Remember that Pie in Sky goal I set ten years ago? The one where I wanted to lose so much weight that I would literally be half the woman I used to be?
It's funny, there's been so much other filler in my life lately that it didn't feel like all that big of a big deal. In fact, because there is so much else going on, I only mentioned it to my therapist in passing and then she had to stop me in the middle of a sentence and say WHAT THE HELL?!? That's kinda huge! I mean, this whole BRAIN-BREAKING maybe Amanda ISN'T a size 14, maybe she's a single digit thing was her fault in the first place.
So I suppose it is a big deal.
The last time I bought shirts, two out of three of them were a size SMALL.
The idea of all this breaks my brain in ways I'm not sure I'll ever be able to understand. All I know is that everyone keeps telling me I'm "skinny" and it simultaneously makes me want to break their faces in and/or kiss them on the mouth. With tongue.
There's nothing sweeter to a fat girl's ego than being called skinny. It actually turns me on to hear it. But then my inner feminist says FUCK YOU! I am not the number in the back of my pants! And I am NOT skinny. I'm just a much smaller version of Amanda.
Oddly enough, I finally feel like the real me. The photos actually match the self-portrait.
The true, deep down, authentic, ugly Amanda says yes to life and yes to magically delicious food that she prefers to prepare herself with bacon grease and things she yanked out of her back yard, but she also eats juuuuuust enough and then pushes her plate away sans regret. She knows what it means to be full. Because SHE'S full. And she can wrap her long "skinny" legs around the back of your neck and lock her feet together behind your head.
Not that she's done much of that.
When I was 30-40 pounds heavier, I filled out my skin just enough to be plump and juicy. Now I'm literally a bag of bones and skin. Don't even get me started on how Joel thinks I need to start wearing flats because heels make my legs look "too skinny." Even the kids have complained - when I lay on my back to snuggle them, my ribs and hip bones are apparently too "pokey." My once-ripe breasts now hang like willow branches atop my ribs and GOOD LUCK finding my nipples when I lay on my back! I can't even chase them down myself.
I have never felt this good about my body, nor looked worse naked. I have the libido of a 14-year old boy and the skin of an 80-year old woman. I LOVE my body, but no amount of exercise is going to make up for the missing half of my former self.
And that's what terrifies me most. Somehow, being this size and weight means beautiful George Clooney look-a-likes want to wine and dine me. They want to buy me dinner and make out with me in the back of their Maserati's. (True story.) (Whose life is this?!?!)
But sex? Nudity?
Sweet merciful baby Jesus on a pogo stick! I. am. not. ready.
Don't get me wrong, I'm all in. I will say yes. But the next few months are going to be the PEAK SEASON of my thriving on discomfort policy. I am going to experience some white-hot, steel-toed rejection. This chapter will require a level of personal vulnerability that I can't yet begin to fathom.
So I'm trying to give myself the benefit of the doubt, the same one I happily extend to everyone I meet...
My life has been painful and twisted in ways I've only just begun to understand. And my skin - all of it - is the way I wear that history on my body for everyone to see. I'm like a burn victim - permanently scarred. My skin tells the story of how I survived a jump out of the 20th floor window of a burning building and how much braver/stronger/better I am for it. I'm trying to embrace the fact that the ugliness of my story makes me MORE beautiful, not less.
But much like my next two novels, I'm only a work in progress.
My only promise is to click PUBLISH when I'm done.