So, (and yes, I do start a lot of my conversations with “so”. Like a teenager. I do not ever use “LOL” or “OMG” or any of those annoying abbreviations, so I figure I am allowed to say “So” at the beginning of conversations, blog posts and any other form of communication if I want to.) I went to see the movie Trainwreck with a friend tonight. It’s not the kind of movie I would generally watch, but I really enjoyed it. Amy Schumer is great. I even found myself tearing up during the emotional bits – the sad, ugly crying bits where Amy realises she is a bit of a screw up and wants to join the human race.
But then I start wondering, what is wrong with me? Why am I watching this film, which is supposed to be hilariously funny, and getting all boo-hooey? Nobody who reviewed Trainwreck said “Make sure you bring your tissues – this one’s a real tear-jerker!” It’s not the kind of film you recommend your Mum sees, because it’s “so adorable” and sweet and romantic. Well, I guess it is those things, in a “look-at-that-girl-she’s-such-a-mess-she’s-adorable” kind of way. But it’s not, y’know, Sleepless in Seattle.
There are several reasons I can think of that would make me get teary in relation to such a film:
- I am hormonal. Everything makes me cry right now. Seriously. Big ugly, snotty blubbing.
- Amy Schumer is supposedly the “bigger” girl in Hollywood right now and is always (in interviews) putting herself down as the chunky/overweight/ugly/clumsy/unattractive girl. If she is chunky, I am in trouble. I saw her run in heels – that ain’t clumsy. She wears skirts shorter than some belts I own and they’re ain’t nothin’ wrong with her legs. I find this depressing. If she is considered overweight and unattractive, I may as well pack up shop now and move to somewhere very remote where people do not venture. Seriously, I should begin my career as a hermit yak herder in Siberia. I don’t know if hermit yak herders are something you have in Siberia but it seems like a good plan. Basically, I should just go somewhere isolated and uninhabited. A lighthouse on the moon, that sort of thing.
- I am lonely. I don’t feel lonely, but every now and then something will happen that reminds I am alone and quite possibly will be forever. Most of the time that is ok, but combine it with suddenly feeling grossly obese and monstrously hideous, and it becomes overwhelming. Sure, Amy’s character is a pot-smoking, foul-mouthed drunk who sleeps around, but hey, she looks attractive doing it and she has nice hair. I just dyed mine a really weird dark red colour which was a big mistake and will take ages to wash out so not only do I feel fat and ugly, I have weird hair.
- Despite the fact, Amy’s character is basically, well, a trainwreck, she still manages to get the greatest guy ever who is lovely and sweet and caring and smart and funny and wonderful. That makes me sad. Where is the guy who will fall in love with cookie-bingeing, hormonal, messy, disorganised, slightly mental me? I don’t even do drugs! Or drink! I can’t even have chocolate! Gimme a break people!
So, there are those reasons. At the moment I am feeling decidedly revolting due to having a few weeks leave where I haven’t been able to exercise at all (because I am normally so diligent about that…not!) and have basically consumed my entire body weight in cookies and cake and other foods that do not look remotely like carrot sticks or celery. I tried on several pairs of jeans tonight and only one out of four pairs fit me. In the end, I gave up and put on my fat pants. Even they were a little less roomy than I remember them. I think I could have watched any movie tonight and it would have made me sad. Because I am fatter than I would like to be and, even worse, it is my own fault. I know I can lose it again. I lost 30kg before (ok, it was actually 28kg, but I like to round it up to a nice even number…it sounds more impressive) and I can do it again. But it seems so hard. And lonely. And HARD. Almost too hard. I’ll be 42 in six months’ time. I should be over this stuff already. I’m tired of hating myself.
I feel bad for even feeling bad. I mean, people are starving in the world and I’m whinging because I eat too much? Boo-hoo, poor me. I have fat legs? How sad. Some people don’t even have legs! (But, to be fair, I have had meningitis and risked losing my limbs so…ok, that’s not even an argument worth having). Basically, I have NOTHING to complain about.
I don’t even know what this post is about. Tomorrow I will read it and call myself an idiot and make a mental note never to blog when I am hormonal or sad or wallowing in self-hatred. Which will probably mean I never blog again. Which might be a relief to some people.
If you’re having one of these days, know that you are not alone. Let us wallow together. I will make tea and NOT offer you a cookie (because we’re both on diets now). It will be better tomorrow and if not, the day after that might be ok.
Apologies for late-night whinging. Thank you for listening.