Most people have a “most regrettable moment.”
Except for all those times I used a credit card when I should have, said something really dumb, or said yes when I should have said no.
But specifically, that ONE regrettable moment?
Is an entire year.
I have a year of regret.
An entire year that has made me fat who I am today.
How, pray tel, does a year make me fat who I am today?
Let me be more cryptic specific.
The year after I graduated high school and before I met Patrick was a very exploratory year, and not the kind of exploration that required spelunking gear. Though it totally could have.
I wasn’t, we’ll say, focused on my school work. I was still living at home going to the local community college, but I really wasn’t home much. At 18, I was so friggin smart! and free! and a girl! and I was cute! and I had a job!
and I was HOT!
Oh, damns was I the shit. Long blond curly hair, size 28 men’s jeans shorts (they were cool back then), weighed 123 pounds cause when you weigh 123 pounds once you remember, had a cool new tattoo, and then another.
I was pretty much the one that brought all the boys to yard.
And they came for me.
I think a small part of me knew this, but a more conscious part of me just wanted the attention. That part of me ruled the rest of me. I was wanted.
Kind of like how I want freshly baked brownies right now.
Which brings me back to how that year made me fat today.
I met Patrick when we were both 18. We immediately stuck to each other and never let go. He loved me like no other guy had ever loved me. He respected me, he doted on me, he listened to me.
He didn’t want to let me go.
So I stayed. Thankfully.
He made me feel wanted. Special. Needed.
But I still noticed all the other boys in the yard. And they still noticed me.
To keep Patrick and to keep myself sane and to keep myself from making the other guys notice me, I subconsciously made myself fat.
Now, at 33, a mom, a wife, a woman. I’m not noticed. My husband loves me, I know this.
But subconsciously, I don’t want to be noticed because then, THEN, I might want them to be noticed.
Nobody notices a fat, 33 year old, mom, wife.
And, like that carton of milk in the back of my fridge with the expiration date of Sept 08, I just recently realized this.
Spoiled milk can become cheese, right? I’m pretty much the cheese.