I never shop at Victoria’s Secret. It’s one of those places I just walk right past and don’t even give it a second thought. But I’ve had such bad luck buying bras over the years, and with my weight loss, I truly had no idea what size I was, so I knew I’d need help getting the right fit.
I asked my neighbor, and she said Victoria’s Secret was the best for getting fitted properly. I guess they have to, since it’s their primary business. I didn’t even think they’d have anything that would fit me, because the last time I ever went in – about 20 years ago – they didn’t have anything remotely close to my size. That was before my breast reduction, and even though I was smaller everywhere else, they didn’t have a large enough cup size. So I was pleasantly surprised that one of the saleswomen was my plus size and body type. Definitely made me feel more comfortable!
They do an excellent job of making sure you have the exact right bra. They measure you, have you try on what they call their “fitting bra”, which is what she said was their best bra. It felt like shit on me, though, because it’s underwire and has a thin side strap, which caused my side fat to blubber all over. But she wanted to get the right band and cup size for me. As it turned out, the band was the right size, but the cup was way too big for me. It was actually quite amusing to look down and see what amounts to two apples flopping around in two bowls.
They have a service button on the inside of each fitting room, and a “personal shopper” that helps you every step of the way. She picked out about 6 bras according to my specifications, and after each one, she came back in to figure out where it was right and where it was wrong. Took about 30 minutes total, from the time I walked in to the time I paid and left. I walked out with the new bra on my body, and my old bra stuffed in a small bag.
They give you a card that shows your proper size, the type of bra you bought, the saleswoman’s name and the helper’s name. Of course, there’s a recommended date for you to come back in for a new bra/fitting. Usually I would laugh at that, ’cause I’m not into shopping for a bra every 6 months … more like 6 years. But with my weight loss, I might have to go back in 6 months! Well, maybe a year. We’ll see. I spent $58 on the fucker, so it had better last me at least a year! 😀
I will say that it’s worth the money. It’s not the prettiest or sexiest bra, but it does its job and feels good. And the lengths they go to in helping you get the right one is worth any extra I spent there as opposed to a 3 hour nightmare at Walmart trying on every bra in the store.
I swear, I’ve never talked so much about a bra in my life. I’ve also never looked down at myself and thought, “damn, I’m just boobin’ all over the place here!” 😀 They’re where they’re supposed to be in a bra, and I don’t think I have ever had that experience before.
So yeah, Victoria’s Secret has my repeat business, that’s for damn sure.
30.9 to be exact. I’ve been at this weight loss thing for 200 days. At least I’m consistent! My first 100 days netted me a 15 lb loss. But the last 8 weeks have been a struggle of epic proportions.
Prior to today’s weigh-in, March 16th was my last good one. I had lost 2 lbs from the week before. I’ve been averaging about one pound a week, so I was ecstatic to see a two pound loss. Then on March 23rd, I lost zero. I was exactly the same weight. I was disappointed, but I figured that two pounds in two weeks was still a good accomplishment, so I didn’t worry too much about it.
But then, week after week, I was seeing less and less of a loss, I started to panic. My losses were .8 lb, then .6 lb, then another zero. I looked at my diet to see if I’d done anything wrong, I analyzed my exercise. I could find nothing out of the ordinary. I reached out to my social network, scared and frustrated that my body had hit the dreaded plateau. I ramped up my exercise in the hopes of breaking through that plateau. I dug out the Wii console, balance board and Wii Fit disc. I played some of the games and did the yoga exercises, in the hopes that it would resuscitate my body. I even chopped off half my hair, which was probably worth about 1 lb (yeah, I know, that’s cheating!). The next week, I lost 1.2 lbs, and I was hopeful that it was over, I’d broken through.
My excitement was short-lived. The following week I lost only .4 lb, and the next week’s loss was .6 lb. I tried not to let it discourage me, but self-doubt seeped in every time I thought about it, which was pretty much every time I ate something or exercised. To make matters worse, an article was posted about the contestants from the Biggest Loser who were studied, and not only gained back most of the weight they lost, but were now dealing with a metabolism much slower than they had before they started their weight loss journey. It was not encouraging news, to say the least. This slowed down metabolism wasn’t something that just the contestants had to deal with, but that every person who loses weight has to deal with. My spirits sank, and I felt hopeless for the first time since starting my journey. I felt the best I could do was just maintain my weight.
