According to this BMI calculator
, I can only safely afford to lose approximately 2.3 lbs unless I want to be classified as underweight.
This should be cause for celebration, but I can't believe that all this flab I consider superflous, prevents me wearing sleeveless tops and makes me obsess over my flabby stomach amounts to only 2.3 lbs. There has to be a mistake somewhere. Otherwise, it'd mean I'd need to be underweight to acheive my dream figure. *sadface*
Or build a lot of muscle. And those resistance training exercises are kiling me as they are.
You know, what I really
have got to make my peace with is the fact that no amount of exercise will leave me looking like Carmen Electra or somebody. (Not that I want to look like Carmen Electra, or would be able to without breast implants even if I did, what with that rack she's got) Especially since I refuse to diet and my primary intention remains being as fit as I possibly can.
I was born with this body shape. Not for me will be the long, glamorous legs or hourglass figure. I have a pear-shaped body, with short, rather stumpy legs and wide hips. For a body that has no glaring defect nor disfigurement, and has been functioning rather awesomely for the past 21 years, it has been severely underappreciated.
But you know, this whole "accepting yourself for who you are" deal is a rather tough one. Mostly because I'm vain and jealous and superficial and I think it's really unfair that I'll never look as good in a mini-skirt as some of my other leggy friends, who never had to work out a day in their lives to do it either.
I dealt with my confidence issues by learning to be as presentable as I could be, which culminated in me becoming a certified clothes-horse. It has nearly crushed my innate nerdhood and turned me into a young Carrie Bradshaw (without the shoe collection and raging nymphomania). If I ever earned for myself rather than mooched off my parent's savings account, I'd have a similar "substance abuse problem" all set and ready to destroy me. I have been known to set aside The Hobbit
in favour of surfing clothing catalogs on-line. I feel like a spineless sell-out and a traitor unto nerdkind. Tolkien would cast me from his altar in shame.
And yet, the clothes are so pweeety!
It doesn't help that I have an appalling amount of clothes already, that my make-up bag has six different kinds of mascara and is roughly the size of a professional bridal-dresser's and that my boyfriend probably wouldn't care if I was twenty pounds overweight and regularly wore gunny sacks.
Why am I doing this to myself? What am I trying to prove and to whom?
I wish I could have dealt with my insecurities like Hermione Granger did. She got over her buckteeth and big hair and social ineptitude by reassuring her sense of self-worth through intellectual acheivement and annoying the hell out of everybody in a ten-meter radius.
Notes to self:
a)Do not read fashion magazines. They corrupt your mind and feed your immortal soul to the corporate hordes. It's just a form of legal wallet-snatching.
b)Stop plaguing everybody with your fitness kick. You're just trying to indulge your vanity self-righteously anyway.
c)Shut up identifying with fictional characters. It is high time you got your pathetic girl-crush on Hermione Granger out of your system and moved the hell on
And on that firm note, I shall go to bed.