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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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’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.
If y’all ever see a shirt that says “Namast’ay Fat”, let me know ASAP.
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.
I’ve been logging my Weight Watchers points for a month now. Amazingly, I have not yet starved to death. Who would have thought I could survive on less than 80,000 calories a day?
As much as I’m enjoying not feeling positively disgusting as I eat my way through a large triple cheese pizza, I also miss the days when I would inhale a package of Zingers, or hyperventilate over a warm brownie, smothered in caramel sauce and melting cake batter ice cream.
Last weekend, I went to the Cheesecake Factory with a friend. I had a salad like a good fat girl. Just for shits and giggles, I calculated how many points my favorite slice of cheesecake would be.
For those of you not familiar with Weight Watchers, just know that a grande Caramel Light Frappuccino is 7 points, so is a 1/2 cup of ice cream. Just for comparison, you know.
Now, are you sitting down? Have you had your morning movement? I wouldn’t want anything unfortunate to happen when you’re blown clear out of your seat.
A piece of Cheesecake Factory’s Reese’s Cheesecake is 67 mother-effing points.
(And, it clocks in at a whopping 1,480 calories!)
I get 37 points for one day. I couldn’t even eat anything else for the entire day and I’d be 30 friggin points over my daily allotment.
I’m still reeling from this news. It’s no freaking wonder I have an ass the size of Texas. I’ve probably been eating 7,000 calories a day! Who knew things had so many calories! Doh!
So, in the spirit of eating healthier, I looked into what I could eat/make that would be not so calorie-laden and still a “treat”.
Also, I’m not gonna lie, I wanted to bake some ridiculous, kale-infused gluten-free, vegan, hipster monstrosity that I could satire the hell out of.
I searched “healthy brownies” on Pinterest, and this is the recipe I settled on:
Not only do these “brownies” contain black beans, they also call for avocado.
Now, let me just say that I’m kind of (and, by “kind of”, I mean I’ve never gotten on the hipster-led bandwagon) over the kale, coconut oil, and gluten-free everything that’s still all the rage.
I didn’t set out to make these “brownies” because I enjoy, or pretend to enjoy, eating “treats” that are more vegetable than what they claim to be replacing.
I made these to, hopefully, find an alternative to my usual carb- and sugar-laden goodies that are making me more fat.
I just want something to satiate that bitch, Martha (my fat gut).
Before I continue, I feel I must point out that I’m not, by any stretch of the word, a photographer. So, I’m definitely not a food photographer. My unfocused, off-center photos were taken with my scratched rose gold iPhone 6.
Also, I didn’t follow the ingredients exactly. The recipe called for a large flax egg. What in the hell is a flax egg? I know one kind of egg, and that’s egg.
I also didn’t go out and buy expensive-as-hell coconut oil just to use a teaspoon for this recipe. No, I don’t just have coconut oil on hand.
I was supposed to use organic, all natural cocoa powder. It says “natural” right on the Hershey’s box of unsweetened cocoa powder (that I already had). So, I felt pretty pleased with myself that I didn’t have to spend half of my paycheck at Whole Foods or Trader Joe’s just to make 12 brownies.
I had light brown sugar, but the recipe called for dark brown sugar. Again, I deviated from the recipe, but how different could the two be??
After I gathered all of the necessary ingredients together, I readied the tools needed for the job.
It was then that I realized I hadn’t seen my 8×8 pan in quite some time. In order to see all of the cabinet space where we keep our kitchen appliances, I have to get down on my hands and knees and take a picture of inside the cabinet, due to the positioning of the cabinet, and because I can’t get my massive head inside to look all the way back and to the right. With the picture as my guide, I can blindly reach for whatever I’m after. This is 100% why I never make anything.
There was no 8×8, but I did spy a muffin pan. After thinking long and hard about my missing 8×8 pan, I realized I have never owned an 8×8 baking pan. That must be why I couldn’t figure out when I last saw it.
Before I could even get down to business, I somehow knocked the open bag of chocolate chips right into the garbage. I was off to a fabulous start.
The recipe said to use a food processor. I’m not adult enough to own one of those, so I used my Magic Bullet.
I figured the black beans were the only ingredient that really needed to be processed, despite the fact that the recipe said to process all of the ingredients. I do what I want!
Mainly, I was more concerned about the black beans, because I didn’t want to bite into a brownie to be surprised by a whole bean. That would have just killed the mood. Amiright?
This just looks absolutely barftastic, doesn’t it? When is it ever OK to pair avocado and black beans with sugar. I guess when you’re making healthy “brownies”, obviously. But, *shudder*
After adding the cocoa powder and mixing real well, the batter actually looked and smelled just like real brownies. I wanted to take a little taste, but salmonella.
I must admit that while they were baking, they smelled exactly like real brownies. I was really salivating like crazy.
It was divine.
Sadly, that’s about as brownie as these “treats” got.