My 200th day came on Sunday, May 8th. Mother’s Day. The day that, 20 years ago, I became pregnant with my Son. My official weigh-in day wouldn’t be for another 3 days, but I couldn’t resist the urge to step on the scale and just take a quick look. I was stunned when I saw it was two pounds less than the previous weigh-in. Hope started creeping back in again. I had a bit of a spring in my step. Good things happen to me on Mother’s Day.
When I woke up today, my official weigh-in day, I couldn’t wait to step on the scale! I pulled it out, and stood there looking at it for a moment, when a jolt hit my heart like electricity, and I felt slightly sick to my stomach. “What are you waiting for?”, my logical side asked. My emotional side couldn’t answer, as it was too busy trying to keep me from throwing up. I let the two of them duke it out for about 30 seconds, while I hovered one foot over the scale. I couldn’t take the suspense any more. I stepped on it. The digital display flickered to life, waiting for me to be perfectly still while it calculated my weight. It flashed the numbers, and I couldn’t believe what it showed. I stepped off, reset it, then stepped back on again. Same numbers. I walked out of the bathroom, then back in again and stepped on the scale a third time, fully expecting to see something different. It flashed the same numbers at me again. 2.8 lbs lost!
In addition to my 30 lb loss, I’ve lost 4.8 inches off my waist, 3.5 inches off my hips, and 2.2 inches off my neck. My BMI has gone from 47.7 to 42.4, my body fat percentage has gone from 61% to 53%, and my A1C has gone from 7.0 to 6.6 (last tested in February). I’m pretty sure by this point in my journey, I’m very close to no longer being considered diabetic.
I hope this plateau is behind me for good, and that the next one is a long time away. I’m damn proud of myself for a change. This is a huge war, but I won this battle.
Today marks day 100 of my weight loss journey. I was pleasantly surprised by hitting one of my goals today: 15 lbs gone, hopefully forever.
I started my journey on my 45th birthday. I had an ultimate weight goal in mind, which would take me back to my weight around the time of my first marriage. That meant I had at least 100 lbs to lose. This was not going to be easy.
In 1992, I was a fairly healthy young woman. That’s when my body turned against me. I developed a medical condition called Meniere’s Disease, which causes vertigo, tinnitus, and hearing loss. It took 14 years to finally get a definitive diagnosis. During those 14 years, I struggled with mobility, because it’s difficult to be active when your world is spinning more often than not. That lack of activity also brought about weight gain. By 1995, I’d gained about 20 lbs. Not a huge amount, but because of my body’s small frame, it made me look chubby.
In 1996, I became pregnant. Naturally, I gained weight. I ballooned another 30 lbs. I wasn’t terribly worried about it, because I knew that once I had the baby, I’d lose weight. Or so I thought. I struggled for over a year, just to lose 5 lbs. I was mortified. I’d been experiencing severe migraines at the rate of about 1 per week. In addition to the vertigo, I was laid up for 1-2 days at a time because of the migraines. The only thing I could do to control my weight was diet, because exercise was something I was rarely capable of doing.
Fast forward to 2004. I’d learned how to somewhat manage the vertigo, and was learning how to do life with migraines that were getting worse by the year. I got a part-time job at Walmart, as a cashier. I was on my feet 2-3 nights a week, walking around a lot. 3rd shift cashiers don’t just stand at the register all night. We were responsible for so much more, which meant walking for several hours, and countless miles. I never did buy a pedometer back then, but I estimate I walked at least 5 miles every night I worked. I ended up losing about 30 lbs in six months. I was ecstatic. I could do this! I could get myself healthy again. Maybe it would even help with the migraines.
Then I injured myself. I slammed a shopping cart into the back of my heel. I thought I’d just bruised it, and it would heal in a few days, and I’d be back to normal (or what passed as normal for my body) in a week. But that didn’t happen. The pain became worse every day. Each step I took was excruciating. I was missing more days than I was working. I went to the ER, where x-rays were taken of my foot. That’s when the bone spurs were discovered. The shopping cart had broken off a piece of a large bone spur, and the broken piece was “floating” around inside. The spur was under my Achilles tendon, and every time I stretched it with normal movement, the floating piece was cutting through the tendon, and rubbing against the bone. The pain was unimaginable. I was sent to a podiatrist, who said there was a surgery that could be done, but he wasn’t willing to do it at that time. I went on a Leave of Absence from work. I never returned.
