Prom All Over

Yes, dear readers, you read the title correctly; Zoe, the college senior is blogging about prom. Why, you ask, a look of confusion on your face. Well, you see, Mock Trial is having prom this year, instead of our banquet, which is the usual plan at the end of the season. We normally all get together and go to a restaurant where we eat and give out awards, then we just go our separate ways. Not this year. This year we are going to all wear formal attire and have a prom, which is an idea spawning from our secretary Rache, which means it’s time to buckle down and see if I can’t fit Zoe, the consummate tomboy, back into a dress that is icy blue and puffy. Yes, I wore  puffy ball gown to prom my senior year. It was affectionately named the Cinderella dress, and it was huge, the skirt takes up most of my bed. It was so big that we had to take my date’s Explorer instead of the awesome Crossfire to prom because I wouldn’t fit in the little sports car. This means that it will be difficult to get into Wash’s Civic and buckle up because I’m pretty sure the dress has not shrunk in size.

The problem is that I have not shrunk in size, and I am at least a dress size or two bigger than I was senior year of high school. SoI’m hitting the treadmill and the ab lounge; I’ve eaten the last of my V-day candy from Wash, and now I’m eating very little in the way of junk food and I’ve had only a few diet cokes. I was drinking too many cokes, and I am now drinking more water and slimfasts instead. I’ve got until May 2, the day of Mock Prom, to lose enough inches to fit into that dress, and it won’t be an easy task. I’m have to really work on it and work hard. I can’t really afford to buy a new dress, nor do I want to buy another dress that I know I will never wear again. Honestly, if I really could afford it I would buy a new one because the Cinderella dress has too much froufrouy to suit my personality. But I suppose that I will just make do and get all dolled up in the froufrou dress. I’m going to do my own hair instead of spending a fortune on my hair this time. All I really need is to buy is shoes and probably some sort of jewelry.

And yes, Wash is my date for Mock Prom, and I’m a bit afraid that my huge dress will not fit in the Civic. I am excited for Mock Prom, though a might concerned that I will not be able to get into my dress. I’ve got a long way to go to get into the thing. But I think it will be fun to get all pretty again and really pretend to be a real lady. Most times I shout at people who call me a lady and inform them rather quickly that I am no lady. But hey, I am an actress. So I’d better get back to work on my mock trial and fixing my lunch. Then it’s to the treadmill and ab lounge.

“You’d be so pretty if you weren’t fat”

Believe it or not, I have heard those words on more than one occassion. And yes, before you ask, they were directed specifically toward me. I was shopping with my mum, yeah yeah lame whatever, for some sweaters and stuff to update my wardrobe because as usual this winter I was without decent sweaters and long sleeve shirts; anyway I was walking into the dressing room, sweaters in hand, and just as I enter the little room I hear this woman telling  me that I have chosen some nice shirts. When I turn to thank her she said something else, and I wanted to smack the hell out of her. She looks me dead in the face and says “You know, sweetie, you’d be really pretty if you weren’t fat.” My jaw drops, and I bite back a stream of cuss words, which was a feat in its self; just about the time I come up with something coherent that isn’t full of cuss words and is just sarcasm and snark her skinny daughter comes out of the dressing room with a stack of jeans and shirts and the two vanished. Dumbfounded and irritated, I entered the dressing room and tried on my sweaters. This was not the first time someone has told me I’d be pretty if I weren’t fat. In fact, I’m used to it, though it still irritates me. I’ve heard those words from a variety of people, and, while it does still hit me hard at times, I’ve gotten to the point where I just want to look at them and say “Thank you Captain Obvious. I realize that if I were slimmer and more fit I’d be more attractive. I realize that my fat stomach is not pleasing to the eye. I get it, so I’m working on it. By the way, I’m well aware of the fact that I am not skinny, but that doesn’t make me ugly. Worry about your own body, thanks.”

Granted, I do need to lose weight. That is one thing I knew long ago, but with stress and mock and classs I’ve been so busy and so fried that I just couldn’t focus on working out and eating right. But I’ve come to the realization that I have to do it, I have to lose the weight and get in shape. Otherwise I’m just going to continue being huge and out of shape and unhealthy, and I just can’t deal with that. I’m tired of knowing that I am fat, regardless of what Wash, Spoony, D –, and everyone else has told me. I’m tired of not being able to wear what I want to wear, and I’m tired of feeling like a blimp next to my friends. I’ve been the fat friend for far too long, and I’m done with it. I know that I can be attractive, there are days when I feel absolutely fantastic about my appearance, except for my weight. Last night I took my measurements, so I could set myself some goals, and I was appalled. Needless to say I will not be posting them here, ever, but I have sert some goals and made a plan, and I’m going to reach them.

