Kicking My Own A$$, Part I

I will admit it. I am a food racist.

I love white food.

Bread, pasta, biscuits, cake...all receive a big "Hell Yeah!" from me.

And, as most of you know, it was a long,cold winter and, being unable to grow a fur coat, I have put on another layer of a different sort.

Ten years ago, I could lose fifteen pounds in a couple of months. All I had to do was eat a little less and exercise a little more. But that doesn't work any more. Now I need to try something drastic. My "Kirb Appeal" this summer will be NewThirteen, trying to weigh what I did at 13. (This is a HUGE joke, peeps. At thirteen I weighed 101. Like the song. Now? I would need to remove all my insides PLUS a leg in order to weigh 101. Which I believe would be drastic.) And lest you think I want to LOOK thirteen again? Let me correct you. That would involve braces, headgear, and perhaps the ugliest wire-framed glasses on the planet. Nope--I'll settle for losing 15 pounds and looking 50 instead of 51.

I have done lots of research these first two weeks of summer, and I will be blogging about some of the things I've learned about dieting. (By 'learned' I mean read with a healthy dose of skepticism.) For now the easiest, albiet the most painful, choice is to give up a lot of my white food.

Alas, little Biscuitville, I hardly knew ye.

Sometimes the "Old Thirteen" Comes Back to Bite You in the A$$.

I think that if you have been a follower of "Kirb Appeal" (my other blog and video series) for awhile, you probably have a pretty good idea of what I'm like. (And, if not...why not? I'm FABULOUS!) And I probably come across as being smart and funny and confident. And most of the time, I am.

But every once in awhile someone says something that socks you in the gut and all the self-doubt and bad feelings are there again, just like they were in eighth grade.
The other day I was reading a blog that a younger, hipper woman writes (of which I am insanely jealous, mainly because there were no blogs when I was younger and hipper--oh, who am I fooling? I was never hip.) and of course it resonated, because we annoying girls are always annoying, irregardless of how old we are. And we tend to become solitary over time, because no one wants to hang around with the annoying girl.

Annoying girls keep their fingers crossed, hoping that ONE DAY someone will want to date them and marry them and maybe, if they're lucky, the boy will have a sister and she will feel compelled to be a friend to annoying girl, just because her brother will beat her up if she isn't.

I never had any trouble dating, mainly because guys don't find me annoying. Apparently there are different standards, like as long as a girl has two X chromosomes, she's datable. And I thought, as I grew older, I would make some friends. REAL friends, like the kind who will visit you in the hospital if you're dying. But that hasn't happened yet, and now I know why.

Yesterday, sitting at a restaurant having martinis with colleagues, I was told that I would never be invited to a girls' weekend at the beach because I am annoying. The term that was used was "high maintenance," but the translation was "annoying." And that I would never be included.

In a flash, as if by magic, I was fourteen years old again, targeted by "mean girls." And not one of the women at that table went to bat for me.

I have moved on from being annoying girl to annoying woman. Maybe I need to reconsider the title of my other blog.
Maybe I'm not so appealing after all.