How does a depressed, middle aged fat chick start her morning? Well, with two heaping scoops of low fat chicken alfredo from last night's supper, of course! Fuck. They say that you are suppossed to eat breakfast and lunch and dinner and then snack throughout the day. I never ate breakfast before and I'm not so sure adding another meal is going to do much for the apple pie of flesh I'm carrying below my belly button. But today's morning ritual taught me something: make sure to have nutritious choices in the house! (At all times, for every meal and every snack).
So, today's food journal starts with the alfredo and we'll see how it goes from there. Perhaps I should be skipping lunch now? Maybe I'll use my lunch break to get some carrots and celery at the grocery store. They say you can eat as many of those as you want! Tonight's dinner will be green water - urrr - lettuce. Ha.
Maybe it's not so bad having a Buddah belly. Maybe I'm going to just convert and call myself a Buddist afer all. Sigh. Why can't I have my own Bob and Jillian? And what's all this nonsense about butterflies?
(later in the day) add two cups of chili, two oatmeal cookies, and a handful of peanuts to today's foodcount. (uuugh)
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Fat Chick (As appears in Yellow Dollhouses)
Genetically speaking, I should not be surprised to find myself fat at the age of 35. Mom and Dad are fat. Ron is fat. Jon will be fat. The only one who may have escaped the fat gene is Matt, but even he has put on some weight as he’s gotten older. But genetics aren’t enough of an excuse to make being fat okay for me. I am fixated on my weight. I am jealous of aneorexic women who have the will to starve themselves. I often think of myself as weak for not being able to mimic these women and push off another meal.
They say that we eat to fill something inside of us that is missing. I can’t say I would argue with that. The more miserable I become in my marriage and family situation, the more I seem to medicate myself with food. Late night snacking, portion control, and picking the wrong foods are the things I am doing wrong. The fact that I hate exercise and get winded easily from smoking and being out of shape don’t help much either. Being on Prednisone more often than not has helped increase my appetite and all pleas I have made to my doctors to put me on weight loss medications have fallen on deaf ears. It is amazing to me that no doctors have ever given me shit about my weight and I’m coming to a point where I’m concerned about heart issues as well as diabetes.
Seeing myself in pictures is the worst. I am beginning to avoid the camera whenever I can and I have developed some techniques for when I have to have my picture taken. I crop my sagging stomach out of pictures now. I strategically place my hands, scarves, or other objects in the way of my triple set of chins when photographing. I make the boys stand in front of my fat body when someone is taking my picture.
When I look in the mirror, I hardly recognize myself these days. I scold myself when I look at old, fifty pound lighter, pictures of me and wonder how I could have felt fat or bad about myself back then. I see this beautiful woman in old pictures now and view my current self as something more of a man best.
The kids and Matt have not helped my self esteem on this matter at all. Matt is so much less sensitive than I am that it doesn’t occur to him how much it hurts me when he calls me names like “Big Girl” and “Oh-so-big!” Jacob doesn’t know how it feels for me when he tells me I’m “chubby” and that “it’s okay because moms are supposed to be fat.” MJ doesn’t know what it does to me when he rubs my stomach and calls it “jiggly and warm.” I know they three of them love me for who I am, but I’m not so sure I do. I don’t see myself as a fat old lady. But when I look in the mirror or at photographs, that’s what I see looking back at me.
As with all bad things in life, there are benefits to being overweight. My tits are huge now and I can’t say they aren’t a welcome blessing in my new life as a fat chick. I don’t’ have issues with my jeans falling down these days and rarely have occasion to need a belt. I can go straight to the plus sized racks at Fashion Bug now because I know there is no way I’m one of those pesky in between sizes any more. I’m being forced to dress my age as nothing in the Juniors section fits me anymore. I am more sympathetic to other plus sized women and find myself judging people less on their looks and more for their inner spirits than I did as an average sized women.
I was in the allergist’s office yesterday and saw a body mass index chart. At 5 foot 9 inches tall and around 215 pounds, I am not officially considered obese. My ideal weight, according to the chart, should be somewhere around 160 pounds. I don’t think I have been that small since before I got pregnant with Jacob in 1998.
Each Tuesday night, the boys and I watch The Biggest Loser on television. This show is about fat people working their asses off to lose weight. They lose over 100 pounds in a very short period, working with trainers and the best nutritionists in the country. While I’m watching this show, I snack on butter popcorn and hot pockets. I stuff my face with nachos and Ruffles chips and dip. By the time the show is over, I’m stuffed and I feel worse than I did when I turned it on.
