Lately I feel like all I’m doing is gaining weight. I dipped to my lowest ever due to a poorly prescribed Zoloft amount which made me completely lose my appetite. But since that’s been straightened out, I’ve been slowly creeping back to the higher numbers. Luckily for me, I live in Los Angeles. You might be thinking, “what do you mean, luckily for you? Los Angeles is the most judgemental city of all.” And to that I would respond “True.” But…here’s the thing; what I do when caught in the undertoe of weight neurosis is to tell myself that I’m just putting on poundage for a role. Yeah, I’m like Renee Zellweggy
only less British.
Wait a minute…see, exactly like Renee. Now that’s a delusion I can hang my hat on. I can walk down the street, thighs and butt threatening to attempt a jail break from my jeans, to say nothing of my Victoria Secret underwear making a vicious red mark on my hips, and think “yes! It’s all for my art!”
Okay, whatever, so that’s not exactly true. I have been feeling bad about it. I’ve been looking longingly at my skinny jeans and wondering if I’ll ever see that size again. What am I supposed to do – stop eating french fries? That just seems harsh. Looking back on that glorious 100 mg. Zoloft time, I can’t help but feel sad that there was a point that weight loss was effortless, a plate of cookies meaning nothing more than a big steaming pile of brocolli. Those times are gone. And I’m missing them like Lisa Kudrow misses Friends.
The weirdest thing is that when I was skinny skinny and people would say how great I looked I would think they were assholes because I was waaaay too skinny and how dare they think that painfully skinny is sexy.
Now I have to put my money where my mouth is. And that’s on the Trader Joe’s mac and cheese I steal from Elby everyday.