It's pretty simple. My fat hurts.
When I went in for surgery in April 2010, I had no idea that one of the side effects of that surgery was going to be that my metabolism was going to take a permanent vacation. Nor did I realize that I was going to be compounding my pain factor by adding fat around my middle that actually hurts. I didn't even know it was possible for fat to hurt, but my doctor tells me it is. He's the expert. I'm just the one sitting here with painful fat.
I've been whining about not being able to find pants that fit me for about two years now. I thought having the surgery would solve that problem. Not. In fact, it got worse. I didn't think that was possible, but it was. I've gone from a size 8 short to, well, I'm not going to say, but let's just imagine putting 20 extra pounds on a petite frame and you can go from there...the 8's went out the window about a year ago, right after the surgery. I just gave up on them. (Can you give up on a size? Apparently.)
I've been shopping for the perfect pair of pants for a long time. I see women of all different shapes and sizes when I've been brave enough to go out and I have to restrain myself from running up to them and asking them where they shop. Or if they are comfortable. Women wear jeans all the time and not all of them are skinny. So where the hell are they buying these jeans that don't seem to make the fat hurt?
I now have this uncomfortable layer over top of my post-three children abdomen. It's like I'm a bear storing up for winter, which is kind of scary, because most people gain weight over the holidays. I've already beat the Christmas rush this year.
But back to the fact that the fat hurts. I am typing this on my laptop in the recliner. There is a heating pad on my abdomen turned up to the third highest setting and I have gone from leggings (which incidentally are supposed to be comfortable) to one of my comfy pairs of sweat pants because I couldn't stand the elastic around my waist. I suspect that it's not actually the fat that hurts, but rather a combination of my brain's automatic response to believing I'm still 16 years old and sucking in my gut and the fact that the muscles I used to use for sucking in my gut are completely atrophied by years of lying on the couch, eating chocolate raspberry milano cookies and watching mindless sitcoms.
I spent years exercising my hands by stitching and I have a lot to show for it in terms of beautiful, framed projects that show my mastery of cross stitch over the past 30+ years. Unfortunately, I never exercised anything else and, while it's hard to exercise with fibromyalgia, I know (intellectually) that I would most likely feel better physically if I ever walked farther than my mailbox. I also know (intellectually) that if I don't start walking further than my mailbox, it's going to get harder and harder to get to anything approaching active. If it's not too late completely. I suspect you can get to a point where it's impossible to turn back.
I hope that when I finally get the true motivation to get off my chronically pained butt eventually, I will still be able to physically walk down the block. And I hope my fat will come along for the ride and burn itself off.
I think I'll start by walking into the kitchen and looking for the chocolate raspberry milanos. And I think Justin bought me some butter pecan Haagen Daaz ice cream that I never finished.