I’m in “I hate” mode. Sheesh, it is bad.
I hate my hair. I recently got it cut and it still looks shapeless.
I hate my body. I’ve been cutting back, shaping up, getting my “I’m too exhausted” butt up the stairs instead of the elevator and yet I wobble. My arms wobble. My legs wobble. I’m embarrassed and feel fat. It’s important to note, though, that I am not fatter according to the scales but I quite possibly am definitely less toned.
And I hate my tendency to go so far into my work that I lose perspective on things like my butt size and bagel calories.
I also hate that I can’t just live as a brain without a body so that I could just work without ending up with all the little bits that jiggle.
I hate that I worry about the jiggle. Who cares? I have a husband that loves me. I’m about to have a master’s degree, a novel, and a screenplay being considered by a major movie studio. Shouldn’t people be able to look at me and think, Her achievements far outweigh the fact that she couldn’t resist Free Bagel Fridays at her office.
I hate that I care what people think. Who are these “people” anyway? The people who love me are called friends and family and they don’t care if I overindulge. They don’t really care if I never sell a book. They love me and want me to have happiness and balance, whatever that means to me.
I hate that I don’t know what happiness means to me. I hate that I just wrote that because I hate that I actually know what happiness means to me but I’m not able to grab it.
I hate that I’m not able to reach for my true happiness because I’m afraid.
There. I said it. I’m afraid to be happy.
I hate that.