Glorious morning! Can anything be half as exhilarating as setting goals and keeping them? I mean self-improvement, changeyour-whole-lifestyle goals. No, nothing compares to it. For seven whole days, I’ve checked every square on my list. It feels so good to feel good.
I was sorry to hear that my parents’ neighbor lost his wife a few weeks ago. But I felt especially blessed when he generously gave me many of her beautiful clothes. Not only were they my favorite colors, they were the most flattering styles for me. What a thrill to have stylish and pretty clothes to wear, even to work in around the house. I had been wearing ugly old rags — and hating it!
There are two reasons I had no decent clothes. One, we are devastatingly broke at the moment. Two, it’s a nightmare to go clothes shopping when a size twenty-four-and-a-half is small on me. A horrible nightmare!
Picture it: There I am —desperately looking for the perfect dress. You know, the one that will make me look fifty pounds thinner. Suddenly, a beam of light seems to come from the heavens and illuminate it: the Thinning Dress. It’s gorgeous. I’ll look like a dream in it. If only it’s big enough. Let’s see… yessss! It’s a size twenty-six-and-a-half. It should fit. Just look at that darling little belted waist. Oh, please, let it look as good on me as it does draping elegantly on the hanger.
I joyously go into the dressing room, almost dancing. I hang up my “perfect dress,” my eyes caressing it one last time before I undo the cute little belt. And that is my undoing, too!
Volumes of material burst out the instant that belt is loosened. My cute, sexy, waisted dress becomes a protective covering for an armored tank. The folds just keep unfolding. I barely have the courage to try it on. Oh, gag! I look like a tank in it. I take it off fast, before the picture of my fat reflection in the mirror becomes indelibly etched into my brain.
I feel fatter than ever. I hate shopping. I hate the dress. I hate life. I hate Allen at that moment, and he’s not even there! I detest me. I can barely leave the dressing room without bawling. I can scarcely stumble out of the store and get into my car without screaming. I gasp with self-inflicted pain and misery as I drive—not home or to a spa—but to a (yes, folks, you guessed it!) convenience store! I pick up dozens of goodies. (Why not? I saved a lot of money by not buying that dress.) I drive home in a fury, all the time munching away. I march into my room, lock the door, turn on the TV, and sink into the oblivion of chocolate and fantasy once more.
Being out of control in any area of life can be frustrating and depressing. I have discovered that striving for and achieving even a small degree of self-control is the most precious gift I can give myself. I mean, it even beats a ten-pound box of chocolates!
I tell you, when I lose another ninety pounds, shopping will hold the enchantment for me that Disneyland holds for a child. But for now, shopping is incredibly depressing. I could write a whole book on the absurdity of fat-lady clothes. But to be brief: shoulder pads, hip ruffles, short sleeves, belts, horizontal stripes, pedal pushers, and hem lengths that hit me in the fat of my calf— I don’t need at this weight. And neither does one other person who wears size twenty or larger! (For once in the history of the world, are you listening, all you fat-girl clothes designers out there? Pay attention!)