “Why doesn’t this stuff ever work for me?” and that drills down to making it all about me and the “I am hopeless” sets in and there sits Stuart Smalley, in a corner with tears.
The fact is, I hate dieting with a passion. I become absolutely obsessed with it, and unless you too are obsessed with your own diet, I imagine I am an absolute and complete bore to be around. I can only discuss calories, and fat grams, and how likely I would be to commit espionage for a slice of pan pizza with extra cheese & pepperoni about now. I lamented to a friend last night about my unstopping desire to consume vast quantities of pizza and she messaged me back last night to “just stop thinking about it.” I think had she been within the vicinity I would have ripped her head off.
While everyone else in my cleanse and workout group is sliding into acceptance and feeling great about their bodies, I step on the scale and see I have barely squeaked four pounds off in the last 7 days. 4 pounds might seem a lot to some, but I have drank the equivalent of a baby elephant in water and water weight alone should have tipped me over a 4 lb mark. I peed so much last week, and subsequently washed my hands so much, that my fingertips are peeling off. Add in the exercise and weight training and there you go. Plus no joke when I say barely 4 pounds.
I’m frustrated that I can’t lose the weight and I feel like I set up this unrealistic goal, and I hate working out and my mouth wants something other than fowl, vegetable, or brown rice. I cheated last night. Sort of. I cheated on the cleanse because I think I knew I was over it — but technically not on the diet (I told you I was obsessive about calorie counting). I laid out six of the most perfect large, unblemished, unbroken, Lays potato chips ever. It probably looked a little crazy to the outside observer. I calculated the calories and quickly added them into my Fit Pal. And I savored those babies like I was eating on death row. And then I ate my bland turkey burger.
I don’t know if the meanies would be here if I weren’t dieting. Like I said they’ve been popping in and out of my life since I was small. Maybe it’s a built up pool of frustration, that is triggered by something like frizzy doll hair, or a lack of cheese. I had really really hoped for something more. I had hoped for something more on the cleanse, and on the diet. Maybe it’s unrealistic.
Today I am punishing the cleanse. “I’ll show you!” as I shake my fat little fist at it. (My grandmother called this cutting off your nose to spite your face) I am not taking the probiotics, or drinking the fiber drink. To be truthful, I actually didn’t do that yesterday either, but that was accidental combined with bad timing. Today it was deliberate. I’m just sort of over it. It’s great for some, but not me. I will stick with the diet though. I sort of like the punishment in a very masochistic way. Plus I have a smaller goal I will fucking meet. I’m just that determined.