I log what I eat, when I eat, where I eat, how much I eat and why I eat. But here is the thing. Shhhh...sometimes I catch myself lying to the paper with my purple pen. I only had 10 pita chips, har har har. Who am I kidding? My hips don't lie...but my
I weigh myself naked after my shower, after I eat, after I shit and a million times in between. It is neatly logged on a tiny post-it on the mirror. There's no lying to the post-it. The scale is right there and she'll see you. I have graphs and charts, and they don't lie. Just me. And the damn purple pen.
I take my measurements weekly, same place, same time, same tape. Again, log, graph, analyze, cry. I look to the bathroom mirror for affirmation and conformation of the numbers on the tape. But she is the biggest liar of them all. She sometimes tells me I am beautiful and strong. I walk with an extra bounce to my step on those occasions. But alas she is a liar. I pass myself in window and am mocked by what I see, what I thought I saw in my lying bathroom mirror. For a while I don't trust her. I am diligent and strong, organizing, logging, measuring, losing. But she is like a mean girl, she sucks you in with promises of beauty, popularity and thinness. Happiness. Then she stabs you in the back. Lies, deceit and tears. Hate.
I know who does not lie. My thighs. The rub together and let me know the truth. This truth sometimes hurts too. I am surprise I do not smell bacon when I run. My stomach does not lie either. She is jiggly and jolly, buldgey and bumpy. I am glad she is happy, the rest of us are not.
Well I might be fat, but I am not
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