I don’t know about you, but I sped right on out of 2016 in my cupcake delivery truck from Glutton hell, high on rocky road fudge and bleu cheese biscuits and crashed right into 2017 in a carb-induced coma, complete with egg nog dried into the corners of my mouth.
Whew. What a ride.
I spent most of my winter break carb-loading and comatose, covered in powdered sugar, next to an empty cookie tin. Cookie Monster doesn’t have shit on me.
Other than a blotchy, puffy face, I really couldn’t tell.
Thanks to my latest obsession of wearing leggings literally everyday, I never had to have the usual after-the-Holidays-can’t-fit-into-my-pants-crying-fit.
My boyfriend would like to say that he’s eternally grateful to LuLaRoe and their leggings that keep his fat girlfriend half sane.
And, because I’d rather just not know, I don’t weigh myself. Even when I go to the doctor, I say, “Don’t tell me!”, as I anxiously get on the scale. I think they have, “Doesn’t want to know the extent of her fatness” written on my chart, because I don’t usually have to remind them.
Normally, the way I can tell that I’ve overdone it and thus gained some weight is that some of my fat comes back up when I bend over to tie my shoes.
Gross, I know.
I’m just being honest.
Because I’ve been the height of laziness over the last few weeks, I haven’t even put on real shoes.
So, all of this to say- I couldn’t tell how much holiday weight I had gained.
It was actually really refreshing at first to live blindly unaware of how much more stress I was putting on my overworked couch.
I felt lighter, with each step to the refrigerator, thinking the damage couldn’t be that catastrophic.
However, behind my new lighthearted, unaware approach to my fatness was a nagging feeling that something would show me the truth.
I figured my new leggings would finally give in to the pressure and the seams would come undone.
Or, while leaning on the door of the refrigerator, the whole thing would come crashing forward with the weight of my shitty food choices and my massive body.
No signs. Nothing.
That is, until I went to the bathroom at the salon where my masseuse rents a massage room.
I was just sitting there, like any other normal person, doing their business. I was probably noticing the appalling state of my holey underwear or picking at my cuticles.
Until I looked up and into the mirror directly in front of me.
How I didn’t die of shock right then and there is a profound mystery to me.
If at any point you feel the need to be slapped in the face with the reality of your fatness, just sit on a toilet in front of a fucking mirror.
After that terrible shock to my heart, it’s been green beans and chicken broth every day.
No, I’m lying.
After my massage, I went straight to the store and bought a 12 pack of cupcakes and drowned my sorrow in frosting.
Here’s my Yelp review of the salon and their asshole mirror:
I’d like to thank one of my Facebook friends, followers, and old high school classmate for giving me the idea to turn my Yelp review into a blog post. Thanks, girl!