Today I’m a bit sore, and I’m glad. It means that I am working my muscles and burning fat. Every night I go at least a mile on the treadmill, which is really boring but effective, and I use the ab lounge, which I have affectionately named the Rack. I’m also weight training because muscle burn fat and I need to build up my muscle any way. That reminds me that I need to buy some wristbraces so I don’t destroy my wrists, especially my right one that I broke and never healed properly, doing curls and bench presses. I impressed myself last night when I was doing my lower body work out; I did 50 lbs on my legs, and, though I’m pretty sore, it feels pretty awesome. Also I’m pleased to report that my Slimfast shakes are actually fairly awesome; they don’t taste bad, and I think they are working. I wasn’t as hungry as I normally am, and I had a lot more energy. I’m already feeling better, and it makes me excited.

Quote of the Day: “Don’t you know you’re beautiful?
Don’t you know you’re beautiful?
Don’t you know you’re beautiful?
Just the way you are!”- Kellie Pickler, “Don’t You Know You’re Beautiful”

The inner chick

Sometimes I start to think, and we all know that me thinking can be a bad thing, and when this happens any number of varied thoughts appear, such as the topic of today’s entry. The thought occured to me last night as I put on my make up and got all girled up for mock trial last night. I didn’t wear a skirt, but I did break out the eyeliner and mascara, and I did curl my hair. But while I was doing this I couldn’t help but ask myself a question.

Am I a chick underneath it all or is all that girly stuff just a mask to pretend what is not really there? I don’t mean that I am gender confused, because I know for certain that I am female. I mean that I am not very feminine on the outside, not really. I’m sarcastic, snarky, abrasive, blunt, and I rarely where a skirt of much make up. Putting on eyeliner and mascara is a pain in the ass, and pantyhose are the work of the devil. Typically my hair is straight and down, and having to take the 20 to 30 minutes to make it that way is a pain too. I wear my jeans and flip flops more than my heels and dress pants; my nails are painted not to be pretty, but to keep me from biting them. I wince when I break a nail not because its uneven, but because it hurts like hell when they break too far back. I’ve been known to cuss, and I’ve been known to spit. I open my own doors, and walk to my car with little fear. I don’t drive a little plastic sports car; and I love my mid size SUV. I wear blue, green, and black more than I wear pink. I wear pearls when I have to or just a pendant on a chain around my neck. I’m not girly at all.

Knowing all that, I suppose you are wonder why I would be asking that question. I must seem rather sure. But the truth is, for all I do know, I’m not so sure who I am at times. This is rather disjointed and confusing, even to me, and for that, dear readers, I apologize. Onto the point, however. I have never really been sure whether deep down I am a feminine creature, or whether it is simple something I do, being feminine, because I know I should, because I know it’s expected. I’ve always been one of the guys, the friend, the study budy, and that’s cool, but I often wonder if deep down a part of me tries to fight that. I sometimes consider whether or not when I put on eyeliner, mascara, and lipstick my inner chick is fighting to be seen. God nows I hide her fairly often.

I’m fairly certain that if you ask many people other than my boyfriend, guys especially, whether they find me attractive you will get responses that tell you most people don’t see me as female. I’m not traditional pretty, in fact I can look really bad. I’m 5′7″ tall and weigh more than I’d like to, I’ve got skin issues and hair issues that complicate matters. Lately I’ve even been a bit self conscious about the scars on my left leg, especially the one on my hip that makes it look sunken in. I’m not really a pretty girl, and that is part of why guys see me as just another friend. But I sometimes wonder if my inner chick resents that and fights out against it. I don’t try to be girly, but I have moments. There’s also my abrasive and less than lady-like personality to consider. I’m the ‘unattractive abrasive one’, I suppose, and to be honest, I like it that way for the most part. It irks me at times, like when I get shoved out of the way so that people can talk to my pretty friends, but other than that, I’m happy with who I am.

Quote of the Day: “He that breaks a thing to find out what it is has left the path of wisdom.” -Gandalf to Saruman

Pretty

Be pretty, they command
Be thin and beautiful.
Don’t be heavy or fat
don’t be average and plain.

Be perfect and lovely
be a masterpiece.
Don’t be bland or boring
don’t be ugly and flawed.

What about be real?
Is that an option?
What about be who I am?
Is that a choice for me?

What is beauty anyway.
Is it possible at all?
Is perfect something real?
Can you achieve it in time?

Be a model, they say.
Be like that girl on TV.
She’s so beautiful
they love her so.

If you are pretty, my dear,
we will love you just like her.
So be beautiful, my sweet,
and we will adore you too.

I’d rather be real, not fake.
I’ll take my truth, thanks,
over your stupid plastic lies.
I decline you offer, much obliged.

I’ll be my own imperfect beauty.
I don’t need your phony lines.
I decline your conditioned love
instead I’ll take that girl there.

That’s right, the heavy one,
the ugly and imperfect one.
I’ll take the real me, thank you,
with all the lovely flaws
that make me pretty.