Cancelling everything (including grip on reality)
I had a bit of a bridezilla moment today (I need Lucille to tell me the URL of that website, because I can't find it).
I was looking at my photographs of, consecutively: me in my nearly-finished wedding dress; my with my practice hair; and me with my practice makeup. I threw my toys out of my pram. I was *this* close to cancelling the hair and makeup people and asking Derya to do my makeup. I called the chief bridesmaid (Laura) for advice and I think I acted like a textbook case of unbalanced, neurotic bride-to-be. Anyway, advice was to take a bath and then lie down. I think the idea behind the advice was to keep me away from the 'phone. I was also told to get rid of the photographs!
So a couple of hours later, after having snarled at Greg when he tried to wake me up, I arose, refreshed and slightly sheepish. I called Shelley and explained that I was nervous that although I'd sprung for some moisturiser (which, incidentally, is gorgeous) and she'd spend about an hour on Friday telling me how it would all work, and why, and what we'd do if it didn't, I was still concerned. So she told me to go back to hers next weekend and she'd redo it. Which is fantastic, and a super service.
I'm so relieved - at least now I can stop worrying about my face. And concentrate on my weight. This seems to be fluctuating at the moment. I'm always within about three pounds of the weight I should be, but I guess weighing myself upwards of four times a day (ok, I weigh myself everytime I use the loo now, and on weekends when I'm mostly in the flat, that's unfortunately quite a lot) is not a clever thing to do. Once a day is bordering on neurotic; once an hour is basket-weaving territory.
So, I've taken a deep breath, and promised to weigh myself once a day, only. Absolute tops. I'm not freaking out about the weight itself, because that isn't actually a problem - I'm more concerned that my obsession could get ugly. I already have to check about three times when leaving the flat that I've locked our front door, and sometimes have to turn around on the way to work to come back and check it. Oddly, I've never left the bloody door swinging in the wind, and everytime I go back to check, I'm kicking myself as I walk up the street (yes, it's hard; and yes, it hurts).
When I used to drive to work I'd have to walk back across the carpark, sometimes five minutes (big carpark, I'm telling you, and in the rain, not good), just to check I'd locked the damn car. I'd be going back twice or three times before I'd got to the office. If I ignored it when I had the first "oh! did I lock it?" moment, I'd stop in the carpark waiting for the feeling to pass. And it didn't - so I'd be stuck there like an idiot in the middle of a relatively busy carpark trying to work out whether to go back. Anyway, as I always went back, I soon learned that it was futile to resist. Once the thought popped into my head, I had to go back and check. I'm not sure how a weight obsession could develop, but trust me - if there's a way it can, I guarantee I'll find it.
I was looking at my photographs of, consecutively: me in my nearly-finished wedding dress; my with my practice hair; and me with my practice makeup. I threw my toys out of my pram. I was *this* close to cancelling the hair and makeup people and asking Derya to do my makeup. I called the chief bridesmaid (Laura) for advice and I think I acted like a textbook case of unbalanced, neurotic bride-to-be. Anyway, advice was to take a bath and then lie down. I think the idea behind the advice was to keep me away from the 'phone. I was also told to get rid of the photographs!
So a couple of hours later, after having snarled at Greg when he tried to wake me up, I arose, refreshed and slightly sheepish. I called Shelley and explained that I was nervous that although I'd sprung for some moisturiser (which, incidentally, is gorgeous) and she'd spend about an hour on Friday telling me how it would all work, and why, and what we'd do if it didn't, I was still concerned. So she told me to go back to hers next weekend and she'd redo it. Which is fantastic, and a super service.
I'm so relieved - at least now I can stop worrying about my face. And concentrate on my weight. This seems to be fluctuating at the moment. I'm always within about three pounds of the weight I should be, but I guess weighing myself upwards of four times a day (ok, I weigh myself everytime I use the loo now, and on weekends when I'm mostly in the flat, that's unfortunately quite a lot) is not a clever thing to do. Once a day is bordering on neurotic; once an hour is basket-weaving territory.
So, I've taken a deep breath, and promised to weigh myself once a day, only. Absolute tops. I'm not freaking out about the weight itself, because that isn't actually a problem - I'm more concerned that my obsession could get ugly. I already have to check about three times when leaving the flat that I've locked our front door, and sometimes have to turn around on the way to work to come back and check it. Oddly, I've never left the bloody door swinging in the wind, and everytime I go back to check, I'm kicking myself as I walk up the street (yes, it's hard; and yes, it hurts).
When I used to drive to work I'd have to walk back across the carpark, sometimes five minutes (big carpark, I'm telling you, and in the rain, not good), just to check I'd locked the damn car. I'd be going back twice or three times before I'd got to the office. If I ignored it when I had the first "oh! did I lock it?" moment, I'd stop in the carpark waiting for the feeling to pass. And it didn't - so I'd be stuck there like an idiot in the middle of a relatively busy carpark trying to work out whether to go back. Anyway, as I always went back, I soon learned that it was futile to resist. Once the thought popped into my head, I had to go back and check. I'm not sure how a weight obsession could develop, but trust me - if there's a way it can, I guarantee I'll find it.
posted by Chaya at 10:53 pm
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home