The Leggings Spread

You might have noticed that I was MIA on Wednesday (my usual new-post-day). I’ve been so busy that I’ve hardly had time to write. This makes me entirely too sad, so I’m planning on getting my writing shit together in a massive way. 

For this week’s #flashbackfriday, I thought I’d share my post about the Leggings Spread. I’m sharing this particular post, because I need to be reminded of my own advice.

#stillcantfitintomyjeans

It’s no secret that I believe leggings are life. They are insanely comfortable, they don’t cut painfully into your fat, and they don’t feel the need to remind you every time you yank them on that you’ve been laying the butter on pretty heavy lately. 

I seriously have a definite love affair with my collection of leggings. It’s almost sick, guys. 

I treat them better than my poor boyfriend. 

I never dry them. I bought a deliciously scented fabric softener to make them smell irresistible (is it weird I feel the need to have my pants smelling irresistible?). I also bought special hangers, because you don’t put these babies in a drawer. 

Because I’ve been so comfortable and happy, I’ve hardly noticed it. 

Noticed what, you ask? 

The Spread.

Due to the forgiving nature of leggings, it’s easy to not realize when your girth starts to spread in all directions. 

I’ve been ignorantly blissful about my weight these past few months. 

That is, until I decided to wear jeans to school. Whatever possessed me to think this was a good idea is beyond me. 

Because all of my jeans have a ridiculous amount of stretch, I didn’t really notice it until I sat down in my chair at school. 

Thank you, Baby Jesus and all that is holy, that this occurred before my class was present. 

When I sat down, due to the sheer force of my stomach, my pants jumped ship as said stomach spilled over the top, like overflowing bread dough in the oven. 

It happened in slo-mo and I just sat, stunned, watching my overflowing fat. 

The rest of the day I spent sucking as much in as possible as to not knock an unsuspecting kid in the face with my fat. 

Fuck. I’m disgusting. 

I’ve figured out what the real purpose of jeans are-they are your First Alert Weight Gain System. If you can still breathe in your buttoned jeans, you’re golden. If you need an inhaler after buttoning, you fat, friend. 

Real pants are assholes, but they are like those true friends who don’t feed you any bullshit. They both won’t hesitate to tell you you’re looking like a polar bear in a puffy jacket. 

Maybe real pants aren’t as useless as I’ve been believing. As soon as I can fit into my jeans again, I’ll maybe put them back into the wardrobe rotation. But, just so we’re clear, I’m still wearing leggings the majority of the week. I’m not about jean-everyday- life anymore. 

Bend your knees for the added power and energy you’re gonna need to cram yourself into your neglected jeans.
When the button doesn’t take the first try…
Jump. Because jumping into your jeans is the obvious answer. Sorry, neighbor. No, I’m fine. No, a large piece of furniture didn’t fall over. Just fuck off, OK?
Is it just me, or does this look like my butt is on backwards?! Something doesn’t add up here.
Screw it. I’ll just wear my leggings.

An extra special “thank you” to my boyfriend, who just said, “You want me to do what?” and “OK, let’s do this” when I told him I wanted to recreate squeezing into my jeans. 

Ladies, learn from me. Even if you don’t plan on actually wearing those asshole jeans, try them on at least once a month to monitor how far your Leggings Spread has grown. 

You’ll thank me later. 

Good Lord, Don’t Show Me That

Every month, I get a massage. The wonderful masseuse I go to is extremely talented AND gives teachers a killer discount. Even if she charged full price, I’d go. It’s for my sanity and it’s a real fucking treat. It’s a win-win. 

Every month, because of said massage, I also get treated to a visual display that damn near gives me heart palpitations. 

I know I’m going to see it, so I don’t know why it’s always such a shock to my system. Just like damn clockwork, it happens every month. Still, it’s such a sight that no amount of preparation would suffice. 

I’m sure most of you are thinking that maybe my masseuse has a wall of mirrors in her room. So, when I’m hastily undressing, I get a real candid view of myself. Or, maybe, her ceiling is one big, fat mirror, so I have to stare at myself as my body spreads out and over the massage table. 

