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January 01, 2007

I'm Not Together Yet, But I'm Getting There

Wanna know how I rushed in New Year's 2007? With a killer-inspirational (and sickening) dose of Morgan Spurlock's "Supersize Me," that's how.

The documentary was rolling on MSNBC in preparation for all the millions of us slobs who will be trekking back to the gym tomorrow morning. Touché, MSNBC. Touché. The whole thing was carefully wrapped in bright and shiny new advertisements that promoted weight loss, diet supplements, and various at-home and public excericse machines and facilities. They couldn't have made it clearer to us all: Get your fat asses off the couch and onto the elliptical machine.

Although I, unlike Morgan Spurlock, have never spent an entire month eating nothing but America's Favorite Fries (TM) and Filet O' Fish Sandwiches, I've got my own problems to concede to. I am addicted to food. And not in the light hearted, casusal way to which foodies will over-eagerly admit. It's much worse than that. I am a food addict: A salty-sweet-crunchy-peppery-lemony-sugary carbohydrate consuming addict. I am a sick, diseased person. I've spent my entire life using food to suppress feeling frustrated with my family, with my religion, with my sexuality, with my friendships, with my shyness--with just about everything I can imagine. And I don't know much longer I can keep getting high off of buttered dinner rolls and french fries before I end up with diabetes or cardiac disease.

I am a complete and total mess.

But I'm hoping to change that.

I've never been one for starting goals. Resolutions, yes; but goals, never. It's much easier for me to "resolve" to do something rather than to sit down and carefully plan and execute a specific goal. Resolutions carry a less-committed attitude towards self-empowerment. It gives me the excuse to want and try to do something new, but it doesn't necessarily arm me with the tools and the plans needed to actually make something of it. I've given myself New Year's Resolutions for more years than I feel fit to mention, and they always seem to fissle out and dissolve more than two or three weeks into the process. I'd feel good for actually making the mental effort to think about excerising or not taking a second helping at dinner, but that didn't really make a difference by the end of the day. I guess I was just giving myself a license to fail without any consequences, because I either didn't want to live up to them, or I was too afraid of finding out what kind of person I'd be if I ever accomplished what I'd dreamed up in the first place.

So this year, it's goals. Goals, goals, goals. And not unrealistic ones, either. Clearly defined, mesaurable, and attainable goals. I'm not going to come out of this looking like Angelina Jolie by the end of the summer, but I'm sure as hell not going to sit around looking like Nell Carter in the heat of July. I'm going to open up a new diary to start keeping track of those goals and and plans on a regular basis, that way this diary won't get bogged down with too much blubbery weight-loss sentimentality.

Well, okay, maybe a little.

I'm excited about the thought of actually making good on my plans and having something to be proud of come the end of next year. I want to have more self esteem. I need to have more confidence. I must have more self control. And above all else, I've got to learn how to love myself before everyone and anything else, even food.

Look out, 2007. I'm gonna kick your ass in.

posted at 12:18 a.m.

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