Ya’ll, these are not brownies.
They aren’t disgusting, but I will never waste an avocado like this again. Criminal.
Part of why I love brownies is the texture. My favorite kind of brownie is the kind that is almost underbaked (Paul Hollywood voice), so they are chewy, and you can taste what differentiates them from vegetables-freaking gluten.
Not only was the texture more baked refried bean than ooey, gooey goodness, they were way too dark chocolate-y.
Also, after my first and only bite, I got a bit of black bean skin stuck in my teeth.
I gave some to my neighbor, because he’s dieting right now. He said he liked them. I’m fairly certain he’s a lying bastard.
Verdict: Unless you like pasty brownies that are dark chocolatey enough that one bite will send you into a migraine of epic proportions, don’t try this at home.
OK. I started my “food plan” (I was going to put “dick diet” in parentheses to emphasize my utter disgrace for this food plan I’m on, but, well, “dick diet” could send the wrong message. Phew. Glad I caught that before publishing.)
So, I feel like any time I start a food plan, I ought to send out a mass message. You know, like, a PSA.
This message would serve a dual purpose: to warn and to implore.
A warning, because ain’t no one seen hangry like this kind of hangry.
It starts around 8 AM, when I realize I don’t have a glazed pastry for second breakfast.
It continues when I’m rabidly hungry before my feeding time while monitoring the lunchroom as 100 students stuff their faces with food, and I can’t ask anymore if they’re going to finish their obviously-unloved-food.
I get really effing hangry when I all have to get me through the after-lunch-slump is water instead of 15 Hershey Kisses.
When I get home, and I’m positively famished, don’t even try to look at me unless you’re sprawled out in front of the refrigerator, buck naked, seductively balancing a burrito on your balls.
A plea, because as much as I want a gooey, carby, chewy, sweet donut in my mouth, I can’t anymore. My leggings are starting to get stretched out. I just can’t, ya’ll.
Please, please, please do not tell me there are muffins and bagels in the staff lounge. I’ll run my fat ass down there and eat one of each while the rest of my sensible colleagues eat half of either/or.
Please don’t invite me to any parties, celebrations, or special eating functions. The second I see more than one kind of dip, mayo and cheese-based anything, and an over-frosted Costco birthday cake, I’m not giving two shits how many points the 80th dip-covered-chip I’m cramming in my gob will clock in at.
It’s not that I don’t want to help you celebrate. I’ll FaceTime you and sing you Happy Birthday/Congrats/Good Luck, while I eat my Laughing Cow cheese and cucumber. Just don’t let me see any of the food.
Sweet baby Jesus and all that is holy, don’t let me see the food.
(Actually, I hate talking on the phone, and FaceTime is the devil. I’ll just text you.)
I would like to point out that I DO NOT like the fact that I cannot be trusted at parties and get-togethers. I, too, wish that I could attend events without eating enough for three people. I am sorry I suck.
So, as per usual, the week I finally start to get my fat act together, there’s a staff luncheon. Unless you weren’t already aware, teachers, despite being overworked and overextended, know how to work it in the kitchen. The staff luncheons are one of my favorite days of the month. Not to mention, there is usually a Costco cake to celebrate the birthdays that month. There ain’t anything better in this world!
This month, the grade level hosting is doing a Pasta-palooza.
A FUCKING PASTA EXTRAVAGANZA.
I seriously think I will need to get a sub that day.
How in all-that-is-good-and-right-in-this-world will I resist loading my plate with carby goodness and luscious sauce?
Sure, I could always just not go to the staff lounge and be sad eating my salad. But, that only works when I have not one clue that there is food to be had.
It has already been advertised.
This is my problem-the fact that, like a crack addict, I can’t even be within a mile radius of my drug of choice. When your drug is food, that is flat-out impossible.
It is going to take the power of the gods and every ounce of whatever tiny shred of willpower I have in my body to not participate in Pasta-palooza.
Pray for me.
What are YOUR methods for resisting temptations? Let me know in the comments, and maybe I can be helped. Maybe.
Enjoy these memes that I made here. Weight Watchers uses points to track food. Fuck points right now.
All of the memes I generated here were done on imgflip.
How in the crap have I been doing WTFWs for eight weeks already?! It feels like just yesterday that I chose to make my bitching a weekly, written thing (I had to distinguish written from spoken, because I vocalize my rants hourly).
Time flies when you’re being a bitch.
Today, my post is going to contain a lot of choice words. Brace yourself. Delicate flowers, you might want to go watch a cat video.
Today is about the “Realization”. You know, when you finally realize you really canhave too many cupcakes.
Sometimes, it takes a lot. Sometimes, it takes getting into your car, in a pair of work pants that you haven’t worn in eons, and, as you squeeze into your seat, the button barely holding your pants closed, pops off and pings and ricochets off of every hard surface in your car, before it hits you in the eye, and finally, comes to rest in your fat crotch.