No. It’s much worse.

So.much.worse.

THERE IS A FULL-LENGTH MIRROR…

IN FRONT OF THE EFFING TOILET…

IN THE BATHROOM…

AT THE SALON. 

A.FULL-LENGTH.MIRROR.IN.FRONT.OF.THE.TOILET. 

In fact, the whole room is just one asshole mirror. 

WHO, IN GOD’S NAME, thought it would be a good idea to put a mirror in so people could view themselves on the toilet? 

I don’t care if you’re Twiggy or Daenerys-friggin’-Targaryen, no one wants to watch themselves disgrace a public toilet. 

NO ONE.

Not only do I not need to watch my toilet activities, I really don’t need to be reminded of exactly how fat I am. 

Before a massage, I should be readying my brain for zen thoughts, not being shocked clean off the toilet when I see how my gut, so elegantly, drapes itself over my lap and into the toilet bowl. 

If this wasn’t already bad enough, the toilet is way too close to the wall on one side. You have to practically become one with the wall just to sit on the throne of shame. It’s a real nightmare for germaphobes. And, for people who have asses that need to be given a wide berth.

So, why subject myself to this masochistic ritual every month? 

Well, quite simply, it’s because I have the bladder capacity of a thimble. Even if I really don’t need to go to the bathroom, my neurotic brain thinks I do and I spend the entire time trying not to have to use the restroom.

I know. It’s exhausting. 

So, as terrifying as the Funhouse of Horrors really is, using it is a necessity in order to fully enjoy my massage. 

These last few months, I’ve been trying to just not look.

If you’ve ever had to talk to someone with a boil smack dab in the middle of their forehead or a goiter growing out of their neck, you’ll know it’s impossible to not stare at the elephant in the room. 

It’s impossible not to look. 

Also, each month, I’m hoping I saw it wrong, and it won’t nearly be as bad. 

Nope. It’s that bad. 

I’ve even left a Yelp review for the salon*, but no one has taken the hint. 

 

So, I’m left with being reminded of how truly fat I am every month. 

Maybe the continued shock to my system is good for my heart? 
*My wonderful masseuse has no affiliation with the disgraceful mirror in this post. 

Namast’ay Fat

As I was standing in the line at the grocery store, wearing my “Namaste In Shape” tank, I pondered how bad it looked that I was buying two pieces of cake, a bottle of Moscato and a bag of Cheetos. 

I mean, I know people were judging the chubby chick buying, at least, 4,000 calories worth of junk, in a shirt that proclaims she’d rather stay in shape. 

I’d be judging me too. 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not delusional. I know this tank doesn’t magically make me look like a yoga-obsessed health freak. As much as I’d like it to camouflage all of my lumps and bumps, and be the fat person’s version of the magical Cloak of Invisibility, I know it’s not. 

Apparently, my fake look-like-I’m-working-out-with-my-vices-joke pose is the same as my poopin’ face. For shame. Utter fail.

I just like the color and the fit. It doesn’t cling to my stomach and it doesn’t get wedged between my back fat rolls. 

It’s the perfect compliment to my fat pants. 

It just so happens to make a false statement.  Extremely false. A bold-faced lie. 

I have no idea what I’m doing. I’ll just lift my beer and the remotes a few times and count that as my fitness for the day. BTW, WHAT’S WITH MY FACE?

I’ve never been fit. Literally never. I’ve gone from baby fat to teenager fat to adult fat. 

So, as I stood, balancing my evening of fuck-it-I-had-a-bad-week, I got to thinking about all of the ridiculous things I’ve done in my favorite tank o’ lies:

1. Walked to 7-11 to purchase chocolate and peanut butter cupcakes. At least I walked. (If you’ve never had these cupcakes and you like peanut butter, you’ve been majorly missing out.)

