It’s almost that time again. When I absolutely must forgo the long sleeves.
I am not a huge fan of short or no sleeved-shirts because I’m self-conscious of my arms. Never in a million years did I think there would come a day. I had such little arms.
Now they are meaty and soft.
So if you know me, please do me a favor and try not to look at my arms today.
Supposedly, upper arm meat is how you can tell if a woman’s breasts are real, though. Well, according to Tina Fey. Where she got that information, I’m not sure.
I read a memoir about a young woman who lost 130 pounds and had surgery for the loose skin. The recovery process she described was so horrible that I don’t think I would ever get any kind of cosmetic surgery.
And I mean her surgery really wasn’t even altogether cosmetic. You can have real medical problems with loose skin.
My friend Katey had the gastric bypass surgery several years ago. She’s kept the weight off and looks beautiful. But when I asked her about it, she simply said, “Don’t do it.”
I don’t know if I’m heavy enough for that, anyway. I would be happy losing 35-40 pounds. You don’t get surgery for 40 pounds.
You get off your butt, stop whining, and track like a big girl.
Maybe I should reread Atomic Habits after I listen to the Cecily Strong book. Do some of the activities in the book.
Sometimes I find that a book will have me all pumped up and ready to go whilst I’m reading it, but when it’s over, I kind of forget about it.
At least one of the habits I started while reading Atomic Habits has carried over. I don’t go to Dunkin’ anymore. Not for almost two months, anyway. There have been times I’ve really wanted to and still not gone.
Aislyn is eating more fruit. I’m eating slightly more oranges.
One other thing that’s more recent: every time I go into my closet, I put away a couple of my shirts. I had them, unfortunately, in a big heap on top of a little plastic dresser in there that I swore I would get to eventually but somehow never did. Finally, the heap is diminishing.
I am running out of closet space, though, because I own clothing in every size from six to eighteen.
Get rid of the sixes, you say.
And you might be right. I might never be a six again, or if I was, I maybe wouldn’t be for long.
What is a realistic size for me at 45? 8? 10? 12?
I’d be over the moon to be an 8, obviously. But I could live with 10, as well.
I am beating this to death and boring myself right now.
This seems like a logical place to stop, and I have to, anyway, because I have to go to work.
Have a tasty Tuesday, my friends. Commute safely, don’t trip up those stairs in your slippers with hot coffee like I probably would if I worked from home. Thanks for reading. 🥰❤️