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Don't let the bastards grind you down.

I’ve been blogging backwards…a bit…trying to get everything sorted in the right order.

I’ve been blogging backwards…a bit…trying to get everything sorted in the right order.  It’s a bit weird, because just when something amazing happens that I want to write about, I think…”Oh, I should really write about last Monday when I met with my dietitian.”  But what I have to say right now cannot wait…this is important.

I got a message from a high school friend the other night, he’s a personal trainer, and it simply said:  “Sneak a bit of brown rice into ya.”  Now, I have really, really changed the way that I’ve been eating, and I may have been bragging via a certain social media site that I had “skipped carbs with dinner” and then mentioned that I was going out after that for another workout.  He just reminded me that I needed fuel for said workout…and it reminded me of my power struggle…this is harder than I thought.
Food is power to me.  If I control food, I am in control…and that goes both ways, overeating AND under eating.
Here’s an interesting side note…excuse me while I go on a tangent…my spell check thinks that overeating is spelled correctly, but that undereating is not a word.  Now what does that say about the evolution of the English language?
This is not the racehorse, this is Tulsa..crazy jumper pony.
When I was super fit in high school I restricted calories and dropped down to 109 pounds or so, but I never thought that was good enough.  I was a serious and dedicated equestrian training a young racehorse to compete over fences, a half-back with a killer drive storming the field with the first 11, I helped start the first women’s soccer team my school had seen, I was the spirit-filled Caister-Mackenzie house captain, and if I wasn’t doing something sporty, I was singing and dancing with the drama troop.  I had a rockin’ bod…and you know what?  I thought I was fat.  I would look into the mirror and turn to the side and grab my stomach and pull it flat.  I would look down at my muscular thighs and curse them for being so “big.”
This is not a pity party.  I hostess a lot of parties, but I will never throw one of those!  This is a full-on rant.  
If you are reading this and you happen to know a teenager who’s into all the right things, tell them how amazing they are every day.  Encourage them to keep it up, and talk, talk, talk, talk to them about everything.  Tell them they’re beautiful and that you love them for being exactly who they are.  My parents and friends did all of that, and it only took a couple of stupid boys to tear my self esteem to shreds.
And teenage boys, if you’re reading this, man up and tell those gorgeous girls just how wonderful they are...I don’t care if you’re scared.  Tell them.  Tell them, and you’ll be a hero...not only mine, but theirs...for life.  Who says nice guys finish last?  It simply will not do to tell that girl 20 years later after she's lost the thing that she never knew she had.
It's so cliché, but if I could have a conversation with my teenage self I would tell her keep on keeping on.  Eat healthy, stay active, think positively, go for it, trust in yourself, and don't let the bastards grind you down. 
Eoin, thanks for telling me 20 years'll never know how good that made me feel.
"Get it back girl!"
I will.