I recently began a food journal. Each day, I record the things I eat. According to the trainers on The Biggest Loser, this habit forces people to look at all the junk they are putting in their bodies. The idea is that it will gross us fat folk out and make us change our ways. I stared, wide-eyed at today’s list by the end of the day. I hate to admit it, but it was pretty typical for my eating habits as of late: two double cheeseburgers from Burger King, a small fry, a large lemonade, two glasses of fruit punch, a hot dog, two fried bologna sandwiches, six heresy kisses, a Slim Fast bar, a Lean Cuisine chicken alfredo meal, two glasses of tea, and a glass of wine that I feel coming on just looking at this fucking list.
Did I mention that the girlfriends in Lola’s world all eat full blown meals, junk food, and live at fast food joints? They are all just about 20 pounds heavier than her, making her feel better about herself. Uuugh.
No, being the fat chick is no fun. It’s no fun at all. The only thing that’s less fun is doing something productive about it.
They say that we eat to fill something inside of us that is missing. I can’t say I would argue with that. The more miserable I become in my marriage and family situation, the more I seem to medicate myself with food. Late night snacking, portion control, and picking the wrong foods are the things I am doing wrong. The fact that I hate exercise and get winded easily from smoking and being out of shape don’t help much either. Being on Prednisone more often than not has helped increase my appetite and all pleas I have made to my doctors to put me on weight loss medications have fallen on deaf ears. It is amazing to me that no doctors have ever given me shit about my weight and I’m coming to a point where I’m concerned about heart issues as well as diabetes.
Seeing myself in pictures is the worst. I am beginning to avoid the camera whenever I can and I have developed some techniques for when I have to have my picture taken. I crop my sagging stomach out of pictures now. I strategically place my hands, scarves, or other objects in the way of my triple set of chins when photographing. I make the boys stand in front of my fat body when someone is taking my picture.
When I look in the mirror, I hardly recognize myself these days. I scold myself when I look at old, fifty pound lighter, pictures of me and wonder how I could have felt fat or bad about myself back then. I see this beautiful woman in old pictures now and view my current self as something more of a man best.
The kids and Matt have not helped my self esteem on this matter at all. Matt is so much less sensitive than I am that it doesn’t occur to him how much it hurts me when he calls me names like “Big Girl” and “Oh-so-big!” Jacob doesn’t know how it feels for me when he tells me I’m “chubby” and that “it’s okay because moms are supposed to be fat.” MJ doesn’t know what it does to me when he rubs my stomach and calls it “jiggly and warm.” I know they three of them love me for who I am, but I’m not so sure I do. I don’t see myself as a fat old lady. But when I look in the mirror or at photographs, that’s what I see looking back at me.
As with all bad things in life, there are benefits to being overweight. My tits are huge now and I can’t say they aren’t a welcome blessing in my new life as a fat chick. I don’t’ have issues with my jeans falling down these days and rarely have occasion to need a belt. I can go straight to the plus sized racks at Fashion Bug now because I know there is no way I’m one of those pesky in between sizes any more. I’m being forced to dress my age as nothing in the Juniors section fits me anymore. I am more sympathetic to other plus sized women and find myself judging people less on their looks and more for their inner spirits than I did as an average sized women.
I was in the allergist’s office yesterday and saw a body mass index chart. At 5 foot 9 inches tall and around 215 pounds, I am not officially considered obese. My ideal weight, according to the chart, should be somewhere around 160 pounds. I don’t think I have been that small since before I got pregnant with Jacob in 1998.
Each Tuesday night, the boys and I watch The Biggest Loser on television. This show is about fat people working their asses off to lose weight. They lose over 100 pounds in a very short period, working with trainers and the best nutritionists in the country. While I’m watching this show, I snack on butter popcorn and hot pockets. I stuff my face with nachos and Ruffles chips and dip. By the time the show is over, I’m stuffed and I feel worse than I did when I turned it on.
I recently began a food journal. Each day, I record the things I eat. According to the trainers on The Biggest Loser, this habit forces people to look at all the junk they are putting in their bodies. The idea is that it will gross us fat folk out and make us change our ways. I stared, wide-eyed at today’s list by the end of the day. I hate to admit it, but it was pretty typical for my eating habits as of late: two double cheeseburgers from Burger King, a small fry, a large lemonade, two glasses of fruit punch, a hot dog, two fried bologna sandwiches, six heresy kisses, a Slim Fast bar, a Lean Cuisine chicken alfredo meal, two glasses of tea, and a glass of wine that I feel coming on just looking at this fucking list.
Did I mention that the girlfriends in Lola’s world all eat full blown meals, junk food, and live at fast food joints? They are all just about 20 pounds heavier than her, making her feel better about herself. Uuugh.
No, being the fat chick is no fun. It’s no fun at all. The only thing that’s less fun is doing something productive about it.
