buttoned out

I have been trying to loose weight since last winter. I've resorted to Budokon, Yoga, Pilates, power walking and yes, dieting like the Gwyneth.

Come June and early July I'd whittled down to 123lbs.-- my thinnest on record since I think sixth grade--sending everybody in my unit into a tizzy that I was anorexic or bulimic. I did not put much energy into dispelling the myth, for people believe what they want to believe and that's that. I felt good energy-wise, ample oxygen was circulating through my system. I felt healthy and just rid of the toxins that riddles American food. Most importantly, I felt really good about myself, a rare occurence in my angst-filled world. Then a death in my family occured and I was shattered.

In between bouts of crying and wallowing, I am just huddled in my cubby hole tying to seek solace in simple sugars. By then, I have fallen off the wagon compensating with some intervals of starvation and deprivation as the pounds start creeping up again.

I am desperately trying get off my butt and start firming it up again. Attempts at finding motivation through pop culture seem more detrimental as I just watch in awe, envy then the eventual downcast mood. Between the Victoria's Secret catalogs I keep in my bathroom near where my I place my weighing scale and the Pussy Cat Dolls' Buttons video I am tempted to switch my own off button. Somehow the cubby hole seems to cozy to leave from.