My biggest PQ mistake

I made several big PQ (Pre Quarantine. Sorry. You absolutely knew that) mistakes.

I didn’t get a hair cut (on any part of my body…). I did get my dog’s hair cut (on the wrong part of his body…). I didn’t book a one-way ticket to Singapore. I did finish the entire season of Next In Fashion, too fast. I didn’t get 75 library books. I did get both dry and sweet Vermouth.

But none of those compare to my greatest err. The thing I did knowing oh-so-dangerously-well that I should. not. do. it.

I weighed myself.

I, like, 99% of American women, have body image issues. I have a healthy, pretty fit, fine-sized body. I find it too big, no fit enough and generally don’t give a shit about its health. Of this, I am not proud. So not proud that, of this, I have never before written.

See there is body shame. You don’t love your body because the world tells you not to.

Then there is shame around body shame. You feel like shit for not loving your body even though the world tells you not to because those Dove ads told you it’s beautiful.

Then there is shame around the shame for your body shame. You feel like shit for judging yourself for not loving your body despite the Dove ads because this is all a total waste of what’s truly important, your brain.

Then there is fear of discussing the shame around the shame for your body shame. Because how dare you when other people are a, b, c, d-ying of a pandemic.

If you get this then you GET THIS. If you don’t then you are so lucky to have been raised in that secret cult whose leader was the ghost of Mae West. Or you’re a straight man (fine, without body image issues. I know they known no gender bounds).

But it gets worse.

I weighed myself and the weight was one of those numbers that sits infuriatingly in the middle of phew, you’ve got some wiggle room, eat the bagel! and oh wow, if you don’t eat the bagel (or anything like it for the rest of this quarantine) you could get down to the number you always want to see.

You know that fucking number.

So now the battle is on: I want to ignore the number and “win” my life but also beat the number and “win” my Quarantine. I want to throw away the scale and accept my beautiful self but also weigh myself every day and only drink wine on the weekends. I want to care but not care. I want to eat everything (that is a carb) and nothing (that’s going to make me gain weight).

And as a result I. am. livid.

At what? Two very specific things that leave me feeling like I’m stuck in a racket ball court of shit thoughts. The players: Donald Trump and Mitch McConnell (felt best to pick the two people I currently hate most).

Team Trump represents my own brain. Right now, I hate it. It’s doing me wrong. Selling me out! I’m smarter than this shit. I’ve read Lindy West and many of the writers on body positivity that came before her but were not nearly as good. I’ve been to Italy and many of the other countries in Europe where people are celebrated for being different sizes. I worked at the ad agency that made those Dove ads! Why can’t my brain take all that in and ignore the stuff that’s still trying to sell me I’m wrong (that is not a typo).

Because of Team McConnell.

He represents the past, present and future of messaging around women’s bodies (like A Christmas Carole except Tiny Tim is Tina and she dies of anorexia). And - much in the manner that Mitch runs this country - the messaging is stealth, savvy and doesn’t give a shit about women. So as much as I want to out wit, out smart and out play it (I fear I’ve just quoted Survivor? ), I can’t. It’s bigger and badder and richer than me. And it’s willing to break all the rules.

So what do I do? PQ it depended on the day/week/month. Sometimes I’d get into an I’d rather be strong than thin phase. Then there are months if not years at a time that I'm only living once, and not going to miss out on the food I love! Depending on who is getting married and what I’m choosing/required to wear to it I might decide everything is healthier at my lower weight. Sorry but it’s medical. I just feel better in every way at that number, ok?

You know. You have your own internal monologue that you feel required to tell people when they say you look great what are you doing? or ugh, a salad? You’re being so good. I’m a monster (that is a direct quote).

But I find it even tricker right now. Don’t you?

I find that because there’s no where to go physically, there’s no where to go mentally. I find that I crave certain foods for comfort. I find that I’m hungry in unusual ways at unusual times. I find all this logical and understandable and when my kind brain can get a word in edgewise (Team Warren, obvs), I feel great compassion for myself. Then I go on the ‘gram.

30 Days To Concave Abs! A 15-minute Total Body Work Out You Can Do With 17 Soup Cans and a Spare Tire! Make the Delicious Bread You Crave But With Tears Instead of Butter!

You may know that for many years I kept a blog about life outside of quarantine (aka life). In it I sometimes covered tricky topics, but I rarely if ever wrote without some form of resolution. I never ever said sorry if you thought this was all going to end in a helpful answer. I don’t have one. Good Day, Sir! (name that perfect movie)

I was, I think, too afraid to be that woman. The woman that answers the you look great what are you doing? question with eating way less than I should every day! Help! or responds to the ugh, a salad? You’re being so good. I’m a monster line by screaming NEVER COMMENT ON MY ORDER AGAIN. NEVER COMMENT ON ANYONE’S ORDER. YOU ARE A MONSTER!

But I must confess: it feels good to be that woman. This woman. It feels good to say I’ve been thinking too much about my body and what I put in it right now. It feels really good to ask, how about you?

It feels so good that I’m suddenly feeling a little more relaxed than I’ve felt all day. So relaxed, in fact, that think I might go lie-down and take a little nap.

Maybe - after reading this - you will too.

Good day, madam.