2. Stood in line outside at our neighborhood burger and wing stand. Drool stains. No bra. Zero fucks. 

3. Sat on the couch with a paper towel bib as I balanced half a watermelon on my lap.

4. Made a tray of no-bake Reese’s diabetes bars that I hid in my sock drawer and inhaled over the next two days. 

5. Rode the elevator up two flights of stairs to the gym, where I just used the bathroom. 

6. Laid on the couch with Netflix and three beers, not getting up to do the dinner dishes  or even to get first dessert. 

7. Drove, not even two blocks, to mail a letter- a letter officially cancelling the gym membership I had for a year but never used. 

It’s been super fun going over all the fun I’ve had in my trusty tank. Maybe, at some point, before it becomes more chocolate syrup stain than cotton, I’ll wear it to exercise. 

Nah. 

If y’all ever see a shirt that says “Namast’ay Fat”, let me know ASAP. 

Flashback Friday: Fat Clap

What the hell is wrong with me? Why can’t I be like normal people? Why can’t I be a calm, cool, collected individual? The anxiety, the rash decisions, the guilt. It’s all too much.

I’m useless, mental, insane, compulsively-driven at the very sight of…of cupcakes. I know. What the fuck is wrong with me?

The other day we had a staff meeting where cupcakes were present. They were brought out at the very start of the meeting. They were for a birthday, so tradition dictates that you don’t partake until ‘Happy Birthday’ is sung. Um. Why you people gotta play with me like that?

The.whole.time I sneaked peeks over at those beautiful confections of sugar goodness. It was mean, really.

They were taunting me.

How can you expect anyone, particularly one with an unhealthy relationship to cake, to actually pay attention to the matters at hand when there are cupcakes RIGHT OVER THERE? 

I think I know what we discussed at the staff meeting, but really, all I was concerned with was whether or not I would have time to eat my cupcake before the school day started.

During the height of my anxiety, when I was contemplating how bad it would look if I just snatched one and ran out, I began to notice everyone else.

They were all just casually drinking their coffee and jotting down notes.

I’m having the sweats and I’m feeling like an animal in heat and these people are cool as fucking cucumbers. Really.

It’s moments like these, during staff meetings where I have to abstain, with temptation taunting me, when I wonder how I’m not 400 pounds.

The fact that a fucking cupcake can mentally control me to such a degree is embarrassing. Normal people want one, but they don’t salivate like a starving dog begging for scraps.

My many, fervent, stolen glances over at the rainbow cake bombs, did the trick and it was finally time to get one! *Fat clap*

I basically mowed everyone down to get to them first. I’m that person.

I was instantly ashamed, but my regret didn’t stop me from checking the teacher’s lounge, at lunch, to see if there were any left.

Flashback Friday: Sudden Summer Shame

Happy Flashback Friday! 

I just realized that some of my newer readers might not know that I used to write for the U.K.-based online magazine, Shopper Lottie. It got to be a little much on top of working and coming up with content for my blog, because the Shopper Lottie content had to be original and not previously published. I guess I’m really not the writing machine that I would like to be. Still, it was a really awesome experience, and I still adore the magazine creator, Charlotte. 

Since it’s almost summer break, I thought I’d share a post I wrote for Shopper Lottie about that fun realization when you’re super not summer body ready. 

Let me know what you think in the comments! 

Six Summer Fashion Tips For When You “Forgot” to Get That Summer Bod

Flashback Friday: Seven Minutes in Heaven-Help-Me

Image courtesy of Popsugar Fitness

I am, quite possibly, the laziest, weakest bish on this planet. You think you might be the crowning winner of this coveted title? Just wait, you will be voting for this fatty real soon. 

I was sitting at a work training a few weeks ago. As usual, I was eavesdropping. Two super fit women were discussing this free app that follows you through a seven minute workout. Seven minutes. 

Gurrrrrl, that’s so my kind of workout. Forget those hour long, sweat and puke sessions at the yoga studio. Forget the bike rides around the block that take me the rest of the night to recover from. Forget spending my hard-earned Netflix and chill with Ben & Jerry time on being uncomfortable and sweaty. Eff.that.noise. 

So, obviously I downloaded the app and gave it a whirl. 