Fat Chick in Polka Dots
They say fatties shouldn't wear polka dots. I'm not sure who "they" is, exactly. But what I do know is that there can't possibly be a rule against dressing your blog in polka dots. Heck, a fat chick will wear her dots where she can!
I've hit rock bottom today. I stepped on the scale and weighed in at a super-sized 230.5 lbs. For some reason, this didn't bother me as bad as two week's ago's 223 lbs. How I am gaining all of this weight so fast is far beyond me. And maybe the reason I can't figure out why my ass is beginning to look more like a mac truck is that I'm caught in this horrible spiral of lying to myself.
I lie to myself about everything. I tell myself that I don't "really" look "that big". I tell myself that tall girls always are forced into bigger sizes. Even when I was 120 lbs, I was a size 12. I tell myself there's nothing wrong with being a hardly sized 18w mother of two. I mean, I did give birth to two kids, right? Aren't all 35 year old women a little on the chubby side? I tell myself that my husband doesn't mind.
But the trick here is that I know I am lying to myself. I know that he's lying to me. His eyes told me that tonight. I might as well have been squeezing into size 5 polka dotted panties (make that a thong) as he looked away after I asked him if my weight bothered him. He tried to be eleoquant about it, of course. Always the diplomat. But I could see it. And later, I caught him watching a free Playboy video of an assortment of 1980s vixens on the flat screen in our bedroom. Sigh.
I know he's no longer attracted to me. And how could I blame him? I don't think I could possibly be attracted to myself either! I scoot in and out of the shower as fast as I can these days. Today, I tried to make myself feel better with a long soak in the tub. That worked, for a while, while I was weightless. But when my hips stuck to the sides of the tub as I fumbled to get out, that's when I broke into tears.
I have no one to blame for this but myself. I don't do anything. I don't move off the couch and I find that if I stand for too long, my back hurts from carrying all this extra weight. To top it off, I just quit smoking a month ago and am finding that instead of having more energy, I'm only more compelled to want to curl up into a ball on my bed and cry (after stuffing my face with an entire bag of potato chips).
I'm that fatty that watches The Biggest Loser while stuffing my face. I laugh on the outside, to my kids, as I order them to bring me another soda or bag of chips while we watch the show. But on the inside, I'm crying. I cry all the time.
Being a fat chick is not anything I'd wish on anyone (well, maybe except those skinny bitches who've judged me throughout the years). It's impossible to explain what it feels like to feel trapped in your own body. What it feels like to dread waking up in the morning because you know you will have a mega struggle ahead - trying to fit into your jeans - or even to find jeans that haven't apparently "shrunk in the dryer" AGAIN. Sigh.
Rock bottom. I'm here. I need to do something about this now. I know if I keep going at this rate, I will soon be crossing the big three hundred lap. I've been to the doctor's - who have done every test and haven't been able to find anything medically "wrong" with me.
I know what is wrong with me. I'm depressed and my fat makes me only all more impressed. I'm this girl who longs to wear that itsy bitzy bikinni (yellow's my color) but has never been able to. I've never really even been fat all my life either - that's the weird thing. It's like I always had this fat chick inside of me but she's on the outside now. Even when I was thin, I convinced myself I was fat. Now that I am fat, my inner skinny bitch is telling me that I'm not "thatttt" bad. I don't know who to listen to. I feel skitzophrenic - something else that makes me feel fat.
It's time for me to face the truth about my weight. 1. I got here on my own, no one made me eat that extra portion or third helping, 2. buffets are half of how I got here and instead of getting a bargain by eating at one, I was really only hurting myself, 3. My incredible contempt for exercise got me here, 4. I can't blame this gain on quitting smoking as I was already gaining before I hit this new rock bottom. The list goes on and on but it's too exhausting to write out. The point is, what am I going to do about it?
Well, first things first, I'm going to start writing a public food journal. I feel like if people can see (and I am held accountable for) all of the food I'm putting into my mouth, it may jst make me stop twice before I do it. I'm also going to find a way to get my fat ass some exercise. My tween boys will be good for this. They are tired of watching me gorge myself and I suspect that they are beginning to be embarassed by my weight. I'm also going to throw all the junk food in this house OUT the door and try to never look back. Those are the things I'm going to do for starters.
I've lost weight before and I know I can do this. I'm just not sure how I'm going to do this without ephedra and laxatives this time (she says, reminding herself that she wasn't able to keep the weight off the last time she used those things).
Oh! And I'm also going to name my skinny and fat chicks. My fat chick is Bertha. My skinny chick is Lola. I'm going to try to write here every day, making myself, Bertha, and Lola accountable for our decisions. I'm also going to do what I can to give myself positive talk vrs negative beat yourself over the head with your fat ass flubber labels. (Yikes, I have a long way to go).
These things are only a start, I know. But I have to do something. At some point, I'd like to see myself in polka dots - not just my blog....