By 2008, having been unemployable for at least 2 years, I had gained back all of the weight I lost, plus more. I went to another podiatrist when I started experiencing the same type of pain in my other foot. X-rays revealed another bone spur, nearly identical to the other one (minus the broken piece). He agreed that surgery was absolutely necessary. I had surgery on one foot. I was immobile for 2 months, then had to re-learn how to walk on that foot again. It took 4 years and another 25 lbs to get to the point where I could go through the same surgery on my other foot. I was ashamed by how much weight I’d gained. The 2nd surgery had to be done in the hospital instead of the outpatient unit, because I’d gained so much weight, it wasn’t safe for me to be put under anesthesia outside of the hospital.
A year after the 2nd surgery, I had to have another minor surgery on the same foot, to repair a problem. It’s been 3 years since that surgery, 8 years since the first surgery, and I’m still struggling to walk like a normal human being. There’s a good chance I will never walk normally again. I have accepted that. I have accepted that the Meniere’s Disease is permanent, and that the migraines probably are, too.
What I have never accepted was the amount of weight I’d gained over the years. All told, I gained 106 lbs between 1992 and 2015. I am determined to lose it, no matter what it takes! I can’t walk every day. I can’t ride a normal bike outside. I tried joining the YMCA in 2014 to swim, but it didn’t work out, for various reasons. I knew that diet alone wasn’t going to get the weight off. We don’t have the money for a gym membership or diet plan like Weight Watchers. I started researching ways to lose weight, with so many things stacked against me.
I found an app for my phone. MyFitnessPal. I downloaded it, learned how to use it, and committed to doing what I could. I logged everything I ate. I downloaded a second app for my phone to record my exercise. MapMyWalk. I bought a new digital scale to replace the ancient, malfunctioning analog scale we had (and discovered I was 5 lbs fatter than I thought I was!). I bought a digital food scale, and I now weigh everything I possibly can, so my calorie intake can be as accurate as possible. We found an exercise bike through a local FreeCycle group. And lastly, I bought a used FitBit Flex from a local yard sale group.
I ride my exercise bike for at least 30 minutes a day. I distract myself by playing a game on my phone, or by watching tv (usually Biggest Loser). By the time I’m done on the bike, I’m in an excruciating amount of pain. Both of my feet hurt, my back hurts, my knees and hips hurt, my butt hurts, my crotch feels like it’s on fire. But I haven’t gone one day in the past 100 days without riding that bike. And it’s paying off. I’m losing, on average, about a pound a week.
The best part is that I’m doing this on my own. I don’t have a trainer*. I don’t have a dietitian. I don’t have a gym. I don’t have much physical ability. I have many physical disabilities. But I’m doing it. BY MYSELF. And it’s hard. I won’t lie, this has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life. It’s also slow. I know it will be close to 2 years before I reach my goal weight. I still have a lot to learn. I know I will have to change many things in my diet. But I’m determined to be healthy and beautiful again.
* If Jillian Michaels wants to come train me, I’m more than willing to have my ass kicked by her! 😉
I found this doctor who says he can fix a few of my medical problems. I’ve been going to see him about once a week for a while now. He has me jumping through some hoops, though, before he’ll even start treatment.
I had to wear a monitoring device, so he could see what was going on with me at all times. In addition to that, I had to call him every day and update him on what my day was like. He basically wanted to know things like my emotional state, the things I was eating, exercise I was getting, etc. Even though he could see everything through the monitoring device, I still had to check in with him at least once a day.
After a while of doing that, I went back to him to discuss treatment. He started asking me all of these questions, like have I done any charity work, do I do good things for others, have I done anything illegal or immoral, how is my relationship with my parents, and how did I raise my kids. He was pretty much taking my life history.
I started to get a little uncomfortable and impatient. I asked when I could start treatment. He told me that I seemed ungrateful, and that even though he could definitely fix my problems, he wasn’t seeing enough from me, so he was having second thoughts about helping me.
I begged him to help, but he’s still not sure. I offered to get everyone who knows me to talk to him on my behalf, and he said he’d consider changing his mind if enough people called him, and if he started seeing some gratitude from me for all that he’s already done for me.
I’m really not comfortable with this. What would you do?
Today, we buried my step-mother.
And I’m angry.
Not angry because she died. Not angry because of the illness that precipitated her death. Not angry at any number of things that I will probably be angry about at some time in the future, distant or otherwise, while going through the stages of grief.
I’m angry primarily because of the funeral service. Or as the Quakers call it, a “memorial meeting”. They don’t have a church, they have a meeting house. They don’t have services, they have meetings.
