Wanna know a secret? I’m obsessed with perfection. Obsessed. All I want to be is perfect. What’s that? nobodies perfect? Yes, yes I know that, but I still for omigod-reasons-I-can’t-control want my life to be perfect and fabulous.
I’m still fat. Don’t look at me like that, I’m tired of defending my very obvious spare tire. I am not a car, yet I HAVE A SPARE TIRE PEOPLE! To be exact, 35% of my body is fat. It should be 22%. I know this, because my personal trainer told me this.
I want to be fabulous so much. I want the perfect house (wait.. check, I have one), I want the world’s greatest friends (whoa.. check mark again here), I want the perfect job (1/2 a check mark here… hello money, yet hello cliche financial people I work with), I want the perfect boyfriend (fail), I want the perfect body (insert epic fail here).
I spent $3,000 tonight on 6 months of personal training, 3 sessions a week. HOLY SHIT I feel like such a failure typing that out. Yes, I need help thatbadly. Wanna know my reasoning? I figured a boob job costs about $6,000. It would change your life, so boo yea! I’m totally getting a discount on a life changing ‘procedure,’ hence? I signed up! Looking back on it… that’s a lot of fucking money… and a stupid fucking way to justify it.
But money is money. Fat is fat. Help is help.
I’m terrified I’m going to fail even with this huge amount of support I’ve paid through the nose for.
My trainer kept asking me over, and over again, “Are you willing to give up things in your life and fully commit?” my obvious answer, was “yes! yes! yes!!!! Obviously! Duh” but the more I thought about it, the more I realized I had just given him the obvious, mechanical answer I knew I was supposed to give.
Am I really willing to put in the work? Am I willing to give up things I love? Am I actually willing to say ‘no’?
Fuck, my heart is saying yes, but I hate how I can feel a slight doubt in the pit of my stomach.