Scorn at Every Size

Me: “I need to lose some weight.”

 

Therapist: “But you get regular checkups and your health is fine? Heart, cholesterol, blood pressure?”

 

Me: “Yes, but I’m MUCH heavier than the recommended highest weight for my height. And I’m not looking at, like, Jamie Lee Jo Bob’s Anorexia Enthusiast Forum — these are weight charts from real medical organizations.”

 

Therapist: “Those charts are based on the same BMI criteria you just told me was ‘horseshit.’ Have you heard of the Health at Every Size movement? That you can weigh more than you ‘should’ but still be perfectly healthy?”

 

Me: “Of course. And I totally believe that.”

 

Therapist: “OK, so…you JUST said your health is fine.”

 

Me: “But it’s NOT. I have a gut like a 55-year-old man with a lifelong Budweiser habit.”

 

Therapist: “I agree you should exercise more often, but if you do, and you eat a balanced diet, what if this is genetically just the way your body is supposed to be?”

 

Me: “It’s not.”

 

Therapist: “So you’re saying you support the idea of ‘health at every size’ for everyone except yourself?”

 

Me: “…Yes, that’s correct.”

 

She doesn’t want me to do Whole30, because apparently you, like, need carbs to live or something? But I’m doing it, so… we’ve reached an impasse. And by “impasse,” I mean, “thing I’m not telling my therapist.”

You’re not even a good fragrance of douche.

A few months ago I posted about a man from a neighboring office in my building. I pass him in the hall sometimes and we exchange workplace pleasantries. That day, though, he asked if I’d been dieting, because I looked “really good” and “like I’d lost weight.”

I’ve seen him a few times since, and we were back to, “Good morning, how are you?”

But I just saw him again and he said, “That’s a REALLY nice dress, it looks great on you!” And elevator-eyed me.

Dude, did you skip an HR seminar or something? The last time anyone looked at me like that at work, he and I were screwing around in office closets.

I feel like a hypocrite, too, because I wouldn’t have minded the compliment on my dress coming from a man I was attracted to, or even a man I knew. The phrasing of his weight loss/diet comment was unacceptable from anyone, though — was I previously too much of a heifer to look good?

*sigh* I need another shower.

Weight a minute…

I’ve talked about diet and exercise here 100 times before, so I’m sorry I’ve been Captain Do-Nothing. But I was chatting with my lady contingent, and we all seem to have had some form of weight-related trauma this week.

My clothes have gone from “saucily clingy” to “Oh, honey…,” I’m always tired, and even if I got off the couch to exercise, I’d probably collapse within 5 minutes. Plus I couldn’t donate blood today because my iron levels are too low, as if my steady diet of animal crackers and barbecue chips isn’t providing sufficient nutrients (pfft).

My friends have similar concerns. There’s a general consensus that although we are obviously sexy as fuck at any weight, exhaustion and ill-fitting clothing aren’t as much fun as you’d think.

So. To quote one friend: “We can do this. We are a formidable trio of badass bitches, and we can do anything we set our minds to.”

^ Now, I understand that statement is not WHOLLY true. I seem incapable of getting over relationships, sticking to a budget, or performing neurosurgery. But I can sure as fuck eat a carrot and take a walk now and then. (Well, as soon as Philly isn’t so humid that it feels like we’re being suffocated by ball sacks. But indoor workouts are a go.)

I bet eating a dick wouldn’t make me feel sluggish.

Me: “Google! Which foods can make one feel sluggish and puffy?”
Google: “Every food that brings you joy.”

*sigh*

Eat a dick, Google.

Boosting morale and apparently also your dick

So, hey, Creepy Guy From Another Office in my Building to Whom I’ve Only Ever Said ‘Hi’ in a Small Talky Sense…

I have not “been on a diet.”

I have not “lost weight.”

I DO “look good,” but it’s pretty gross that you said ALL that while passing me in the hall. I realize I can’t get you to stop appraising my body, but it’d be SUPER great if you could stop reporting your findings aloud.