Prior to today, I would have said that Quakers were the most sane of all the christian religions. I had attended Sunday school there as a teenager (aged 13 until 17, when I figured out how to get out of going without pissing off my father). I had even once or twice attended a meeting with the adults. I thought they were the most boring things ever. But I thought that was because I’d been brought up in pentecostal, methodist, baptist and other denominations (my mother flitted around from church to church), and had a biased view.
Today, my opinion was changed, and not for the better. I’m now wondering who the sadistic fuck was who came up with this idea of how to remember a loved one. If I had a time machine, I’d travel back in time to punch him or her squarely in the gut. What I experienced today was easily the most brutally painful memorial service of my life.
They even print out a pamphlet to warn people about what they’re about to experience, and leave many them sitting a couple feet apart on the benches, along with a travel-sized package of tissues. Ok, the tissues were a nice touch, I’ll give them that. The pamphlet reads:
“The Religious Society of Friends holds as the basis of its faith the belief that every human being is endowed with a measure of the Divine Spirit which may be directly experienced. Our manner of worship embodies this belief. We gather in quiet assemblies, mindful of the words: “Be still, and know that I am God.” We come together in reverent silence with the desire to draw nearer to God and to understand God’s will.
For Friends a memorial meeting is similar in many ways to a meeting for worship. It is not only a time for sharing feelings of loss, but a time for celebrating the life of the departed person. We reflect on the value of that life as it relates to the lives of all of us.
All present share in the is process. We sit quietly; at times an individual may be moved to speak, to offer a prayer or a message that has come out of the silence. All are welcome to do this.
The responsibility for the spiritual depth of the meeting rests with each attender. Those who keep silent as well as those who give a vocal message do their part when they yield their minds and hearts to the guidance of the Spirit.
Friends hope that in the meeting for worship a consciousness of the Divine Presence will be felt by every attender, and will be a source of direction, strength and comfort after leaving the meeting.”
Let me be perfectly clear. For those who have chosen this religion, and who choose to attend weekly meetings, this might be of some comfort for them. But for the rest of us, it’s downright painful.
The magnitude of how painful is not fully comprehended by just reading the warning pamphlet. It sounds nice, even quaint, to the reader. The reality is very different. I’ll now attempt to convey the awfulness of it.
When the meeting starts, there are a dozen or more elders seated on benches facing the rest of the room. Not one of them appeared to be under the age of 60. Men and women with nametags. It felt very imposing. Sort of like a jury, and we were all defendants being judged. I don’t even know what their purpose was, or why they were sitting in this position of authority over the rest of us.
One of the women rose to speak to the room, which, by the way, was packed with about 100 friends and family. She explained how things would proceed, and laid out what can only be described as rules to be followed. We were to sit in silence unless someone felt compelled to speak. After a person spoke, we had to allow a few minutes of silence in order to let everyone “reflect” on their words. No exact number of minutes were given, and I naively assumed that it was meant that up to a minute – 2 minutes, tops – would pass between speakers.
Oh how wrong I was! In the 75 minutes that this meeting lasted, only 7 people stood up to speak. Between each speaker was at least 5 minutes of dead silence. The kind of silence that makes your ears ring, because it’s so loud. The kind of silence that makes you aware of the beating of your own heart, and occasionally the beating of the heart of the person sitting next to you. The kind of silence where every breath is heard, every shuffle of body on seat and foot on floor. And not a comfortable silence, either! It was an incredibly painful silence. The kind of pain where you realize that many other people might have gotten up to speak, had they not felt so intimidated by the silence.
It was brutal. In my head, I shifted between willing someone, anyone!, to get up and speak, and just wanting it to be over. I knew my father intended to stand up and speak, because he had printed out what he wanted to say and was holding it for the majority of the time. I don’t know what he was thinking during all that silence, but I imagine it didn’t feel very good for him to sit for such long periods in abject silence, wondering if the reason nobody stood to speak was because they didn’t have anything to say. I wish I could have whispered some words of comfort to him, but a whisper would have sounded like a megaphone, and I wasn’t sure if the elders would reprimand me for disturbing the silence.
I figured (correctly) that he was waiting to be the last person to say something. I assumed that when he was done, he would end the meeting by telling everyone to go into the next room for refreshments and socialization. I was wrong. He sat back down, and left it to the elders to dictate what came next, whenever they felt enough silence had passed.
