outer-jessie's Diaryland Diary

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Who am I?

Lately I've been thinking that I'm facing an unglorious return to pudgy, and so this morning I thought I'd take a hearty walk. I have some friends who have taken up walking as a means of prolonging pre-pudgy, as well as for combating stress; as I do get up very early with the girl having to be up before 6, a quick jaunt around the complex or, if I dare, around the block, is hardly outside the realm of possibility. And it's Tucson, and it's July, and the early morning is pretty much the only appropriate time for such endeavors. So I declared, after you leave for work, I will take a walk.

And then I thought, hold up there genius, you could actually put yourself to some use as a walking poop delivery service today. That's right, poop delivery. And that's poop delivery service, not your standard flaming-poop-in-a-bag: this poop would be delivered for the greater good. The greater good of my kitty, who could be declared worm-free by the vet down the street.

But as it was 6:30, and the vet didn't open till 9, I was purposeless for 2 hours at least. Taskless. Idle. Staring straight into the eyes of a good five years worth of digital photos on my desktop computer.

Strictly speaking, it's my girlfriend's computer now, since I have my laptop and everything on it, but I haven't pulled off the vaaaaaast array of crap I still possess on that computer although I rarely touch it anymore. So it has all my five years worth of pictures, plus her pictures, and a fair percentage of all these pictures feature outer-jessie herself.

If you will: picture outer-jessie of five years ago. Thin. Young. Healthy. Almost, but not quite, but certainly in comparison to now, beautiful. And outer-jessie of today: nigh on the pudgiest thing you've ever seen. Plus older. Aging. Outer-jessie, minus youth, plus oldiness, wrapped in fat, dipped in unhealthy-looking. Ewwww.

Why is it that photographs capture the truth we fail to see? Or is that not a universal thing but rather a Jessie thing? When I look in the mirror, I don't see that stuff. USUALLY. But when I obsessively grabbed a hand mirror to view myself from all angles in the full-length mirror, it was all there. The gullet. The pot belly. The sagging, pestilent skin. The protruding vertebrae that will almost certainly become a fetching hunchback in the years to come. My eyes are still blue, and my hair is still the color of honey, but that's pretty much all that remains of the old outer-jessie and just about ALL I have going for me. (Physically.)

What I can't figure out, what I really don't understand, is WHY I don't see these things when I look in the mirror. Am I not my own harshest critic? Why don't I see these glaring flaws? Why don't I see all the ugly? And if I'm not seeing those things, what else am I not seeing about myself? Am I deceiving myself about who I am, what I'm good at, what I mean to people, what my purpose in the world is, what kind of person I am? Am I, unbeknownst to myself, nothing but a fat, pimply blight on the Universe?

I am a being most foul, and my presence darkens the glow around my beautiful, perfect girlfriend.

The day started out all lovely, and with just two hours of picture-viewing disintegrated into crippling insecurity and self-loathing. It's like I said earlier: when there's poop in your fridge, no good can come of the day.

11:05 a.m. - 2008-07-24

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