chicken or the egg?

Sometimes I don't know if I had emotional issues and that led to my getting overweight OR if I became overweight and then developed emotional issues about my size.

My non-media perfect size.

It's hard to say because of the media. Most of the time I'm sure it's the former. But then I think that the primary place that I hear that emotional issues are manifested in obesity -- is in the media. And the funny thing is that they are blaming themselves.

So, like Bizarro Superman -- it's hard to tell what's real anymore.

It's hard not to remember a time that I didn't think "if I were just this size, I would be happy..." It's always been this way. I mean, the goal is a moving target. Always just barely attainable so I can continue to keep happiness out of reach. Usually I match myself against someone and then try to aim for where it seems like they are physically. (At least, in mind.) I get to thinking that there's some magic formula of diet and exercise and willpower that will get me close to looking like this person and then I will be happy. I will accept that.

But, it's only mentally that this diseases exists. I don't manifest any symptoms externally -- that would mean that I would really have to exercise and care much more about my diet. To me, this is what REALLY burns calories -- is sheer and utter willpower and determination.

Grit.

I want to have grit. I want to be tough. I really don't want to care what other people think or feel or say about me. Yet, I still want to be tender at the same time. In certain senses, I am (gag) like the Republican fantasy about the Iraq War -- I want to maintain the hard candy shell but have a soft gooey interior. My marshallow heart caged in a body of steel. (Can't you just see the tattoo of that now, Kay?)

I want to WANT to run around the block and lift weights and find 0 point snacks to munch on all day. But I also want to WANT to have children and like having puppies lick my face and buy people presents for no reason.

It's this constant push and pull that has been the apex of the cone of my existence... (Yes, I know I stole this from some essay -- don't write in.) I want to be popular and well-liked, but yet I want to be left alone. I want to exercise and be active and healthy but I want to joke about being fat and lazy and can't do it if it's not true. BECAUSE I want to be known as someone who is a blunt bitch but yet lies to save people's feeling all the time. I think because I tell so many of those white lies, it makes me want to be brutally honest about how I feel all the time. Which in turn hurts people's feelings which I should just say what I mean in the first place. I want to be good at my job and still be an outsider. I wanted to be respected for my book smarts but yet appreciated for my dingy ditzy blondeness.

I don't even get me!

And now I don't know if I want to go get some exercise and some stretches or have a snack. After all, I wanted to go to bed so I could FINALLY get a good night's sleep before my long day tomorrow -- but I just couldn't wait to pour this stuff out of my head and onto my blog.

Oy, vey!