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Even My Ovaries Are Fat: Just Another Weight-Related Bitchfest

I have a hard time believing I was ever fatter than this.

Right now if I poke any part of my body, my finger will be engulfed and quickly lost in at least 2 inches of  superfluous fat, not to be discovered again until 2032 when I have it surgically removed, having mistaken it for a malignant tumor.  It’s a bad scene, my body. A bad scene.

What’s all the more disturbing is that two years ago I was 45 pounds fatter than this.

Fatter.

THAN THIS!

not me...not yet

I should have diabetes just for talking about it.

I lost the weight by eating really REALLY healthy and not exercising at all. It was like, the best plan ever. But it stopped working when I stopped eating healthy, and started spending my time swimming in a pool of shame and Burger King Carmel Frappes, poking my stomach with a ruler and crying inside. It’s like my very own sorority initiation up in here. Minus the Victoria’s Secret sweatpants.

PINK: The uniform for low IQ females

My sister is both thin and a nutritionist, making me violently hate her. We have a mostly symbiotic relationship. I give her hair and makeup advice. She tells me how not to die. I’d say we’re even. We recently spent a week emailing back and forth about my problems with binge eating and general nutritional inadequacies. We developed a diet plan for me to follow and I was feeling rather hopeful that I would not keel over dead at 30. But of course I, being the Meryl Streep of self-sabotage, clumsily fumbled through a week and a half of mismanaged eating, losing nothing but the self confidence that I would ever be able to stop adding a slice of cheese to anything microwavable.

It ain't no big thang

A week or so later my sister came home for my mother’s birthday. I woke up early so I could sneak into her room and play the old childhood standby “Funny Uncle,” but as always, the sound of my breathing from two rooms away already woke her up, so I was left with nothing to talk about but my diet. The conversation went something like this:

Sister: So how’s your diet going?

Me: I …I…um, what?

Sister: what, fat clogging your ears? I said diet, fat ass.

Me: Duh…I mean. I don’t know.

Sister: You’re disgusting.

Me: *cries*

A few hours later she tried again and the conversation went slightly better. But it’s been almost a week later and I have yet to discipline myself enough to stop eating like a rabid pig. I’m reaching a turning point though. I can feel it. Sometimes people need to hit an emotional rock bottom before deciding to better themselves and with Titanic previews encompassing much of my life and free time, I am one “But the ship can’t sink!” away from offing myself.

Love,

The girl who would rather be his whore than your wife

Losing a baby panda in weight: The Lifetime Original Movie

So, about a year ago I started “dieting.” I put this in quotes because admitting to dieting is like admitting to pleasuring yourself to a Zac Efron movie. Not really. But it is embarrassing for some reason. Anyone who has ever been overweight and made the decision to knock off a few pounds, can likely relate to the slight humiliation you experience when you tell someone who is thin, that the reason you cannot eat a piece of the cake they made for the office party is because you are dieting.  (Please note: 92% of the time, this cake is contrived from a 200 year old recipe carried on by their recently deceased Jewish grandmother, who nearly lost it in a German concentration camp, but managed to retain it and bring it to America. It is to be made only for very special occasions and at maximum once per every five years.)

Said thin person’s eyes quickly scan your physique from head to toe, lingering on the marsupial belly hanging from the front of your body. Smiling slightly, they release a noise that sounds something like:

“Ahhhhhhhhhooooooooohhh.”

Awkward and unsure of what to say, you nod and smile. They break into a “smile/laugh” or a smaugh. I know you’re familiar. It’s the kind of facial expression that starts as a smile and turns into a laugh, with lots of bleached teeth showing.

“Well isn’t that…wonderful,” they continue. “Good for you, getting control of things.”

While on the surface this may sound polite, even encouraging to the untrained ear, I can see this type of comment for what it truly is. Passive aggressive bitch talk, also known as PABT. It implies that at one time you were “out of control” and your current appearance is a result of that. You can also deduce by their faux politeness, or fauxliteness, that what they are actually thinking is “I can’t believe you are just starting this now. If you really wanted to lose weight you would have stopped adding ½ cup of mozzarella cheese to your Lean Cuisine meals at lunch.”

As always, I have digressed.

Anyway, at the end of last June I began a diet. Things were ridiculous, even dare I say, out of control. During my last relationship and the utterly shitty marriage that followed, I gained a whopping 63 pounds. Oh yeah. You read that right. Sixty-three mother f***ing pounds. The madness had to stop.
So I began this diet and by late September lost a total of 50 pounds. Yay. But during this time I was doing outside sales for a chocolate company. You can see where this is going. As time passed I found that this diet was getting in the way of my over indulging in free chocolate and eating teaspoons of melted butter and sugar. So I quit that oppressive regimen and went “off the diet.”

The holidays came and passed. The New Year started and I was determined to start dieting again. My body however rejected this concept and maintained a lovely state of immobility from January to May. I’m not sure how I passed the time, but I do know I spent a lot of it eating Chinese takeout and watching The O.C. on my laptop. Amazingly, I only regained 5 pounds all year.

In early June I contracted a terrible stomach virus that helped me to lose a few pounds, getting the ball rolling toward my nonexistent “beach bod.” I took this opportunity to restart my diet.

Two days ago I weighed myself to reveal a total weight loss of 61 pounds, or 2/3 of Kate Moss. I am quite the happy Panda, which is coincidentally the baby animal I lost in weight.

So kudos to mah-self I guess. Two more pounds and it will be like I never got married at all. Holla.

Love,

The girl who is momentarily ignoring the fact that 2 pounds from now she will still be fat.