I imagined myself looking exactly like the fit chick in the video, because in seven minutes I can do anything. 

Anything. 

Actually, seven minutes is a long time. I can’t do anything in seven minutes. 

Well, I did something, but it looked nothing like the stupidly svelte girl in the video. I didn’t look a thing like the girl who didn’t even break a sweat. The girl who doesn’t even need to do seven fucking minutes of fitness. 

This was the breakdown of my seven minutes of shame:

Oh, this is easy!! I can do a million of these over-the-head-body-ball-things.

I can feel my abs growing stronger and stronger. Also, my arms are stupid strong. 

Actually, my arms are limp noodles and I don’t like this. 

My arms are going to fall off and I’m going to die. 

*looks at app timer on phone*

No effing way it’s only been 45 seconds. 

Hold up. 

My timer has to be glitching. *spends 30 seconds checking*

Oh, phew! The next exercise. Thank God. I almost puked. 

Um, I can’t balance on a ball on my side and lift my leg. Like, that’s humanly impossible. 

*awkwardly spends entire time devoted to ball balance exercise trying to get on ball*

What a friggin joke. I’d like to see anyone but Extreme Exercise Girl balance on a ball like that. 

Oooh, a lay down one! I totally rock the socks off lay-down-fitness. 

Ow. These hurt my virgin tailbone. 3 is good. 

Yussss! Another lay down one and all I have to do is lift my legs into the air as I hold myself up, balancing my gut on the ball. 

Simple. 

Not simple. 

OK. That was a barf burp. 

Gross. 

I’m feeling insanely sweaty. I’m gonna skip the push ups to take off my bra. I don’t want to sweat in my bra. I just washed it two months ago. 

*exerts more energy in taking off sweaty bra than in the entire workout*

I’m feeling much better. That break gave me the oomph I needed to get me through. 

I bet I only have a minute or two left. I can do this and finish strong! 

*glances at phone*

It’s been three fucking minutes???? 

I think I’ve given this all I’ve got. Besides, I’ve worked so hard, I’m literally seeing stars. 

I bet it’s not medically safe for me to workout.

Well, I think I’m done. Seven minutes is the maximum amount, and it takes time to get to that level of endurance. 

Exactly. 

I’ll get there eventually. 

Guys, I half-assed my way through three minutes of a seven minute workout. 

I couldn’t even make it through seven minutes of physical activity.

I’m a lost cause. 

Seven minutes of exercise can suck it when there can be s’mores instead (Don’t even start with your, “But, you can have both” BS. Shhh. Let people enjoy things).

The biggest bold-face lie I’ve ever told. My favorite is when I wear this shirt to Cold Stone.



Why Wine is Not My Friend

For this #fbf, I thought I’d share a post I wrote last school year about a time when I embarrassed myself in front of an ungodly amount of my fellow colleagues. Spoiler alert: I’m as graceful as a bull moose. 

The local art museum in my town is rad. Not only do they offer many lavish costume events (last year they had a Steampunk event called Honest Abe’s Imagination Celebration where you got to view the Emancipation Proclamation. Badass), but they put on educator nights that are free, and if you attend all of the classes in a series, you get an inservice credit that goes toward your license renewal. 

Even better…

They serve free wine and delectable hors d’oeuvres. Tonight, they had stuffed mushrooms, artichoke cups, spring rolls, and moist brownies, with chocolate chips, and they were a little under-baked, so they were gooey, and melty, and…

Right. I’m getting a little too excited. Moving on. 

Did I mention before that they serve wine? Free wine. 

I’m not sure if I’ve discussed my inability to be an adult after more than one glass of any kind of alcoholic beverage, or not. In case I haven’t touched on that wonderful aspect of myself, let me quickly explain. I’m a lightweight. I’m the cheapest date there ever was. Buy me a beer and I’m done. 

So, there I was, with my peers and colleagues, drinking one sensible glass of wine, and trying not to get caught going to the food table for the fourteenth time. It was grand. We got to drink wine and eat for free. Could there be anything better to a broke, stressed-out teacher? Nope. 

