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Shopping was a RIDICULOUS success today, thanks to the aid of syn_abounds, nessaneko and poor_toms_acold. On the downside, the success was such that lay-by had to be arranged so I do not actually HAVE my pretty shiny new dresses of awesometude.

But suffice it to say that amazing things were found AND I got 25% off by joining the Jacqui E VIP club.

And now I'm back at home resting my weary feet and watching WWII documentaries, for which I have only five words: OH, FUCK YOU, NEVILLE CHAMBERLAIN.


Apr. 23rd, 2010 07:44 pm
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I has new glasses! And as I was typing that le_grenade arrived at the door with my ball outfit, which is FABULOUS and "vaguely piratical", in her words. This is obviously A GOOD THING.

The glasses are ... odd, in that my sight has clearly degraded a smidge in the 5 years since I got my old specs, but it just wasn't noticeable until I stepped out of the shop wearing my new ones and suddenly realised OH SHIT I CAN SEE STUFF NOW. Also they are heavier and the much thicker sides are currently playing havoc with my peripheral vision. And just as I was getting used to a fringe suddenly BAM NEW FACE. You know what I mean. /firstworldproblems

Now I need to finish the jacket embroidery, get pished and have a good night's sleep.
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Work was shite, largely due to the kind of wankjargon that would get you thrown out of The Office's writers' lounge for being too wankjargony. Protip: if you've already used the word "shared" twice in a very short sentence, you probably don't have to crowbar "united" in there too for emphasis.

And one of my better-fitting bras suffered critical damage in the form of the underwire on one side leaping, chestburster-like, through the seam and towards my neck, carving a lovely dark red line on my cleavage.

And I don't have time to do the cogwork embroidery I was planning so I've had to come up with an alternate wrought-iron design which will take less time. But I am not a girl who enjoys designing arty things that can't be quantified into cross-stitch.

And I've been getting fuckall sleep and thus was in no mindset to write that damn job application I have to do. It's a lovely vicious cycle, in that I will doubtless wake up multiple times tonight panicking that I have missed the deadline (and am thus condemned to an eternity of shared shared united collaborative shared jargonwank) which will mean I'm too tired to do it tomorrow etc. etc.

Bugger this, I'm going to bed.
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I have but one wish, dear peeps: stop talking about your weight.

Let me explain why I'm not actually being a tremendous bitch. [Editor's Note: Okay, on reflection that's probably a lie.]

I know a lot of you out there are eating differently,* or exercising more, or taking up a new activity, or making other changes to your lives.

Your lives are your lives and your choices are your choices and your changes are your changes.

But I beseech you. Can it with the fucking weight talk. Stop with the ephemeral irrelevant subjective bullshit that is "weight".

It's a fucking number on a fucking scale - and for God's sake, as a planet we can't even pick ONE scale to use.

Do you want to have more energy? Do you want to be able to run a certain distance or lift a certain weight or achieve a measurable change in your body's biochemistry? Do you like working up a sweat thrashing out to 80s hair metal? AWESOME.

Now some of these things might also make you lose weight. And some of them might make you gain weight. And they might have no effect on your weight at all. But as long as you have the energy or make the time or have the strength who gives a fuck about a number?

You may honestly want to turn around and say "well, the *number* is what makes me happy!" I am sorry to be a tremendous bitch: if you are seriously basing your happiness and self-esteem on a number you may never reach and will almost certainly not maintain, you need to re-evaluate your concept of "happiness", because it looks like "self-acceptance" isn't on your list.

Side Note: On the Fitting of Clothes

Of course there's always "I gained weight over Christmas so my clothes don't fit".

Notice how we say our clothes don't do something, and then automatically assume the solution is to change our bodies?

This was a realisation for me, so I vaguely apologise for the forthcoming shouting:


This is not just "sizes are different between brands", and it is not "vanity sizing", and it is not "XYZ cut their pants differently". This is, no piece of fabric, however pretty or expensive, is the boss of your body. If it doesn't fit, it is wrong clothing. *It*, and not imaginary overnight-inflation of your hips, is what needs to go.

If only because at the end of the day, your body is the thing you're going to be living in for the rest of your life, and it will change. It will sag, it will wrinkle, it will get bigger or smaller and clinging to those dream size-12 pants will not stop it from doing this.

Easy choice: get hung up on a number (weight or size) that will change and is ultimately meaningless,** or do what you enjoy and buy clothes that fit.

Further Reading

Disclaimer: Obviously, a shit-tonne of white middle-class able-bodied privilege here. Not everyone has access to Western supermarkets and clothing stores, much less full-time work or a disposable income, or even scales to throw away. You are reading this post online, from a computer: the mere fact you have electricity and spare time makes you part of the elite.

Further, there are people who do need to know their weight, and do need to monitor it, and that's because it could literally kill them to lose weight. And a lot of those people? Have been told they're lucky, or that at least their illness "comes with benefits". That is our society's attitude to weight, people. Don't participate in it.

*And some of you are pretending it's not a diet, but that's an issue that *would* involve me being a tremendous bitch.

**My weight? 98kg - I know because the doctor weighed me and I'd chickened out of arguing, deciding I'd only pick a fight if the BMI got mentioned. My size? perfect XS at City Chic, 12 at Zebrano, 14-16 at Farmers, 16-18 at Max/Bendon, perfect 18 at Jacqui E, 20 at Kooky. I could care about this, or I could be a happier person. Ask J.


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December 2010

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