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.”
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🖕🏼

The dance instructor “YEAH”ed my ass maneuvering, so, fat be damned, I’ll take that as progress.

“My 600-lb. Lady Gut”

I felt OK about these workout pants when I bought them, but for some reason today I feel like I should wear them while on my own reality show called “My 600 Pound Lady Gut,” so… Yeah, good times! Let’s go to dance class and watch it all jiggle rhythmically!

P.S. I’m QUITE sure my salt & vinegar potato chip lunch and probable dehydration have nothing to do with this. Shut up.

Cake AND death, probably.

Around May, I noticed my jeans were getting tight, so I bought bigger jeans, but thought, “Oh, OK, wakeup call — I should lose some weight.”

Buuut I didn’t.

And then the bigger jeans started getting tight, and I thought, “NO. This is horseshit. I’m not spending MORE money — I’ll just lose some weight. For real this time.”

Buuut I didn’t.

So I bought the NEXT biggest size, and you know what? I am fucking COMFORTABLE. God, fat pants are the BEST. And the kinda stretchy fat pants with Spandex or whatever in ’em? DAMN. So good.

Screw it. The world is awful and cake is great.

(Ahem… This defiant attitude brought to you by the first time a doctor ever told me it might be good to lose some weight, which happened last week. But she based it on BMI, and BMI is fake news. Suck it, lady. #sheetcaking for the win.)

Let’s make my ass great again.

Today I learned that my mother weighs herself every day, writes it down, and SAVES IT. I told her that sounds a little unhealthy, and she said, “It’s fine, it’s just that’s one of the only things I can control.”

NOT HELPING YOUR CASE, MA!

They weighed me at the doctor yesterday and it’s more than I’ve ever weighed, by, like, a LOT, so I made the mistake of telling her I need to lose some weight.

“Maybe you and I can do a contest and see who can lose the most weight!”

“Nope. Nooope. Hard pass.”

“Why? I thought that’d be motivation!”

“I am not contributing in any way to you doing that.”

You guys… HOW am I not in an institution?!

BTW, I feel like it’s no coincidence that I’ve gained 25 lbs since January. But fuck THAT — my ass will be great again.