AlphaBytes 2004

��when you're an overweight child, in a society that demands perfection, your sense of right and wrong will always be tragically skewed...

--- Fat Bastard, �Goldmember�

I don�t know about the difference between right and wrong, but I do know that my perception of myself in terms of body image has been a mess since my early teens. The thing is, I�m really not sure whether it�s my fault or the unavoidable result of growing up in this part of the world. I�m certainly ready to accept any blame, but a random conversation with a psychiatrist at a meeting a few months ago leads me to be open to the possibility that I�m being a tad hard on myself. We all have this critical inner voice, see, and the volume gets higher or lower, the criticism ebbs and flows depending on how much we let it. My problem just might be that little sucker.

If left to my own devices, I can find the joy in almost any situation. I gravitate to the most interesting person in the room, I find the coolest toy or I wind up in someone�s kitchen refilling the punch or the coffee maker so no one gets parched. It�s usually only when I catch sight of myself in a reflective surface (it could be anything: a wine glass, a toaster, a goddamn serving spoon) that I am reminded of what I look like and what sort of image I�m projecting to the world. It�s a bummer every single time.

Now, that�s what happens in the moment. If I look at a picture snapped at said event, as long as it�s five or more years old, I�ll see myself with a very different set of eyes. Kinder, more considerate eyes. Eyes that say well, I didn�t look that bad. Mind you, it�s probably also because the body holding the eyes is 10 pounds heavier than the time the picture was taken�

As I write this, my muscles are aching and I have an itchy, red, annoying bite of some kind on my left forearm. In an effort to actually do something about my pudge instead of simply sitting in this chair whinging about it, I spent most of Sunday in the yard, spreading mulch, mowing the lawn and whipping my Wegelias and my Hosta garden into shape. I�ve also been walking Murphy around 2200 hrs each night, which will continue to be a chore until he learns how to open himself up to being walked instead of walking me.

I�m sore and I�m cranky and I�m McGriddle-deprived. And hopefully, I�ll be the better for it.

Posted at 8:13 a.m.