Thursday, July 19, 2018

A Letter to My Body

For all of my boos who read this blog AND are on my Facebook, you may be aware that a couple of Saturday's ago, one of my readers, through a vague instagram account, decided to let me know that I was "starting to gain too much weight".



Jaw drop (not at the idea that I have gained weight but that someone would think it was KIND or NECESSARY to share their opinion of my body size with me).

Through about 1.4 million comments, texts, and messages...y'all showed up for me.  I only maybe shed a few tears but I did probably give it more energy than I should have.  And for a second I started to doubt my grip on reality.  Because I am well aware that I am 198 pounds.  But I am usually pretty proud of my body these days.  SO, after mulling it over, instead of addressing the negative, I decided I would just write my body a little letter...letting the old girl know how I feel about her.  So here goes...

Dear Body:

I'm fucking proud of you man.  Do you know how far you have come?  Do you know how far WE have come?  Don't you let anyone else's opinion throw shade on what you are capable of.  Everything that makes you up tells a story of who you are, where you came from, and what you have done.  Every scar, stretch mark, little lump of cellulite that isn't ever going away*, that's you girl.  And that's okay.  Have you seen your ass?  Big.  Lovely.  Have you seen how the curve of your waist transitions into your hips?  Like a melting pat of butter on a juicy steak.  Do you see the muscles? The ones that make up your back, your shoulders, your arms?  Have you felt the power in your legs?  They can lift grown adults.  That's you boo.  

We've certainly been through some shit haven't we?  I am so sorry I spent decades hating you and blaming you.  When you know better, you do better.  And I do better now.  Now I find the things I love about you instead of getting stuck on the "flaws".  I appreciate you for what you do for me every day.  If I push never disappoint.  We may be getting older, but we are getting better.  I mean...the joints are going and we are always sore...but that's fine.  That's FINE.

You are healthy.  You are strong.  You are the only body I've got.  And I appreciate you.  And love you.  I try to take care of you....I really do just love tacos and beer there will always be that.  

So this is my thank you.  Thank you for carrying me through 38.9 years of life.  I can't wait to see where the next 60+ takes us.



Simple and sweet.  Just like me.

This was me at a size 8.  Ideally, I don't have a weight goal anymore...because when you lift for mass...the scale is a little different.  But I would love to fit into all my clothes in my closet. With that said, I was a size 8 in these pictures because I was heartbroken.  For the first time in my life, I barely ate.  I would MAYBE eat a little during the day, but once I got home I would drink until I was drunk (turns out that doesn't really help with the healing) and then pass out.   OBVIOUSLY I was a sex kitten at a size 8, and OBVIOUSLY I could be a size 8 again in a healthy manner, but my point is...I may have been skinnier, but my life was being torn apart.

 And this is me now.  Those are a size 10 skinny jean from American Eagle.  They tight.  But I can zip those suckers up if I need to.  Which I guess you basically always need to be able to zip your pants up.

And this is me at a Crossfit/Shooting Comp last month.  Wearing my little Reebok shorts.  These kind of shorts were always my goal shorts when I was losing weight...and once I hit 167 and tried on my first pair...I thought..."Nope...never."  I didn't think I would ever get over my saggy, weight loss evident, inner thighs.  Then I bought these shorts this year.  Started wearing them during my garage workouts.  Now...I wear them around really fit people with guns.  And to the store.  And whenever.  Because life is short and they are comfortable and IF PEOPLE DON'T LIKE MY THIGHS...THOSE AREN'T MY PEOPLE!
 Awe.  And then there is today.  Today I hit one of my biggest, and hardest to reach goals when it comes to lifting.  Today I pulled 305 pounds on my deadlift.  I am really proud of myself.  If you don't lift, this number may not mean much.  But I have put in a lot of hard work to make it happen.  And I am no spring chicken!  I'm no winter chicken either...but still.  MY BODY is strong.  It has fat but that doesn't mean I am fat.  It's like that saying floating around Pinterest.  I HAVE fingernails, but that doesn't mean I AM a fingernail.  Mmmmkkkay?

And at this point, my nutritional goals are really fitness related.  I know if feed my body in a healthier way (did you know you are supposed to drink water and eat veggies and stuff?), that I could probably become a better athlete.  And so that's something I can work on.  I suppose we ALL have things we can do a little bit better.  But instead of hating your body in the process of improving, what if we loved it along the way?

One last pic.  Do you know this lady?  I don't.  But when we went tubing last May (when I was a size 8), she fed me melted jello shots like a baby bird.  So we are friends now.  But see my stomach?  Skin.  But see my face?  Living life.  Drunk yes...but in that moment I don't care about what my body looks like in a bikini.  And neither did Jello shot friend...or any of my friends with me on the river that day.

