My pants are judgy whores.

I mean…I guess as weight-loss motivators go, splitting the seam on a fairly new — and not inexpensive — pair of pants is probably a pretty good one, if a bit unflattering. 🙄

FINE.

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.”

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.)

I’ll just drag myself back under these stairs…

I knew I’d put on some weight, but I just tried on clothes while also puffy from PMS and salty food, and now I would KILL to be fucked as thoroughly as my body image.

Smug is back with a brand-new invention.

So…hi. This is awkward. 

I shut this page down when I was laid off in September. (“I am not getting laid; therefore, I am getting laid off.” —Carrie Bradshaw.) I had more pressing priorities, like finding a job and wallowing in my personal failures.

But then… I’m not a HUGE believer in “signs from the universe,” but we do seem to be shushing female senators, and I do seem to be getting fatter, and Valentine’s Day does seem to be tomorrow, and women’s magazines do seem to be alternating cutting-edge journalism/hilar-balls sex headlines, and the President of the United States does seem to be tweeting about easy D, and y’all KNOW I can’t keep my mouth shut around some easy D, so…OK! CHRIST!

So here I am. Let’s see how this goes.

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.)

Diners, Drive-ins, and Douchebag

Today I learned my bra size has gone up to a DDD.

1. I need to lose some goddamn weight.

2. Gross, I hope this doesn’t mean Guy Fieri visits my tits now.

How the Grinch Stole My Body Image

My friends who know how self-conscious I get about my body will enjoy that my hormonal influx/weight gain have made me quite puffy today. So my favorite basic white t-shirt is unusually snug, and I’ve been walking around all day feeling like I’m mostly made of breasts. I feel like they suddenly grew three sizes like the goddamn Grinch’s heart.

Fat-phobic or fat fetishist?

I woke up to a photo-less OkCupid guy’s FIRST message to me:

“Hey…Would you be willing to gain a little weight to please your man if you were in a committed relationship?
— Steve”

Well, Steve. First off, thanks for the flashback to that “Family Guy” episode where Peter stuffs cake down Lois’s gullet because he decides “fat sex is the hottest sex.”

But also, my OKC profile includes photos of my already-weighing-quite-enough body, because men love asking if “curvy” is code for “obese,” so I like to just get my mere “overweight” out there up-front.

So I can’t decide if Steve wants me bigger than I am because he wants more to love? Or maybe he wants me to say obesity is disgusting and that I am a superior, health-minded individual who would never fall prey to The Fats?

I have so many questions, Steve.