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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
The girl who would rather be his whore than your wife