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
WARNING: On July 15, 2011, I stepped out of my comfort zone and wrote a blog post that was only mildly self-deprecating with an overall positive tone, entitled ““Losing a Baby Panda in Weight: The Lifetime Original Movie”.” It covered topics of my weight loss success and uncanny ability to invent clever compound words. This is not one of those blog posts.
I used to be fat. Correction: I’m still fat. But, I used to be really fat. Crazy fat. Jessica Simpson high-waist jeans fat. Crane lifting me out of my house fat. Six men rolling my flabby body onto a tarp and pulling me through the house to a stretcher outside, kind of fat. Ya’ll catch my drift. Then I had an epiphany accompanied by the realization that ima either die or never have sex again. So I started a diet.
For a year I maintained a 50 pound weight loss. Then I moved to Tennessee and lost an additional 13 pounds over the summer, bringing my total weight loss to 63 pounds and prompting the annoyingly motivated blog post linked above. I was feeling good. Happy. Still fat, but less lumpy. All the fatties reading know what I mean. I was at my lowest weight since freshmen year of college (that ole freshman 70 at it again!).
I still wanted and needed to lose more and had every intention to, but like any addict, I found myself constantly overwhelmed by my lust for Pad Thai delivery and frozen caffeinated beverages. I also lost all motivation to cook healthy meals, and by the time I was getting ready to move back to Pennsylvania, was eating a diet consisting solely of salsa, tortilla chips, and Nutella. I gained back five pounds, but I was comfortable with that. I knew it was a temporary setback and being that it was only five pounds more than I could bench press, I wasn’t concerned.
Then, I moved in with my mom. Now, my mom is a very healthy eater. Everything in her house has words like “soy” or “lentil” or “gross” on its packaging. I was confident that this environment would promote healthy eating habits and a successful weight loss. However, here we are, 2 ½ months later and I have gained a whopping, yes, whopping
I know. No, really. I know. When I weighed myself this morning, first discovering this, I wanted to jab a disposable razor in my eye. How could this happen? HOW could I maintain a 50 pound loss for a year, and then gain nearly half of it back in 2 ½ months? And no, I’m not pregnant, though at this point I’d rather anything than look at my disgusting self in the mirror; my reflection proof of my bloated figure and addictive-behavior.
My exact reaction anytime I get an All Recipes pop-up ad:
So today at a family gathering, as I double-dipped Ritz crackers into Spinach dip and ignored the sharp pains in my chest, I pondered about my weight gain. Though I’ve spent my life as a beacon of childhood obesity I have always known that my weight is entirely within my control. Though I was born a massive 9 pound blob, earning me the self-proclaimed title of “vagina destroyer” which I used, happily, until puberty when I realized that is a nickname best reserved for black men, I have been in control of what I eat and how much since about 15 years old. Needless to say, there is only so long I can continue to bitch about my own life choices.
The only factor I can equate this weight gain to is my holiday cookie operation. Throughout the month of December I made $650 selling cookie trays, and thus was forced to gain an incomprehensible amount of pure fat poundage. It doesn’t help that at the same time, I got hired at the local coffee/donut shop I referenced in one of my previous entries, where I am allowed to eat as much as I want for free. Kill me. Oh, wait, I’m already doing that. Anyway.
Tonight I’m at work, painfully resisting the consumption of anything made with flour or sugar. It hasn’t been easy, but fortunately I have a terrible cold/flu/never-ending mucus condition right now that makes it difficult to smell or taste anything. On top of that, I am sucking on Halls Vitamin C supplement drops like some disease-fighting hooker, if you could get behind such an oxymoron. While it is easily preventing me from eating, and helping me grow my tips with the raspy “Live Links” voice I’ve acquired from a week-long coughing fit, a cold is not the type of illness you get, but are sort of happy about, like a stomach flu, since as much as you may hate throwing up, the added bonus of weight loss makes it sorta awesome. So far all I’ve gotten with this cold, aside from an excuse to resist donut temptation, is several sleepless nights, followed by 4 a.m. Google Image searches of throat phlegm. You’d be surprised how many tumblr accounts are accompanied by phlegmy throat pics. Charming.
Nevertheless, my morning weigh-in coupled with workplace boredom has helped to motivate me. Tomorrow I will be restarting my diet and with 19 pounds of very good reason. After all, 19 pounds is nothing to sneeze at. That’s like a car tire, my sister’s cat, or a hefty set of conjoined twins. Scary stuff.
I’m sure I will blog about this again, since I have after all dedicated an entire category to talking about being fat, but for now I’ll lay it to rest. I have to close up shop and prepare myself for the first day of self-starvation and mood swings. At least I’ll be getting exercise.
The girl who feigns pregnancy for better parking spots. JK. Not really.