Life is short.  Life is hard enough already without you hating your own damn body.  Try it.  Try loving it.  See what happens.


*I's 2018.  Trump can be President but we can't get rid of cellulite yet?

Monday, July 16, 2018

Disney F#$ked Us Over Man

And by man...I clearly mean ladies.  ALTHOUGH I know that there are some dudes who read my blog but probably do so in secret.  So shout out to the ones with penises. You are welcome brothers. have to take into account that Walt Disney himself enjoyed his fellow breathern (yeh PRIDE)...

How have I gotten off track already?

Two sentences. 


ANYWAYS, I've just decided that at this point I am going to start blogging about random shit.  Which really isn't much different than what I HAVE been blogging about for almost 10 years.   10 YEARS???!!!  Yes.  10 years.  A decade of Amy wisdom covering everything from labia to lesbians to fat to thin-ish, to fat-ish...and back again. 


But I was sitting here watching a bird outside my window and I was love birds.  And I do.  And so I followed up with a question to myself and was like...WHY do you love birds so much?  I thought maybe it was because I have my duck family now at the Lakehouse, but love for birds...and by love I mean the deep longing I could communicate with the feathered suckers...goes back to Snow White.  AND Cinderella.  I wanted little bird friends to dress me.  I wanted a fat little mouse named Gus to be my friend.  I HAD human friends...but I needed all the animal friends as well.

Not much has changed.

But THEN I began to wander down that old familiar path of women blaming Disney for the skewed thought process of needing a prince (penis carriers) to save us. 

Let's pause once again for me to share something related but also not super relevant to the point I am trying to make:

I hate Disneyland, Disneyworld, Harry Potter Land, Seaworld.  ALL OF IT.  And I know my parents are probably reading this thinking "well, too bad we can't get our money back from the trips we took"...but even as a little girl I was underwhelmed.  You have to remember that I am 148 years old and in my childhood. there was no "fast pass".  You had to stand in line for hours to ride in tea cups.  TEA CUPS!  And on top of the that their "rollercoasters" were weak.  Tiny.  I am a thrillest (one who seeks thrills on rollercoasters)...and even as an 8 year old...I was disappointed.  And my mother, bless her frugal heart, wasn't about to spend money on any version of the Bippity-boppity-boutique....and rationed our food  over the course of the day like we were born in the Great I wasn't like those little girls who come back from the Disney with an entire head to toe princess makeover. Although TO BE FAIR, Marji did buy me a stuffed Mini Mouse once.  But my point is...

No...I have forgotten my point at this point...

Although I know longer see Therapist (Blue Cross Blue Shield be trippin'), I think a lot about the concept of 'scripts'...the stories or things we tell ourselves to make sense of a situation, to justify behavior...the ones that may be buried in falsities...the ones that usually can do more harm than good.  Those scripts.  And while we certainly have brains in our heads and shoes on our feet, from a very early age the idea that we needed someone to save us (probably gonna be a dude), and that love is like a fairytale, was pounded into our hearts and heads.  And it continued once we gave up the cartoons.  I have been SOMEWHAT of an emotional wreck this last week and do you know what I almost did yesterday?  I almost watched...


WHY?  Why would I do that to myself?  Luckily I had the mental fortitude to NOT watch the Notebook and instead watched The Sinner on Netflix (uh...hello disturbing), drink a bottle of wine, and go to sleep at 7:30pm. 

And if I am being honest, I get it.  We want to believe that whatever we feel is missing can be solved by finding another human being.  Like we are that toy that actually came from Tupperware (not Fisher Price as I thought until 34 seconds ago when I googled it) where you put the shapes in the ball that had the shape cut outs.  Like we are missing an octagon and if we can just find that octagon to plug our hole (sigh...that's a different post altogether), then life will be better.  We will be fixed.  Complete.

And I'm gonna tell you something else. 

I have no idea if that's true or not.

I find that most modern wisdom these days (Pinterest) contradicts itself.  Do we work on making ourselves "whole" so when we find another human being to bed and love...they are just "extra"?  Or do we have to work at love and getting what we want.


Whatever. I am pretty sure in fact that I, Amy Irene Workman, may be smack in the middle of an existential crisis.

I know nothing. (uh...I know SOME I love my animals and my 4th toe is starting to look like mother's toe and I am only 38).

I am questioning everything.


But such is life.

Or IS it?


Whatever.  Happy Monday beautiful people.