And there was this one time, at JournalCon ...
...where I met MoPie. Lemme tell y'all a little something about MoPie.
I didn't spend nearly as much time as I should have with her.
Because, aside from that totally fabulous Laverne-of-Laverne and Shirley- style shirt with the M on the shoulder that I seriously wanted to steal, and aside from her incredibly clear blue (Green? No, blue. Bluishgreenishblue) eyes that are bright and unnerving and seem to look right through you, and aside from the absolute presence that she's got that makes her sparkle and stand out in a crowd... totally aside from all that? She's my new hero.
She's got this weight-loss blog, see? I'm not going to link. Go discover it slowly by sifting through the gooey, melty goodness of her site. Sit. Read. Enjoy. Wish you were her.
Anyway, she's got this blog. And she talks about counting the points, and sometimes feeling kinda hungry even though she ate as much as she should, and cheating here and there, and yay! new clothes and yay! more stores in which to shop and yay! smaller sizes.
Sound familiar? Sure! Except, not. Because while I did my whole Operation Mini-skirt status reports, they had a distinctly different feel than Mo's does. I mean, I'm reading her, and she's bloody uplifting! She looks good, she feels good, and when she errs, she picks up and goes on. There is none of The Dwelling! There is none of The Whinging and The Moping and The Oh God I'm So Fat-ing. She doesn't get needles full of B6 and B12 injected into her stomach and her butt and then get surprised when, Hey! No more needles! Ooh! You've got boobs and an arse and a crappy new size to deal with again!
She's sensible! She's realistic. She's gorgeous. Oh! Oh oh oh! And she's honest! Not only does she tell you how much she's lost, she tells you how much she actually weighs! And what she once weighed! And what size she is, and was, and wants to be.
I? I have not stepped on a scale for over a month, because Terror? Thy name is whatever shows up in the little window. I can not even bear to get on the scale while alone in a room, with the curtains drawn and the door locked. To know is to cringe and moan and rip out my hair, and frankly? Ignorance, if not bliss, is at least easier to swallow.
I? I, am ChiKhenPu. Queen of the Closet Eaters and Mistress of Denial. Ruler of Wishful Thinking and Keeper of The Closet of Ever-Expanding Sizes. Gluttons, I am your Queen! Feel free to throw food at me, for I will eat it!
My point? I think I wanna be Mo when I grow up. And not only because she's a total hottie.
* * *
In other news, this Mike person still hasn't called, but I'm totally not fretting, because, hello! Boy Time! I can't worry about it until at least Thursday. And also, did I really want him to call? I mean, just because, apparently, heís the result of a requisition that my mother filed with God doesn't mean anything!
Actually? Honest to God truth, poppets? I'm not bothered by it. If he calls? Well, lovely for him. I'm a nice girl, after all. Itís a wise move on his part. And if he doesn't? Well, it just wasn't meant to be.
See? Philosophical! Mature! Empowered! I can totally get into this gig!
Kisses, darlings. You know I love you. Especially since I'm having particularly good hair today.
Edited to add: Someone please remind me to read this the next time I'm being me-ish.
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