A blotchy pumpkin head, ageing and spreading. A bloated bag of wind. A revolting, unappealing mixture of bumps, rolls, and general grossness.
That’s what I see in the photos lately, and I hate looking at myself so much it makes my stomach churn and my eyes water. I avoid any reflective surface so I don’t get a glimpse of the disgusting creature I spend my days inhabiting.
I work out every day. I’m watching what I eat more often.
But I can’t get clothes baggy enough to hide in. The skirt I always turned to that made me feel pretty now just feels like a way to exhibit the lumpiness of my potato body.
Add to that a severe lack of memory and general ditziness and…well. Perhaps I shouldn’t be foisting all that on the world. And my poor wife. I don’t know how she can bear to look at me, repulsive as I must surely be.
I’m loud, awkward, confused, stupid, tired, sick, dumb, unaware, too serious… so many things.
I hope that the one saving grace is that I’m kind. I hope I am, anyway.
It’s a rough night. This too shall pass, right? Maybe tomorrow I won’t hate myself quite as much.