"No offense, mom, but it looks like you're growing a mustache."
This from Diva this afternoon.
And earlier today, when Tukey and I were snuggling in a strip of sunlight on the couch, playing our favorite Kitty-Cat Game, he delivered a similar blow: "Mom, you have a tiny mustache," as he brushed the fine hairs on my upper lip delicately.
Twice in one day. What self-esteem damage! As if I'm not having a difficult enough time with the weight factor, and the skin factor, and the "I'll-be-thirty-eight-in-less-than-thirty-days" factor, I've now got to figure out how to handle facial hair and my inquisitive, endearing, yet completely, totally honest children.
I've always had a little bit of this problem, and I've always been an upper-lip bleacher. I guess I haven't been keeping up with my grooming tasks.
So, here's the thing. I figured out the two things I always think about, well, the majority of the time:
1. Food, eating, dieting, my weight
2. Writing, and why I'm not in a good place, a zone, right now.
If every time I thought of food, I came to the computer and wrote about why I was thinking about food, maybe I could get to the core of the problem. I, for sure, positively know that I am an emotional eater, a stress-eater. The kids do something to annoy me, I start shoveling in the mac 'n' cheese. Diva starts whining, I get out the ice cream. Tukey pulls one of his "I-should-be-in-an-anger-management-class-for-five-year-olds" stunts, and I tackle a bag of chips. It's just the way I am, have always been.
And as I'm shoving whatever it is down my gullet, my brain is saying, "This is so not very good; you're going to feel way bad after you're done chewing." And I know this, but there's some spot in my brain that is also saying, "I don't give a damn. I need this because it's calming me down, settling this disruption in my life, chilling me out." And I'm eating so fast, I don't even know for sure if it tastes good.
I should just chew a wad of gum instead. Do they make brownie-flavored gum? That might just be what saves me.
And, the other thing: I have diligently, reverently been working out and going to the gym. In fact, I have kept track of my gym visits (and yes, I'm actually doing some sort of exercise there, not just hanging out chit-chatting!) and nothing's budging. I mean, come on, shouldn't something be happening. Whatever, I'm getting crabby just posting about this, to the point of where I might just say fuck it and go into the kitchen to devour anything that resembles chocolate and salt.
Right after I go upstairs and bleach this son-of-a-bitch 'stache!