I had a bad day yesterday.
I don't mean that I ate too many fatty foods, or didn't exercise, or made poor choices. People who are trying to lose weight often classify a day that wasn't perfectly in accordance with their diet plan as a "bad' one. I know I have, and I do, and I will.
But that's not what I mean.
I mean, I had the kind of bad day where I sat on the floor in my bedroom, surrounded by the contents of the semi-formal/formal section of my closet and sobbed.
I mean, I had the kind of bad day where I struggled with every move at zumba class, where every mis-step and wrong turn made me feel slow, and fat, and stupid.
I mean, I had the kind of bad day where I very nearly missed out on a friend's amazing birthday party because I couldn't bear the sight of myself, pudgy and round, in the dresses that did fit, the ones I pulled out of that soggy, tear-stained heap.
No human being has ever said anything half as cruel, as mean, or as damning to another person as what I said to myself yesterday.
Yesterday it didn't matter that I tell a good joke, or that I'm a good listener, or that I laugh with my whole body. It didn't matter to me that I can discuss both world issues and the upcoming star trek film, or that I have beautiful hands with small round nails, or that I will always keep a friend's (or a stranger's) secret, or that I can learn something new so quickly that sometimes I surprise myself.
It mattered that I'm fat.
I'm so tired of crying because a dress doesn't fit. I'm so tired of watching other people move with more agility and speed and envying their slender limbs and wondering what is so wrong with me that I can't be like them, even when I'm trying so hard. I'm tired of asking my husband if he thinks I'm attractive for the hundredth time.
Sometimes, I have bad days, and those bad days really, really suck.