When one elder finally did stand and address the room, I was starting to feel almost panicky, as if she was going to tell us that we had to sit until a specified time before we would be allowed to leave, or if we’d be allowed to leave. This feeling wasn’t unwarranted. Before the meeting even started, my Husband received an emergency phone call (my girls were involved in a car accident) and had to leave. He returned just before my father stood to speak. When he moved to walk in and resume his seat next to me, one of the elders, stationed at the back of the room, grabbed his arm and told him he couldn’t enter. I watched this unfold in utter astonishment.
What the hell kind of person keeps someone from going to their loved ones at a time like this?! I have been to far too many funerals in my life, and never have I seen someone be physically restrained and told they couldn’t enter. NEVER!
As soon as we were given permission to leave (after another “moment” of silence), I bolted out of the room. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I didn’t even take the time to turn and hug my father, I was so freaked out and angry. I wasn’t alone, either. Many people rushed out of there, either to the adjoining room where refreshments were being served, or outside.
I spoke to one of my step-sisters a little while later, and partially confided in her how excruciatingly painful the whole thing was. I jokingly told her that, when my father died, if this was the kind of “service” he wanted, that I’d kill him all over again! I never, ever want to experience anything like that again in my lifetime!
At some point, I will have to discuss this with my father. I’m not sure exactly how to bring up the subject, or when, so if any of my readers have any advice, I’d be happy to hear it! Has anyone ever experienced anything like this before? Is this typical of all Quaker memorial meetings, or was this an anomaly? Is it something I should bring to the attention of the elders?
All I know right now is that I feel my step-mother was robbed of a beautiful memorial service. I’m angry. And that’s not how a person should feel after a memorial service.
When I was growing up, I thought my grandmother was the meanest woman on Earth. I don’t recall any good memories of her at all until I was around 19 or 20 years old. I have one funny memory of a time, while at my Aunt’s house, my cousins and I played a practical joke on my grandmother. The joke went smashingly well! The aftermath … not so well; we got into so much trouble for that one! But at least it was memorable.
I have fond memories of my grandfather, even though he died when I was 6 years old. I remember times spent at their little corner store, and a flash of a memory or two about times spent playing with my cousins in my grandparents’ backyard.
My grandmother moved to Arizona around 1980 when I was about 10 years old. I don’t even remember the occasion of her actually moving! I just remember that she lived in Tucson, and I had the worst time remembering how to spell that word.
Some time in the early 90’s, my grandmother came for a visit. She brought her “friend” with her – a man named Joe. I was living in my own place, and dating the man who would be my first husband. I remember my grandmother taking a bit of an interest in me and my life, and asking me to show her and Joe around town a bit. They both sat in the back of my car like teenagers while I drove them around. It was kinda cute.
The next memory I have of her is when she was quite ill, and came to live with my father for a period of time in the mid 90’s. I remember visiting a couple of times, and how miserably grumpy she was, and not wanting to visit with her much because of her bad mood.
She ended up moving back to Arizona, where she eventually died in 1998. By that time, I was 27, divorced from my first husband, in a committed relationship, and my Son was just over a year old. I don’t even remember if she met my Son, or even knew I had a child.
As you can see, I wasn’t very close to my grandmother at all. Most of what I know about her came from stories I heard after she died. I’ve learned a good bit more about her since I’ve started doing genealogy research, which ironically started because I found out her side of the family came from Native American ancestry. I wish I’d known that growing up, and had taken the time to talk to her about what she remembered.
I’ve discovered that she and I have very similar qualities to our personalities. We both have a love of learning. We are excellent typists. And looking back, I’m thinking she wasn’t mean as much as she was someone who embraced her inner bitch, just like I do. In fact, I think she’d be pretty damn proud of me if she knew the person I’ve become.
The best evidence I have for this conclusion are the letters I uncovered while going through old photo albums. It looks like my grandmother was also an activist, in her own right! And that makes me grin from ear to ear!
The Case of the Missing Bandshell and Broken Lights
a.k.a. – The Verbal Bitchslap My Grandmother Gave the Mayor of Wilmington DE
Rockford Park is in Wilmington Delaware. It is one of the sites for the Summer Concert Series – free concerts in the park during the summer. This was something my grandparents enjoyed doing together in the late 1960’s.
There were some problems that occurred that must’ve made my grandmother downright furious, judging by the letters she wrote to the Mayor of Wilmington and the newspaper.
She received a note back from Mr. George Sargisson, on a membership letter, which is undated. The note at the bottom reads:
Many thanks to the [surname redacted] – thanks, too, for your letter to mayor, Frank, etc. It’s to the point & should get some positive results. Hope future concerts go OK & without a hitch.
