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.