-E
Fat Bottomed Girl
I've hit rock bottom today. I stepped on the scale and weighed in at a super-sized 230.5 lbs. For some reason, this didn't bother me as bad as two week's ago's 223 lbs. How I am gaining all of this weight so fast is far beyond me. And maybe the reason I can't figure out why my ass is beginning to look more like a mac truck is that I'm caught in this horrible spiral of lying to myself.
I lie to myself about everything. I tell myself that I don't "really" look "that big". I tell myself that tall girls always are forced into bigger sizes. Even when I was 120 lbs, I was a size 12. I tell myself there's nothing wrong with being a hardly sized 18w mother of two. I mean, I did give birth to two kids, right? Aren't all 35 year old women a little on the chubby side? I tell myself that my husband doesn't mind.
But the trick here is that I know I am lying to myself. I know that he's lying to me. His eyes told me that tonight. I might as well have been squeezing into size 5 polka dotted panties (make that a thong) as he looked away after I asked him if my weight bothered him. He tried to be eleoquant about it, of course. Always the diplomat. But I could see it. And later, I caught him watching a free Playboy video of an assortment of 1980s vixens on the flat screen in our bedroom. Sigh.
I know he's no longer attracted to me. And how could I blame him? I don't think I could possibly be attracted to myself either! I scoot in and out of the shower as fast as I can these days. Today, I tried to make myself feel better with a long soak in the tub. That worked, for a while, while I was weightless. But when my hips stuck to the sides of the tub as I fumbled to get out, that's when I broke into tears.
I have no one to blame for this but myself. I don't do anything. I don't move off the couch and I find that if I stand for too long, my back hurts from carrying all this extra weight. To top it off, I just quit smoking a month ago and am finding that instead of having more energy, I'm only more compelled to want to curl up into a ball on my bed and cry (after stuffing my face with an entire bag of potato chips).
I'm that fatty that watches The Biggest Loser while stuffing my face. I laugh on the outside, to my kids, as I order them to bring me another soda or bag of chips while we watch the show. But on the inside, I'm crying. I cry all the time.
Being a fat chick is not anything I'd wish on anyone (well, maybe except those skinny bitches who've judged me throughout the years). It's impossible to explain what it feels like to feel trapped in your own body. What it feels like to dread waking up in the morning because you know you will have a mega struggle ahead - trying to fit into your jeans - or even to find jeans that haven't apparently "shrunk in the dryer" AGAIN. Sigh.
Rock bottom. I'm here. I need to do something about this now. I know if I keep going at this rate, I will soon be crossing the big three hundred lap. I've been to the doctor's - who have done every test and haven't been able to find anything medically "wrong" with me.
I know what is wrong with me. I'm depressed and my fat makes me only all more impressed. I'm this girl who longs to wear that itsy bitzy bikinni (yellow's my color) but has never been able to. I've never really even been fat all my life either - that's the weird thing. It's like I always had this fat chick inside of me but she's on the outside now. Even when I was thin, I convinced myself I was fat. Now that I am fat, my inner skinny bitch is telling me that I'm not "thatttt" bad. I don't know who to listen to. I feel skitzophrenic - something else that makes me feel fat.
It's time for me to face the truth about my weight. 1. I got here on my own, no one made me eat that extra portion or third helping, 2. buffets are half of how I got here and instead of getting a bargain by eating at one, I was really only hurting myself, 3. My incredible contempt for exercise got me here, 4. I can't blame this gain on quitting smoking as I was already gaining before I hit this new rock bottom. The list goes on and on but it's too exhausting to write out. The point is, what am I going to do about it?
Well, first things first, I'm going to start writing a public food journal. I feel like if people can see (and I am held accountable for) all of the food I'm putting into my mouth, it may jst make me stop twice before I do it. I'm also going to find a way to get my fat ass some exercise. My tween boys will be good for this. They are tired of watching me gorge myself and I suspect that they are beginning to be embarassed by my weight. I'm also going to throw all the junk food in this house OUT the door and try to never look back. Those are the things I'm going to do for starters.
I've lost weight before and I know I can do this. I'm just not sure how I'm going to do this without ephedra and laxatives this time (she says, reminding herself that she wasn't able to keep the weight off the last time she used those things).
Oh! And I'm also going to name my skinny and fat chicks. My fat chick is Bertha. My skinny chick is Lola. I'm going to try to write here every day, making myself, Bertha, and Lola accountable for our decisions. I'm also going to do what I can to give myself positive talk vrs negative beat yourself over the head with your fat ass flubber labels. (Yikes, I have a long way to go).
These things are only a start, I know. But I have to do something. At some point, I'd like to see myself in polka dots - not just my blog....
-E
Fat Bottomed Girl
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