Snafus, Studies, and Swearing or Mission: If It Ain't One Thing...

It's an unavoidable truth that when one attempts something that drastically deviates from their day-to-day routine, some odd circumstance will rise up in an attempt to discourage them from their intended goal. Truth be told, I shouldn't have been surprised by this latest fly in the road-to-wellness soup I've got simmering here. I am not exempt from Murphy, or his law. And yes, in my mind Murphy is a man. A man who should be chained and dragged naked through the streets whilst being publicly spurned for his micropenis. But I digress.

It's also an unavoidable truth (unless you renounce earthly pleasures, in which case, what the hell are you looking at a computer for?) that denial of any particular thing can oftentimes lead to nonstop thinking about the very thing you've been denied of. Exhibit A: my laptop ran into an unfortunate incident involving an overturned can of Diet Pepsi and my less-than-catlike reflexes. Now, I realize what all of you must be thinking...and I completely agree with you. Water is a much healthier choice than diet soda. I understand that. But this is my laptop, people. My lifeline. My connection to everything, including you. And Joni Mitchell needs to get smacked right in her sassy little mouth for being such an insufferable know-it-all. You really don't know what you've got 'til it's gone. All the days I didn't blog when I should have turned from mere procrastination into wasted opportunities. Cue the self-flagellation orchestra. Opus Dei, here I come!

Fortunately, my sister (who I'm now thoroughly convinced is actually St. Agnes of God, cleverly disguised as a size-2 fashionista) has been kind enough to let me use her Mac for the purpose of MSAPF. And if you ever needed to know how technologically-deficient/image-obsessed I truly can be, no example will ever be greater than my internal response to the moment that my sister said, "You know, the Mac is just sitting there, you can always use it". I thought she was talking about makeup. Classic me. Of course, the fact that I haven't sat down to a desktop computer since my pre-collegiate years will not deter me from getting all of this stuff out of my head (and heart, because believe me, there's some serious heart-stuff coming), and onto the screen. I'm going to make a conscious effort to post on a daily basis, even if it is on my normal 3 a.m. schedule. January 4th is getting closer, and I'd like to start the new year off having purged myself of the fat-girl crap I've been holding onto in silence for so long.

But for those of you who think I've just been idling the days away while my beloved Vaio lays comatose, fear not! Let us not forget the time-tested, age-old adage: "Those who can, do. Those who can't, research the hell out of what it is they're trying to do". Or something like that. My two dearest friends and I (one being Barnes, the other being Noble) have been enjoying a number of threesomes as of late, and we're all quite satisfied, thanks for asking. I bought Ruby's Diary, by Ruby Gettinger, and finished it in one night. Ruby, for those of you who may be unawares, has an eponymous reality show on the Style Network, chronicling her weight loss from a high of 715 pounds in 1997, to her current weight of 334 pounds (as of the publication of her book). I believe she was somewhere in the 500's when the show began, and apparently her goal weight is 150 pounds. I came to a lot of conclusions at the end of her warm, funny, touching, and spirited book.

First of all, changing your life is hard work, whether you're 300 pounds or 700 pounds. There truly are no shortcuts, not if you want to remain in a healthful state for the rest of your life. And seeing as how 98% of all diets fail, you better be aiming for a drastic change of life, not some quick fix, because the odds are already stacked against you. Ruby's story forced me to come to grips with some things that I've never consciously allowed myself to even think about, things I know I'm gonna have to 'fess up to on this Mission. Things that knocked the wind out of me and started the projectile tears when I read them, because in that moment, Ruby's truth was my truth, too.

Of course, one other conclusion became painfully evident after reading Ruby's Diary...this chick and me could never, in a million years, be friends. It's not her, of course. It's me. Definitely, unquestionably me. You see, Ruby is a true Southern belle, the apple of her (late) daddy's eye, raised up a good Baptist girl (ok, I'm only guessing that she's Baptist, but having been around a good number of Baptists in my day, it's an educated guess), and all that jazz (or country, as the case may be). This beautiful woman says 'dang' instead of 'damn', 'helicopter' instead of 'hell', and refers to her backside as 'Bertha'.

And then you have me.

I was raised in a Catholic home, took a left at Catholicism, and have never looked back. I rediscovered that spirituality doesn't have to equal religion in my mid-twenties, and that's basically where I am today.

The first curse word I can remember saying was 'jackass'. I was in kindergarten.

My father and his family disowned me when I was 16. I speak to him, on average, twice a year. When he dies, I hope someone will read his obituary in the paper and call me to let me know that he's passed on. As was the case with my paternal grandmother.

And quite frankly, the stories I've got in conjunction with my every-Crayola-in-the-box colorful language would probably result in sweet Georgia peach Ruby running at full speed in the opposite direction. I have the utmost respect and admiration for people like Miz Ruby, I'm just too damn ghetto for her and her kind.

Ah, well. Another 4 a.m. bedtime, but this was so worth it. I missed this. And I missed y'all. Real talk.

(I bet Ruby don't even know what "real talk" means. So there.)