The Incredible Hulk Lives

So yesterday I had a melt down.

If you read my post about my weigh in, you know I was NOT happy about the situation. Logically I do know that my weight loss is a slow journey, but damn does it have to be half a pound a week?

I really felt like I was going to have a good loss week yesterday, and when I got up and had gained .4 of a pound, I was not happy. Translation...I was furious.

So in the interest of full disclosure I have to tell you guys what I did as a result of that anger.

I turned into the Incredible Hulk.

Let me walk you through it.

After I got out of the shower, and was putting my make up on, I worked myself into a furor over the whole "2.2 lbs in 4 weeks" thing. I swear I was looking in the bathroom mirror and seeing Medusa.

Then I started talking to myself. And it wasn't pretty, flowery, supportive words either.

Mostly stuff like cow, heifer, disgusting pig, peppered with the F bomb every other word.

At that point, I made the mistake of getting dressed for work.

So here I am, standing in front of my closet, saying out loud "So, heifer, what feedbag/tent are you gonna wear today? Doesn't matter if it shows off your 20 lbs loss, because nobody can tell you've lost weight anyway. Fat f*cking cow. Yeah here, put THIS on. It's loose, and it makes you look like you're in your second trimester. Go ahead...wear it. Moooooooooooooo."

(I'm not proud of my actions, and yes it was a bit childish and nonproductive, but I'm a 48 year old menopausal woman. My hormones are not rational.)

Then I pull this black shirt out of my closet. It's a nice black shirt.

Or was.

I put it on, and look in the mirror, and successfully look pregnant. Which is such a great look for a woman my age....

Then I notice that the tie in the back of the shirt is really loose.

Now, you would think that would make me happy, right? Clearly I've lost weight since I wore this last, because the tie needs pulled tighter.

So I try to untie it.

And it gets knotted.

And I pull on it.

And it stays knotted.

And I pull some more.

And the damn thing won't budge.

The next sound you hear is the sound of fabric tearing. No wait, that's not the right sound.

RIPPING.

That's right, I pulled so hard I ripped the shirt.

Which sent me into a pulling and tearing frenzy.

I turned into the Incredible Hulk. You know how he grows bigger and his shirt starts ripping and he tears at it and rips it off his body?

Yep, that was me.

Here's the proof:



Now, because it's black, it doesn't photograph well, but believe me when I tell you, there is no repairing this one.

Go ahead. Laugh. I'll wait.

So after I rip the shirt from my body, I threw it on the ground with all the force I can muster, I guess in an effort to break the carpet.

And then I began to laugh. Maniacally.

I realized I had gone batshit crazy.

And I said out loud "Well, *that* certainly helped the situation, didn't it?"

Lesson learned...if you are going to inflict harm on innocent clothing, don't pick the black stuff. It's what makes a girl look thin. Go for color. Tear up pink or something.

I've fantasized a lot recently about someone ripping my clothes off in the heat of passion Somehow that fantasy never quite included me ripping my own stuff off in anger.

Sigh.

You'll be pleased to know I'm much better today. I ate really good yesterday, including fresh vegetables, and tomatoes and basil from my own garden. I went out and took a very long, fast, sweaty walk last night, and got to bed early.

My clothing is safe today.

I no longer feel the need to damage casual wear.

Let's hope my jean shorts survive the weekend.