I’ve lost weight. I always do when working a season: extremely busy days and lack of motivation for eating once I’ve cooked it, combine to make me a grazer rather than a sit down diner.
I know I’ve lost a lot of weight (but I don’t know how much because I don’t weigh myself ever) because people are commenting on it. People obviously think that I should be pleased that they have noticed but, frankly, I don’t give a damn. My husband tells me I look really good like this but he loves me fatter as well: our affection for each other is based on the person inside, not their exterior facade.
Instead of being gratified by downsizing of clothes, I am merely irritated. There is way too much choice available to me and I can’t decide on any of it. My work stuff has to be belted tight to hold up; even so I felt a pair of knickers slide towards my ankles recently.
Fat girl had a uniform and didn’t have to decide. No mental energy expended here. I don’t want to have to think about whether or not a garment flatters my body or makes me look younger or more sophisticated or more glamorous. A lot of unnecessary angst for an appearance that doesn’t make any difference to my life.
If I was totally honest, I would admit to not liking the changes occurring as a result of weight loss. Skin is saggier and less inclined to display honestly obtained muscles. Taut, toned skin is a thing of the past these days. I can never work hard enough to tighten up the stretched out skin legacy of my pregnancies and my piggishness. I miss the ripe luscious feel that my body used to have.