Let's count how many times I use the words "I", "me" and "my" in this post...

As I mentioned earlier, I'm a small business owner. Since the business opened a few years ago it has been the scariest, most exhausting, most (and least, if that's possible) fulfilling, riskiest, most heartbreaking time in my life. The rate at which my emotions sway between paralyzing exasperation and jubiliation is staggering. Some days it takes nothing more than a song on the radio or a facebook post for the walls to come tumbling down. Mind you, these are not superlatives I assign easily. I've been married, divorced, had 3 kids, been unemployed and nearly homeless. I am no stranger to uncertainty. But this business is something different. 

My business is teetering on the edge of extinction. The fear and anxiety I feel are weights almost too much to bear. This is the part that's all about me. My business, my fear, my anxiety - pretty much translates to my ego. What will people think about me if I don't make it? What will my husband think, my family, the community, what will I think about myself? Will they shake their heads with pity and think I'm a failure, weak and unable to do what needed to be done, not smart enough to run a successful business? Will they think that as a woman I was unable to balance the needs of my children and the obligations to my family with the needs of my professional life; that my ovaries are somehow responsible for the death of my company? My business was supposed to be special, different, defy the odds of first year bankruptcy. And here I am making difficult decisions, assigning blame, justifying my failure. These are tough days. Tough to get out of bed and tough to stay in it. Tough to keep perspective, tough to stay rational. Tough to say the words out loud. 

I struggle with lack of definition. In relationships, business, my mid-section. I've never done well with going with the flow, seeing how things turn out, muffin tops. People always say, "things will turn out how they should", or "if it's meant to be...". That's never really worked for me. One time, in a moment of satisfaction and hopefulness, I posted a comment on FB about how my life was finally "as it should be". A "friend" rewarded my rare vulnerability with a comment, "it always is...". I could just see him in my head, smoking a bowl and nodding a knowing smile. Oh yeah, well thanks for those sage words of wisdom you tree huggin', Dead followin', grid-hatin' libertarian. Thanks for the insight. Because when I was in the middle of a bunch of shit - divorce, unemployment, identity crisis, general chaos - with my confidence in the dumper, it didn't feel like things were as they should be. Felt more like the universe took a big sticky, stinky poo on my head. 

Another friend of mine had a much better catch phrase, "So, this is what I'm doing now". This is my kind of optimism. I'm doing something, I'm trying, but it may not be what I want to be doing, and it certainly ain't what I thought I'd be doing. This is the mantra that gets me out of bed in the morning - slightly hung over, my muffin top spilling over my pants, unkempt hair, a bit of an "I've given up" wardrode disaster happening. Yep, that's my brand of life coaching. 

I want you to look closely at this picture. This is one of my favorite photos, ever. Some poor schlub in a plastic apron and a hair net dropped this pan of un-sauced noodle melange into a $4.95 all-you-can-eat steam table buffet at a "family style"/ "this is what's wrong with America" restaurant. I can see the patron's eyes perk up at the sight of new possibility, a new vehicle for fake butter and iodized salt down their gullet, the sure promise of diabetes. As they get up from their table, peripherally scoping other patrons who can't wait to get their chance at the butter and salt, they're hoping to be the first one to the sneeze guard, their hot breath fogging the glass. Their gait quickens, their heart rate elevates.... 

This picture says 1000 words and more. I saw it on Facebook a few years ago and every once in awhile it resurfaces to remind me of what's both funny and sad about the food industry. My staff and I turned this into a million jokes... "catering and fuck it", "cleaning and fuck it", "cheese board and fuck it", "customer service and fuck it". Whatever the subject, it conveys the perfect amount of humor and sadness and disdain for the job that we know, deep down, we can't say "fuck it" to. Try it with me. Say it out loud bankers, lawyers, florists, teachers.... , "money and fuck it", "settlements and fuck it", "flowers and fuck it", "standardized testing and fuck it". Feels good, doesn't it.    

I have had three children the hard way, and I have the body to prove it.  Saggy, breastfeeding boobs (that STILL look like a roadmap to milk), disconnected abdominal muscles that go into an inverted V when I try to do a stomach crunch, a 3-time champion C-section scar and the most ridiculous looking umbilical hernia sticking out of my belly button you've ever seen. If I stand in the mirror naked, my torso looks like a swollen orangutan head with zero sense of humor and a wandering eye.

 The three children responsible for this hot mess of a torso ask me what happended to my stomach. They scrunch their faces and recoil in disbelief at the size and shape of my belly button with their perfectly snipped innies and distinguishable abdominal muscles. As if to ask, "could this happen to me"?

 I bring this up not in an attempt to garner sympathy or to enter into a game of one upsmanship about birth stories and ugly belly buttons, but, instead, to lay the foundation for the real issue - I still look like I'm 5-6 months pregnant and people (sometimes strangers, sometimes people I know) continue to congratulate me on the impending addition to my brood.  

 This exact thing happened recently in a social setting. "So, you didn't even tell me you had a new little bun in this oven", she said as she reached out to touch said oven. I replied as I backed away, "what? oh, no. I'm not having another baby".  Crickets..... all eyes to the floor..... We were all very embarrassed. Well, they were embarassed, I was beyond mortified. BUT, I kept my cool, laughed, and tried to make everyone feel comfortable again. It wasn't my first "is that a little bun in your oven" rodeo. I exited and began to go through the stages of emotions that accompany this situation. I was shocked, embarrased, angry, sad, depressed.... I could feel the tears welling up inside. I quicky went to my car and cried in peace and solitude.  

 So let's break this down, decode it, if you will... When someone asks you if you're pregnant what they're really saying is, "so, I noticed you're fat, that your body is oddly misshapen. I wanted to give you a chance to justify your fatness by confirming you're actually having a baby." That's it! I finally figured it out after all these years. It's like there must be a reason I didn't go to pilates or have the reconstructive and repair surgery I so desparately needed. There should be a reason I've given up on desirability, bikinis and halter tops. There should be a reason I've given up on myself.     

 So here's a little tip for all those who feel they need to participate in and comment on the fatness. Don't. Just don't. I want you to take those comments and those akward belly glances and push them so deep and so far down inside you they never come up for air again. Then I want you to stand in front of the mirror and repeat, out loud, a little mantra I've penned to help you keep yourself in check. "It's none of my fucking business, it's none of my fucking business, it's none of my fucking business...". Repeat this to yourself everyday (twice a day if you're just that big a nitwit), and watch your life get simpler, easier, less stressful by the day. Whew, I feel better.

So I was sitting on a toilet, crying an ugly cry, trying to figure out where I lost myself. Where I went - how I lost my spirit, how my sense of humor turned dark and hateful, how my hopes and dreams turned into cynicism and disdain for those I deemed more successful than myself. I worked so hard to get myself back 10 years ago when I left my first husband. The night he had me pinned against a wall, strangling me in the name of pleasure. I stayed with him that night, but I knew then I would leave him within the year. And here I was again, 11 years later, a shell of a person, not recognizing myself in the mirror.