George Sargisson –
Things didn’t go any smoother the following week, prompting my grandmother to show her skills at persuasive writing yet again. I may have to try this tactic some time in the future!
Finally, she received a reply from the mayor’s office. I must give proper kudos to the mayor’s Administrative Assistant, Allan C. Rusten, for a brilliant and funny reply!
Things seem to have been very different 40+ years ago … these days the typical kind of reply you’ll get from someone in office is a canned response that usually doesn’t even address your reasons for writing to them in the first place.
I’m also very impressed that the mayor remained calm and objective in his reply to my grandmother, even though he launched a bitchslap right back at her for her insinuation. (an insinuation that really pissed me off when I read it, thinking that not much has changed in 40 years when it comes to the vitriol aimed at those less fortunate)
And lastly, another written note from the Executive Director of RP&S, Wilmington DE. The note reads:
Thanks Mrs. [surname redacted], for showing Hal’s letter. You certainly got ’em “moving” (slowly) – saw Hal yesterday at Rotary & told him that there were still 3 lights out! Hope remainder of concerts go well. Thanks again.
Incidentally, there was a write up about George T. Sargisson in 2007, about what he accomplished in Wilmington. There’s also a little bit at the end about the permanent bandshell that my grandmother was talking about. He appears to have been quite an extraordinary guy. I’m sure my grandparents were lucky to know him.
The past couple of weeks have been pretty rough for me. More than a few times I’ve been let down by several people. I normally keep up a bit of a wall so that I’m not so disappointed by others, but I started to break down that wall, and now I regret it.
The first time it was pretty minor. I belong to a FreeCycle group on Facebook. One of the group members expressed an interest in something I was giving away, and made an appointment to pick up the items. Then she never showed up. This occurred several times over the course of a week. When I finally told her that she had one last opportunity, or I’d put the item back up as available, she finally did show up to pick up the items. Not a big deal, but an annoyance.
The second time was with another person from the group. We arranged to meet at a place halfway between us at 7p. We waited … and waited … and waited. I called several times, left text messages, and never received any response. And this was after speaking to her at 6:30p to confirm our meeting. Luckily we didn’t waste any gas money, since we were already heading that direction, but we did waste a good bit of time. We waited over an hour before leaving the location. Later that night, I got a text message saying she’d had a medical emergency and went to the ER. She apologized profusely, and asked to schedule another time. After a week of messaging her and never getting a response (all the while she was responding to other posts in the group), I finally gave up trying.
The third disappointment came from a “friend” (and I use that term loosely now) who offered to sell me a TiVo she no longer wanted, and I desperately wanted. We agreed on a price, then we agreed on how to ship it and how she would receive payment. Very straightforward … she sends it COD, I pay for the item and shipping costs. No games; no worry that either one of us gets screwed in the deal. She tells me she’s sending it one day, but then doesn’t because of the weather. Ok, I can understand that; not a problem. She says she’ll send it the next day. Later the next night, I send her an email asking if it was sent. No reply. A week – and several emails later – and still no reply. But I know she’s still alive, since I see her posting stuff every day. I respond to one of her posts, asking her to check her email. I know she saw my comment, because she responded to it. But still no email. Nothing from the Post Office, either. This one really pisses me off since it concerns money. Thankfully I didn’t send her the money first, which is exactly what I was thinking about when I decided on having it shipped COD. But ya know, when you say you’re going to do something, at least have the fucking decency to do it or explain why you’re not. Don’t just leave someone hanging!
The final knife in my back happened a couple of days ago. A good friend of ours was in desperate need of financial help. Being who we are, my Husband and I decided we could pitch in and help our friend. We don’t have a lot, and we struggle financially most of the time, so we know what it feels like and try to help people in any way we can. We were in just such a position to help when our friend said he needed help, so we loaned him $100. A few days later, I noticed that he was distancing himself from us. I chalked it up to his feeling a sense of shame that he had to ask for help. But then he decided to pick a fight for no apparent reason. That’s when I realized exactly what he was doing – trying to dissolve a friendship, expecting that we’d just write him off and he wouldn’t have to pay us back. A couple of days, and a couple of conversations later, I had confirmation of this. And ya know what … KARMA is a big ol’ bitch! And I have a memory like a fucking elephant!
So, for the foreseeable future, my wall goes back up and The Bitch comes back out. I trust no one. I give money to no one. I don’t go out of my way to help anyone. I will fulfill any commitments I’ve already made, but I won’t be making any more for a very long time.
“I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” – Maya Angelou
“Behind every bitch is an asshole that made her that way.”