Worse, I said “Thank you,” because I’m an asshole, and am now wondering what kind of goddamn hambeast I looked like before. (I look fine, it’s just my dress — sundresses are very kind to my body.)

By the way, yes, I do think I’d be this pissy if it were an attractive man who said it. Because you brought my weight AND dieting into your “compliment,” implying my weight until today had been somehow suboptimal. So fuck you twice-baked.

P.S. By the way, dicknuts — depression, anxiety, and stress can also cause weight loss. In my case, so can being on drugs that screw with your appetite and hopefully prevent you from going crazy. But hey, I’m thrilled I’m able give you your Monday lunchtime semi. I’ll go find out who I speak to about adding “fluffer” to my business card.

Naked truth

Eating better and working out is going OK, but I realized I have a new fitness goal: to look as good naked as I do dressed. I look adorable today… or at least I will until I go home and take off my pretty wrapping. Then the illusion is shattered when everything on me goes “flump.”

I don’t even know if my body is capable of being toned — I’ve been thinner, but still looked like I was covered in vanilla pudding when naked. My shoulders and clavicle are bony as fuck, yet I have a gut like Nacho Libre — where does that get logical? This is how I know I was not intelligently designed — only a system that gave us the duck-billed platypus could also provide this particular assemblage. The good Lord woulda had His shit together.

Maybe there’s a spa treatment that can just slough off all my skin so I can start over.

(I’ll have none of your logic about patience and perseverance and inner beauty. FEH! I want to look like Ashley Graham tomorrow. Make it so.)

Captain Picard never logged his calories.

Diet and fitness challenge with friends, Day 1: There is no cheese on this salad and everything is stupid and tastes like tragedy with a dressing of baby unicorn tears and I’m still menstruating and if you don’t hear from me again it’s because I died of cheeselessness and injustice.

“I’m not fat. I’m rubenesque.”

I woke up about 2 weeks ago feeling suddenly and substantially fatter*, which is, like, a SPECTACULAR way to wake up. Clothes that had fit are all sausage-casey now, as if I’d gained 10 lbs overnight.

Excellent.

So in my continued effort to “stop being sad and be awesome instead (true story),” FINE, I’ll try eating better and exercising. I am the only woman who finds it easier to drop a few pounds than to shop for new clothes. But it took me forEVER, and cost a lot of money, to find a decent wardrobe that fit my short, pudgy Muppet body properly, and I’ll be goddamned if I’m going through that again. Running and yoga are free. Not eating is, like, SUPER free. So losing weight is easier AND cheaper. (Plus, you know, health reasons, but…whatever, ice cream is great and exercise blows.)
*I typed “substantially fatter” too quickly at first, and my iPhone was like, “You meant ‘duvet sticky regret,’ right?”

Jesus Christ, iPhone. No. That was LAST year.

Nothing tastes as good as punching you in your face feels.

I’m trying to get myself back in line with diet and exercise, and you know what fitness dogma I can’t stand? “Nothing tastes as good as being thin feels.”

It’s like… Have you HAD cake? Have you tried smoked gouda, which tastes like cheese and bacon are making sweet, sweet love right there on your tongue? Have you had Haagen Dazs Caramel Cone ice cream? Have ya had bacon that’s been baked with brown sugar — motherfucking CANDY BACON?!

I think you’ve been eating the wrong food.

Now, OK, am I eating less of that stuff trying to get excess weight off my body? Certainly, I understand I have to. But don’t tell me nothing *tastes* as good, because food is goddamn delicious. I’ve never been thin, but I’ve weighed less, and lots of stuff totally tastes better than that. And I’d rather be a li’l rotund than never eat French fries again. I just need to control the amount of them I shovel into my face, which I am not always the best at. (Curious, the girl with the sex blog can’t keep delicious things out of her mouth — ‘sup, Freud?)

P.S. Holy shit, can we just DISCUSS mozzarella sticks?! CHEESE! FRIED CHEESE! In stick form! Come ON! A stick. In my mouth. But it’s cheese.

Food is GREAT. Shut your piehole (or whatever you’re eating that doesn’t taste as good as being thin feels).