I know it’s been forever since I wrote a post, but suffice it to say, I’m fat again and I’ve lived to blog about it. Let’s jump right in. The bitter pill I’m choking on right now weighs about 30 pounds and it’s been lodged in my throat for around two years. I started this blog six years ago with youthful (slight overstatement) hope and vigor. I was fat but I’d finally decided to invest the money and the time into my health and well being with a gym that offered small group personal training. I worked my tail off. I ate lean proteins and vegetables. I did countless crunches and dumbbell snatches (I love that name…he, he, he…snatch). I had a torrid affair with my trainer that really kept me motivated (and ultimately disillusioned and utterly disappointed in the state of mankind (the ones with the penises), but that’s a story for another blog). I spent a small fortune. And ya know what? I became a slightly less chubby, super strong, bad mother fucker. When anyone needed a heavy box carried up some stairs, a jar of pickles opened, an intimidating stare at a rapist in a dark alley as I punched my fist into the palm of my hand, I was your girl.
In numbers, I went from like 175 lbs to 168 lbs. I was a tight size 10. But I couldn’t help think that, for how fucking hard I worked, I should have an enviable body. (I probably did have an enviable body to lots of people, but I guess I wanted people to approach me with awe and, I don’t know, ask me to have sex with them? I honestly don’t know what would have made me think my body was truly enviable, now that I think about it…hmmm…insecure much?) Anyway, with my desire for an enviable (fuckable?) body, combined with the self-invented narrative that my trainer would finally truly fall in love with me if I got ripped, I decided to really go for it with my diet. So I filled my days with salads and chicken and greek yogurt and cut down on the booze. But the thing that really took me over the edge was that I started to eat half a block of raw tofu in place of a normal dinner. Yup, picture me standing at the kitchen counter gnawing on a dripping block of white gelatinous goo. Hey, it kinda worked. Here are a couple of pictures of me from that summer when I finally got myself down to 160 lbs and a comfortable size 10.
I still had an ample tush and my tummy ponch never truly left residence, but I was strong and cute and I felt confident enough to gallivant around like an asshole in those pictures so…that says a lot, I think. Problem was, the pervasive thought, “10 more pounds and I’ll finally be hot!” never left my mind. Ten more pounds, size eight pants, one more mile on the treadmill – when did I become a competitor with my own fucking self? And when, dear Jesus and Baby Jesus, have I ever just been actually present in my own life and willing to accept that I am absolutely fine (even fabulous) just the way I am? Ugh…well clearly not today, Ladies and Fat Gentlemen, because today I am 30 pounds heavier than I was in those pictures above that I deemed 10 pounds too fat. (No, I am not showing you a picture of myself right now. I can’t bear it.) Suffice it to say, my boobs are like casaba melons, my ponch looks like I may be in my second trimester or that I’ve eaten a very large burrito. And worst of all, I had to break down and buy a new wardrobe in a size FOURTEEN. And I am so disappointed and pissed at myself for fucking up all of that hard work. And I kinda don’t even really know how it all happened…
Part of me thinks, give up the ghost, girl. Your hay day is over. Maybe this is just how it is now…settle into your middle aged body and your compromised dreams and just say fuck it. And in a more positive light, part of me thinks that would be the healthiest thing I could ever do for myself. To just be satisfied with who I am right now. But the reality is, it’s not just about my cuteness factor anymore. It’s about my health and aging, and high blood pressure and cancer, and higher insurance premiums, and swollen joints and getting winded on stairs. Fact is, my heavy weight, my semi-crappy diet and my lack of exercise (Oh yeah, I quit my gym because my trainer never did fall in love with me in the end. How very shocking…) is making me feel like shit. Anyway, something’s gotta give. So this is me, declaring to the world (or the five people reading this) that I am officially in the contemplation stage of change. (Which basically means I’m still sitting on my ass, but I’m thinking more seriously about it than I did yesterday or a couple of weeks ago.) Considering that I’ve been on numerous diets every year of my life since my sister declared me cute but chubby in the third grade, I would say this is roughly my 5000th go at losing weight. So, in the words of Yogi Berra, “it’s deja vu all over again.” Zaftig girl is back, and more zaftig than ever!