There’s this song.

25 or 6 to 4


I’ve been told so many times, that I can’t even keep track, about its sole meaning and the numbers value and truth.

I still don’t understand.

Lately I’ve felt the same as this number bound Chicago song. My head shouts out lyrics of numbers that I don’t understand or that my mess filled mind refuses to consume or accept.

The first 15.

March 15…the email that tells a tale of closed schools and the end of the free civilization of afternoon walks or friendly housewife drinking or putting on pants or frolicking through the two way isles of Winners, touching the garments as I please. To throw in my cart or to remain on the hanger, all at my disposal. Those were the days. Peace, Love and mid afternoon debauchery.

The second 15.

April 15…in a blink of a moment the time is fast forwarded instead of going back like Michael Fox in the DeLorean and it is a month later. Since we have froze. Told to stop contact, stop touch, or embrace. Stop anything that requires the connection between two people who don’t house together.

There was a moment I thrived in this chaos. Crisis Euphoria almost. These days are anything but terror to me. I level out and take action. I bandaid the hell out of bad situations and kiss the boo boo better.

Until days become weeks and my need isn’t as relevant. I fall into my own thoughts and mind. Spending a couple days fast tracking the house into organized perfection. Then what is left is the multiple of voices coming into a zoom meeting into my mind. There is the really chaos I can’t be happy in.

If I sit and relax and consume anything outside of a wholesome three meals a day regime then the fat girl pops in to remind me that the scale is in the bathroom and it isn’t going to shit rainbows of glittery numbers. That there are things to do like laundry, dusting, projects filled under “when I have a spare moment”.

But here I stand or sit in fact. Day 3 of my 40 year old temper tantrum. Years of raising children has lead me to this realization. To this moment of clarity. It’s ok to throw yourself into that stomp, release your perfect posture into a relaxed, rag doll of pity.  Nothing makes sense. Or wants to happen. The war of voices in your head take up arms and battles for the greater ground inside your mind and control your thought and mood.


Lay on the couch. No you should be exercising. Watch Netflix. No everything is stupid including Joe and his exotic Carole. Go exercise. No I don’t want to. Build that thing you have saved on Pinterest. No that’s like thinking and skills and stupid. Eat all the chocolate. No I’m already too heavy. Fine eat healthy. No I hate healthy, I just want shit food. But you’re fat. Well fuck. Then go outside. No it’s cold and snow on the ground and no.




And don’t even get me started on getting dressed.

Sweet baby Jesus…

I’d have a better time burning everything in my closet then getting dressed. And that says a lot. But burning them will only cycle back to not being able to go to Winners to touch things and buy things and then I’d just be the Paper Bag Princess but worse cuz all that cheese and chocolate won’t allow me to wear one paper bag. I’d have to Christmas wrap 3 of the paper bastards together and that would, in turn, cause a big old cycle of mind voices to start up like the Philharmonic Orchestra of negativity.


I just want to be done battling the thoughts in my head. To go back to normalcy and begging for a few spare moments on my own terms.

Then there’s the Other 15.

Referring to the quarantine 15, I have successfully already gained.

That 15lbs that somehow snuck in after I successfully lost 20lbs during my 6 week challenge back in May. You mean the 15lbs that adds up on top of the other 10lbs that already snuck in. Super

Why is that the worst thing to happen to me during this imprisonment. Sorry not imprisonment. I’m not stuck at home, I’m safe at home. Doesn’t feel like it and I should be allowed to feel that. Feel that and well…

So I got fatter. So…

So I went from feeling sexy to frumpy. My leggings slimming my imperfections. They still fit-ish. So….

I remember the moment that everything I owned fit. That was a good day. Literally a day.

haute 3

Raw – Not analysed, not evaluated or not processed for use.

Unlike a damn Snapchat filter, that I put on to mask the truth of my pain.

So what’s the best thing to do while you are heavier and crying inside your mental prison…..

You book a FaceTime photoshoot.

Because Fuck it. Let them see your raw. Your real.  Your truth. The juxtaposition of once sexy with the oversized hidden sweater of now. The dark tears of wars battled in your head and no clear outcome, running down your face and new chins.

As I  prepare for the shoot I look at myself in the mirror…if I was 5lbs less I’d be happier.

If that pair of jeans fit, I’d be happier.

If the words they spoke I would believe, I’d be happier.

If my cellulite didn’t exist…..I’d be happier.




Because honestly, I’d find something else to me miserable about. And in the end I’m disappointed in myself and the image I see in the photos and tears flow and throw me back into my imprisonment of despair.

So lets throw in another 15.

15 seconds.

15 seconds of isolated, conscience, deep breaths.

Between tears and trying to drown and rid myself of the thoughts of failure.


I’ll give myself 15. To accept my choices. Who I am.  The choices I made that got me here. Safe here. And every raw and real emotion I can feel. Then I will move forward.

Lord, grant me but 15.  The words I whispered in my despair to give it my all and live every moment. Here I am on my knees, looking at my thick thighs, through teary eyes….I am blessed.

25 or 6 to 4, Lord, just 15 more

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