Before I knew it, it was time to enter the auditorium. The learning bit. I’d almost forgotten there was an actual purpose for my being there–other than eating 18 mushrooms. 

I wasn’t even halfway through my glass of wine, and the food and drink wasn’t allowed in the auditorium. 

One of my colleagues suggested I chug it. 

I knew it was a bad idea. Anyone else after one glass of wine would be fine. Untouched. Not under the influence at all. Me? The direct opposite. 

In fact, I refuse to drive after even one drink, because I’m convinced I’m sloshed. It’s just safer for all involved if I drink on my couch, in my sweats.

As the presentation was starting, I had no other option. I glugged it down, and we made our way to the auditorium. 

Upon entering, we realized it was the wrong side, as our school peeps were saving seats on the opposite side of the room. 

We turned  around to exit, and that’s when it happened…

You know those moments that are so momentous, in a good or bad way, that time seems to stand still, and when you do move, it’s in super slow motion? 

Well, I had a lot of time to think on the way down. 

There was one more step. I didn’t step up. 

Shit. 

Is this really happening? Is this real life? 

Can I play it off? 

Can I save myself? 

Nope.

Maybe this isn’t really happening?

No. It is. 

Thar she blows! 

That’s all folks! 

No! This isn’t funny! Why the fuck me? 

I’m not the kind to fall, I’m more coordinated than that. 

I’m fat, but I’m light on my feet, like a dancer, but in a spastic way.  

Really?! Is this really happening?

Fuck. 

SMACK. 

Not only did I fall in front of an auditorium full of people-fellow educators, when I made contact, the clipboard I was holding smacked the ground, making a God-awful “WHACK”. The sound it made, as I smacked the hard concrete, reverberated off of every available surface. 

Just in case someone was not paying attention to the prelude to my long and epic fall, that damn deceptive clipboard made sure as hell they saw the grand finale. 

It’s possible that there was still, maybe, one person who didn’t witness my moves, but my teacher friend made sure it was a right spectacle with her, “OMG! YOU FELL!” (no fuck), and… her snorting. 

I am never taking advantage of free wine again. Ever. 

During the entire presentation, I was sweating profusely and praying that everyone thought it was my friend, who was wearing almost the identical sweater, who made the grand entrance, and not me. 


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WTF Monday?

Yup, you read that right. Because I couldn’t think of anything wittier, WTF Monday it is. 

I already have my WTF Wednesdays post planned for this coming week, but I absolutely couldn’t wait for the following week to share a review with ya’ll. So, you get two WTF posts this week. Do you feel special? 

My boyfriend went out of town for the weekend, so I pulled out all the stops. I slept in the middle of the bed. I ordered in from all of the places he isn’t too keen on. I left my bra, gossip magazines, and girl products positively everywhere.

I also did a face mask. 

I don’t know why I felt the need to do this when he was gone (I mean, it could be that every time I do one, he acts like I’m a ghost and I’ve frightened him clean out of his shorts), but it just felt like a girl-on-her-own-for-the-weekend thing to do. 

So, I’m sure you’ve seen the videos and testimonials for the Shills black mask that’s supposed to be so magical that many don’t even recognize themselves after. 

No? 

You know. The one that’s supposed to pull off a layer of skin to reveal the real you underneath. 

Still no? 

The one that pulls out black heads, showing a close up view of the pretties, and it’s oddly satisfying to watch. It’s disgusting, but you instantly have to do it. 

Yup. That one. 

So, I’m totally not the type to jump on the bandwagon and buy every product that’s featured in videos that Facebook, so helpfully, pops into my feed. 

But, my direct deposit had just dropped and I was feeling like a baller. 


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This video:

Is the real reason I spent $15 whole dollars on a face mask. I want to know this woman. I want to be her best friend. Mostly, I wanted a mask that would remove my mustache!

