I Wear My Heart in my Ass

Seriously,  there is surely a major artery that goes directly and rapidly from my backside to my emotional center.  The good news?  I must have  a really big heart.  When I am depressed and/or anxious — when my heart hurts — I eat too much.  When I eat too much, my ass gets bigger.  When my ass gets bigger, I get depressed and anxious and my heart hearts.  Oh the infinite loop.  With the discovery of this major thoroughfare through my body, it is no wonder that the most depressing spells in my life have been reflected in the size of my backside.  While it goes both ways, the loop usually starts with me feeling down and then eating.

Praise be to novelty!  The other night, I got to start at a different point in the loop.  I was in my improv class having a perfectly delightful time.  We were playing and laughing and singing.  And then came the dancing.  I love dancing, and we played one of my favorite dancing games.  I was so engrossed in my booty shaking, I didn’t notice right away that a teenager had plucked up an iPad and begun filming us.  When I did notice, I wasn’t immediately offended; I thought it might be fun to see a full body shot of myself.  After all, a few times in the recent past I have been pleasantly surprised by such shots.  Sadly, on this particular night, pleasant was not an appropriate adverb for my surprise.  Unable to rip my eyes from the screen, I watched my butt wiggle and shake and take up way too much space and felt, with each floppy wag, my heart sagging further in my chest cavity.  Holy ass, Batman!  How can this have happened, and why aren’t strangers mistaking me for a set of stacking Russian dolls with the biggest three tops removed?

The next morning I was a miserable lump.  It was hard to get out of bed, and had I not had an appointment, I would have stayed there.  With the cats.  As I lay there, staring at the ceiling and doing a half-assed job of keeping cat anus out of my line of sight, I tried to think about what might be making me feel so low.

Truthfully, there are probably a number of contributing factors, not the least of which is my eating habits over the last few days.  Chocolate two days in a row and right before bed is probably not the best thing for my emotional wellbeing.  And there was that second dinner a few nights ago.  But the death blow was not the food, though I am sure it did contribute to my funk.  The death blow came, of course, from my ass in the form of video footage of said ass.  Ahhhhh!  Why did I not come equipped with eyes in the back of my head?  I would have been saved so much indignity.

Now here I sit, two weeks into my Whole 30 month.  While I haven’t taken measurements, so can’t know for certain, the ass on which I sit feels decidedly smaller — small enough anyway to be under my control.  Whether this is due to an actual decreased saddlebag circumference or my perceived level of control due to improved eating habits is (almost) irrelevant.  I am exercising control and restraint (and just plain exercising), and as a result, my ass feels infinitely more manageable — my emotional chaos has a container.  And it feels good.  Screw those stupid stacking Russian dolls! It’s time I permanently misplace a bottom or two.  I plan on helping my heart to migrate north in the process.



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