The Pretty Problem

I don’t do New Year’s resolutions. I don’t believe in them. Statistics indicate that most people give them up by March of the same year, I think.

I knew you were going to ask me, and I’m sorry, but I don’t know which statistics actually say that. I just know it was something I read.

Hey, don’t hassle me, okay? The point is, most resolutions are abandoned.

If I say my resolution is to lose weight, I’m afraid it won’t happen. I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to lose weight, at this point. Even when I was thin, I was still trying to lose. So my whole adult life, really. Plus half of my childhood.

So, really, my whole life has been a quest for weight loss. Isn’t that sad? I mean, it really is sad and sick.

Yes, I have tried just not even trying to lose. And it was disastrous.

I’ve tried everything.

The problem is not the weight.

The problem is me.

I recognize that.

Because even if I was totally thin, 110 pounds or whatever, I’d take issue with something else about my looks. My nose, maybe. My hair. There’s nothing even wrong with either thing, I don’t think.

To be perfectly honest with you, if we’re using men as an indication of attractiveness, I don’t think they like me any less this way than they did when I was 20 and tiny. It’s possible they like me more now, if the last year has been any indication. Maybe it’s because I finally have boobs, I don’t know.

I think the worst thing is that in real life, I’m a reasonably attractive woman. Objectively, I get that. Emotionally and psychologically, though, all I see are problems.

It’s the conundrum I cannot solve.