Full disclosure: When I first saw this video, I was sitting on the toilet. I was full-on ugly-cry-laughing. My boyfriend knocked on the door to see if I was OK, as I’m sure I sounded like a dying seal. When I shared the video on Facebook, I mentioned this and my next door neighbor responded, “So, that’s what that noise was!” 

Dead. 

Gosh, I sure know how to do a preamble, don’t I? Let’s get to the actual review now. 

It took more than a week to get the mask (after ordering it on Amazon Prime), but lucky for me, I got it just in time for Girl Weekend. 

To prep, I washed my face with really warm water to open up my, already Grand Canyon-sized, pores. 

I used one of my makeup brushes, just like the pros, and applied the mask pretty thinly. Perhaps, this was because the tube is pretty dang small, and I could have easily used the whole thing on my giant face. That’d be a pretty expensive one-time-use mask, if you ask me. Also, there are zero instructions on how to apply it. 


Once it had dried completely, I was pretty giddy in anticipation of seeing all of my nasty black heads and bad choices being ripped out of my face. 

I started from the bottom, just like I’d seen countless times. It didn’t hurt at all. I was hoping all of my chin hairs would be pulled out, much like the rooting up of trees during deforestation. Nope. Those assholes stayed firmly rooted in place. 

As I started to pull my way up my cheek, it felt like it was pulling pretty good, but when I looked, there were maybe three black heads. Three.

I don’t even want to get started on my upper lip. I was so hopeful, yet it was so anticlimactic. While utterly disappointed, I was enlightened to what it surely feels like being that dude who can never seem to score, no matter how close he gets. Just disappointing. 

Also, IT DID NOT PULL OUT MY MUSTACHE. WTF. 

I guess you have to have one of those non-mustaches that are just baby hairs to qualify for hair removal.  

When I got to my nose, I got excited. Surely, there’s enough nastiness to be had there that I’ll have a major success. No such luck. It barely pulled up anything.  

At this point, I’m pretty damn mad. What a freaking waste of $15 that could have gotten me three days worth of Starbucks.

As I neared my eyes, they watered and snot promptly started rolling down my face – I finally felt the pain everyone goes on about. 

It was terrible. 

Excruciating.

I realized it was pulling out hairs-the baby ones that don’t count around my eyes. 

What.in.the.actual.eff.

So, now it decides to actually work. 

Watch me be the only one to grow full-on, thick, black hairs around my eyes now that I’ve messed with the baby hair that once peacefully, invisibly existed there. We all know what happens when you mess with those baby hairs

Also, it didn’t all come off in one nice, clean mask. I spent ages picking tiny pieces off until I just gave up. 

When I stepped back to take a look at the mess I had made of my face, it was pretty clear that I had failed at the black mask fad. 

I’m calling my face mask ‘stache the 360 Degree John Waters. 

Just wait and see, I will grow facial hair on my entire face*. I will either have to spend a fortune on hair removal or I’ll have to resort to joining the circus as the female version of Lionel the Lion-Faced Man. 

It maybe would have been worth it had more than three blackheads been removed. 

Next. 

*I edited and filtered the shit out of my face. You’re welcome. 

Forever Branded a Fatty

Hey, it’s Friday! Shit, yes. So, I did a thing Wednesday. 

I got a cupcake tattoo! 

I had originally wanted to just get a tiny one on the inside of one of my fingers, but I’m kind of a why-get-the-donut-hole-when-you-can-get-the-donut kind of girl. 

So, I guess there’s not much more to say about that. 


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With out any further ado, the pictures: 


My virgin wrist 


This was the most attractive out of all the pictures my friend took. So, obviously, that’s saying something. But, you gotta have the “during” photo. 

And…


Ta-Da! 

It’s bigger than I had initially thought I’d go, and I had a brief freak out moment, but now I’m just in love. 

FATTY MCCUPCAKES FOREVER, BISHES! 

In Case There Was Any Question…


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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. 

The result? 

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. 


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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. 

But…

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.

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:


So, in case any of you really need to know how far your weight gain has gotten out of control, or you’re a masochist, just get naked and sit down on a toilet in front of a full length mirror. 

#dead 💀

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!