Birthday Suit

Sooooo as it turns out, I’m full of crap.
That’s part of the beauty and part of the bane of trying to be an open book. Everynow and then them old pages that were nice and stuck together crack apart to show you the gross dead bug it used to keep nice and hidden.

Last night, my dead bug came out to play.

ick

So realizing that my birthday was coming up and that I wasn’t excited, I decided to take a long hard look at myself. Because honestly, people don’t get a whole lot more Birthday-y than this gal.

Okay, maybe she does

Normally I’m the girl who is one bulb short of a whole marquee, lights ablaze with a 2 week countdown to my Big Day. I straight up lost my mind for my 30th, claiming the ENTIRE month as mine and demanding the world recognize it as such. Only my husband played along, but that was fine. My enthusiasm is so powerful, it keeps its own company.

So when, a mere two years later, I realise I am looking at my birthday as just another day, with perhaps a cookie or cake I must stop and ask myself why. How did the Birthday goddess (which btdubs is totes one of the meanings of my name) fall into such a pedestrian view of her birthday?

And with that question, out came the gross, squished bug of my own hypocrisy.

Ok fine, MAYBE it’s true that part of the low-key vibe comes from my current health crisis. We still don’t know what’s going on with me, causing my blood sugar readings to be so wild that I can go from sky high to coma-low in the space of an hour. Less than a week ago, I lay on the couch with a really high reading. Too distressed and weak to do much more than lay there with a pounding headache, I tried not to imagine I was actually dying. One hour later, I realised it had become physically impossible to move and I felt like I was under water. I barely managed to mumble that I needed my test kit, which showed that in the space of an hour, without any additional medication, with NO explanation, my blood sugar had plummeted to dangerous lows. If I had gone to bed an hour earlier, I could have easily entered into a coma. Without intervention I could have died. Right there in my ‘sleep’. Because diabetic comas sometimes just look like sleep. I clutched the emergency juice my husband brought me and wept.

That was just one of the actual crisis moments I’ve endured in this season of What The Heck is Wrong THIS Time. And it truly sucks. And part and parcel of this here party is that my body WILL NOT SHAKE THE WEIGHT. I am consuming calories that should endanger a baby bird, and yet here I am. Large and in charge of ABSOLUTELY ZERO.

Exactly

It’s terrifying. It’s distressing.
It’s sad…that this is the bigger stressor for me than the actual health sometimes.
This stupid, stinking weight.

Ah guys you should have seen me right after the baby.I felt like a celebrity. I had Zane and 2 weeks later, even my pre-pregnancy clothes were too big. Then within a month of that…boom. Well “slow boom”, as it was a slow BUT OH SO STEADY escalation of poundage.

My doctors try to convince me that it’s a GOOD thing that my diabetes has behaved during my pregnancies, even if the cost is a reign of Diabetic Terror for like 18 months after (Zane is 10 months old. Do the math.) And while I am grateful that my babies have not suffered the way several babies-of-diabetic-moms have, I still wish IIIII didn’t have to suffer quite so much in the aftermath.

So here is the absolute crux of the candle-apathy:
I do NOT in fact enjoy being fat. Nor do I embrace it. Nor do I accept it.

And parts of that are fine. Because I will never stop fighting back against the bad things my body tries to do to itself. This IS a season. It WILL pass. It did before, and it will again.
And I refuse to wait til ‘such time’ to feel like a real, valid person.

So last night, on the eve of my 32nd birthday, on the cusp of a year filled with unknowns, I decided to do something bigger and scarier than face down health crises:

I put on my bikini.
And I stood in front of a mirror.

Well.
The one thing I can say about that for SURE is that pound for pound, my husband got himself MAJOR returns on his 4 year investment.

pounds of sexy

One must laugh to avoid spontaneous combustion.
Right away came the desperate urge to hide myself, break the mirror, burn the bikini (with me NOT in it, obvs), destroy all the light in the world that ever was.
But I stood there, like a nervous swimmer in the shallow end of a freezing pool. I stared until my nerve endings and shame endings grew numb, and I stopped hating what I saw.

KIDDING! This was last NIGHT, not last 10 years. I didn’t magically stop hating what I saw. But I did stop denying it for what it was. I looked at the lines and the lumps and bumps. Suddenly all I saw was just…a person. Not the sexiest person in the world. But… A person. Somewhere in those few minutes of deliberate staredown, the giant beast who intially greeted me, slobbering and hideous and OH GOD KILL IT WITH FIRE!!!! Became…just a person.

How YOU doin?

And holy hominy. That was huge. (<– I saw what I did there, and I didn’t even flinch!)

I realise now that I have given myself some pretty strict contexts for where self-love was acceptable. Namely:
Fully clothed
In the dark
While blind and/or dead

Those are some pretty limiting options there, and I for one refuse to conform any longer. SO out, out damned bug. Remove your hidden hatred from my pages, if you please.
And if there are any more of your kind, please to send them out so we may dispose of them duly (one at a time, preferably. Because. Bugs.). I will not play your twisted, squished life games. I will go swimming. I will wear shorts. I will wear shirts that show my arms and dresses that don’t dive away from my tummy as if fleeing  Gutzilla. I will be happy. Fat is temporary. It will go away. I will not allow it to be my sole definition. And I won’t look back and realise that I wasted years of my life, waiting for my life, when my life is actually already happening, right here and right now.

So.
Last night I was full of crap.
Today, I wore a tank top. And I didn’t care who saw.

Because it’s my birthday. And I’m fabulous.
If you disagree, feel free to go cake yourself.

I’ll be over here with no cares and no cover ups.
Just my cookies. For courage.

 

 

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