The Status of Shock

I've come to a fairly accurate hypothesis regarding my Cancer Coping Mechanisms. I believe from the beginning to end of the really bad treatments, I was in shock. And luckily when I'm in shock, I don't crawl into bed, I go into hyperactive manic mode.

And now I find myself dealing with the longer-lasting side effects: the loss of effortless beauty, the addition of extra pounds and puffy eyelids, and the psychological trauma of knowing that I--who even before the body mutilation felt I would never find a partner--have about a .001 % of finding one now.

(As an aside, my dad's cousin, a survivor who works for Gilda's Club, said that only after reading my story in Aventura, did they begin even to think about how BC women are affected regarding dating. This is precisely why the older organizations SUCK for us YOUNG bitches. Let me tell you Komen fuckers, we're here in greater numbers than ever. And not thinking about dating? Fucking Christ people, that is the FIRST thing any single woman with Breast Cancer is likely to think of.)

Yes, I am in full ranting mode today brought on by a pair of Seven Jeans. And my usual disclaimer: I'm grateful to be alive and cancer-free. But this is MY Cancer and currently the issues I'm dealing with are self-esteem and hopelessness regarding men, so deal with it. Pull your chemo IV closer to the screen and lose yourself in my ridiculous, selfish problems for a few minutes.

First, you should know that I used to be fat. At one point, really, really fucking fat. I was up to a size 14 in college. Hence no dating in college and not losing virginity till after. I told you guys I'm not a whore. I ballooned up and down like most girls, but once you're fat, you always see some part of that fat girl in the dressing room mirror even when you're down to a 0 or a 2.

Well. For the past five years I've been a 0, 2 or 4 depending on the label. European labels are cut smaller and American ones bigger. Retailers have taken sizes down over the years to make fat America feel not so fat. Seriously, it's a fact. 1993's size 4 would now be a size 2 etc. Also remember that I'm only 5'4. Taller skinny bitches often wear bigger sizes.

But jeans are a woman's real guage of size. I've been a 26 for about four years. I've talked about avoiding my jeans so as not to trigger a nervous breakdown the likes of which I am experiencing at this very moment. Proof? I am at home while the family is at the new Saks and Gucci outlets. But why should I go there when I can't fucking fit into fucking anything and instead of wanting to crawl into my closet and caress my beloved Versace and Chanel, which I would do if stuff fit, I want to set fire to it all.

So the jeans. It's a little cool in Jacksonville and I knew I'd have to borrow some of mom's after getting my 26s on only by lying prostrate. But when I tried her 28s and they weren't the least bit big, I freaked. I feel like a 14. And what's worse is that people telling me I look great is to me a backhanded compliment, unintentionally on their part. Of course my fam and friends are going to say I look great; I've just finished cancer treatment. What are they going to say? I look sick? Fat? Pale? They would never. But I am sick of hearing that I look good. Because I look like shit to myself and that's all that matters in my world of fashion and beauty. Currently, I'm wearing Crazy Ass's size-28 pair of Sevens that she wore when she was pregnant. That's a real confidence booster, no? I don't dress for men or other people. I dress for myself because I take pride in my appearance, I work hard on it and I like getting dressed up and made up and sylized. If I hate the way I look, I try to please myself and fail. Clothes end up all over my room; I yell at my jeans; I don't go out sometimes when I feel 'fat'; and I pass up opportunities to go to Gucci and Saks. (Not to mention all the glam parties and other social invites I decline because my lovely high-end dresses still look hideous to me.) And my fucking eyelids. PERPETUALLY puffy. Looks like I've tied one over the night before every day. And I barely drink anymore.

So I've gone up two sizes in my lower region. My small tops fit, bottoms don't. This is even scarier because I'm fearing that unless I can afford to hire a trainer, I'm going to go from a desirable hourglass shape to the dreaded pear shape. Please, god, no. Please. If 5 of my 7 post chemo pounds are gone, what the FUCK is that in my belly and ass? Seriously? Two pounds doesn't equal having to go up two jean sizes. And I know that I mentioned that I do at least 45 minutes of cardio six times a week; weights two or three; Pilates and Ashtanga yoga once a week each. And I eat well.

The only solution I can see is stepping up the gym to twice a day. If I have to work twice as hard to look good, then maybe that formula makes sense. But who the hell wants to go to the gym twice a day. Ugh.

Thanksgiving was pretty uneventful. Everone is sick. And I want to stab myself in the stomach and puncture that fucking bloody water belly. And I'm on my period. Long story short. I am very, very unhappy with my body right now. Which causes me to be unhappy in general. And short tempered and bitch. And I know that mom is going to bitch and moan about having to buy me an exp pair of jeans that (god fucking willing) I'll only have to wear for a couple more months. Which is another reason I won't go to Saks with her today. She won't let me borrow her 28s and probably won't get me a pair. So, what? It's warm up suits and dresses with tights in Chicago.

And to all you fatties, more power too you. I love my fatties and wish I could have a big basket of crispy French fries with you right now. If I could be happy being fat, I'd be shoveling Krispy Cremes into my piehole right now. My family though is beautiful, disgustingly, Hollywood beautiful. And when you're the ugly duckling for a large part of your life, trust me, you never want to relive that. My parents, as much as they will deny it and think that it makes them sound superficial, take pride in my appearance. I hate being around them when I'm feeling ugly. They don't get it. They've never been ugly.

So you know what? FUCK YOU CANCER for depriving me of the historic, brand-new Gucci and Saks outlets 20 mins away. And FUCK YOU TAXOL YOU MOTHERFUCKING, WEIGHT-GAINING PIECE OF CHEMO SHIT. I appreciate you fuckers saving my life, but Jesus Christ, can't you at least spare us our looks too? Seriously?

On a serious note, please send your prayers, positive thoughts and energy to Vicky of Chopard fame, we need to get some good energy going up there for her in the City.


Love,
The Fat Ass
(Sorry Lay, this is my title until I'm back in my jeans.)