Yes, this actually happened. Except, not to me (my Realization came in the form of a student being concerned about me falling on my belly, because, naturally, it’s got a baby growing in it. That’s why it looks the way it does. FML). It happened to my naturally thin, kick-boxing-obsessed boyfriend after we both gained our happy-to-not-be-in-the-dating-scene-anymore-weight.
After he almost lost an eye to a Dockers Relaxed Comfort button, he thought about losing some weight. And, I shit you not, that’s all it took for him to go back to his Glory Days weight (watch for this to be a WTF Wednesdays rant. Men, the fuckers).
Since I’m not a man, and my body hasn’t magically become a specimen of superhuman genetics, all of my cupcake eating has resulted in some added cushion.
I’ve resorted to, again, getting on the Weight Watchers bandwagon.
Years ago, I was super successful with WW, and lost damn near 50 pounds. I kept it off for close to four years doing the program off and on, and being somewhat resonable with food.
Lately, all semblance of reason has gone out the window. Like, thrown out the window with my good arm.
Thus, why I found myself on Saturday night, paying for three months of WW, while crying into a large Dairy Queen Reese’s Extreme Blizzard (just typing that, I’m fucking salivating and in heat).
This first week I’m treating as a weaning period. Also, I just need some practice not eating everything in sight and I need fair warning for how much I’m going to be starving and dreaming of cake.
The reason I loved Weight Watchers before was that I never felt truly deprived. Yes, my better-part-of-a-half-gallon-of-ice-cream-binges had to stop, but I still got to enjoy the occasional thimble-full of my favorite frozen treat.
I’ve heard that “the fatties are in an uproar” over the new Weight Watchers points system, because it’s very restrictive.
It’s only Tuesday, and I can confidently say, this Fatty is not happy. I’ll be positively starving on the new SmartPoints plan. It’s as restrictive as my no-longer-elastic bra strap.
Here’s what sucks so far:
1. 12 tortilla chips are now five points, instead of three. Salsa and chips are now dead to me.
2. TWO FUCKING TABLESPOONS of my favorite coconut cream creamer are three points. Now, I definitely can’t put my usual half cup into my English Breakfast. My mornings are ruined.
3. This is SEVEN SHITTY POINTS:
These taste like fruit strudel. And, there’s frosting on top. But, these are no good to me anymore. I won’t be wasting seven whole points on a tiny fruit bar that I can down in two bites. R.I.P.
4. The cream cheese chicken chili we are planning for dinner tomorrow will probably be 567 points, without the tortilla chips (I’m too scared to calculate it, so that’s just a rough estimate).
5. And, this:
I.can’t.even. That’s practically half of the points I’m allowed in an entire day.
I might as well just each dirt, or kale, they both taste the fucking same.
For this week’s #fbf, I decided to re-post my Cup O’ Crack craziness. Currently, I’m on spring break and steadily eating my way to This-Isn’t-Even-Funny-Anymore-Get-a-Grip town. On my way home from brunch yesterday, I almost stopped at the store to get the ingredients for Cup O’ Crack. Thinking it wasn’t wise to have more than one serving of Cup O’ Crack in the house, I got a king-sized Reese’s and a bag of BBQ sunflower seeds. When I got home, I ate my loot, fell asleep on the couch, and woke up an hour later to sunflower seed shells everywhere. EVERYWHERE. I can’t even right now. So, how about I just wrap this up and get on with it…
When I’m stressed, worried, tired, happy, celebrating, mourning, or basically, whenever I’m breathing, I eat. I eat in a big way. I’m not proud of this, but it is what it is. Until I figure out how to separate my emotions from food, I’ll continue digging into a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Peanut Buttah Core after a shitty day.
Sidebar: If you like peanut butter, you must go, right now, and buy this. I’m not shitting you. Slap on your wrinkly jeans, get your coat, car keys, and get your ass to 7-11. It’s that good.
So, I’ve recently taken to enjoying nightly, almost-instant microwaved marshmallow heaven, and its mind blowing.
Let me tell you just how fucking fat I am.
Are you ready?
OK, I pour enough mini marshmallows to fill a large mug about halfway. Then, I get my Chex Mix ready (I’ve thought about using something far tastier, like Fruity Pebbles, but those would most assuredly send me into a diabetic coma. So, I go with the healthier, smarter, er…least ridiculous option of plain corn cereal).
Pro tip: Only microwave the marshmallows for about 30 seconds. Any more than that and you will have a sticky, gooey explosion of epic proportions. Then, your boyfriend will attempt to microwave his leftovers and there will be an altercation. Apparently, marshmallow and spaghetti don’t pair well.
Once the sweet, sugary, pillowy clouds of fluff are nicely melted, I pour in about a 1/2 cup of Chex Mix and mix carefully. Gotta get those little tasteless shits covered in goodness.
Then, I eat that shit.
It’s sticky, sweet, crunchy, warm, satisfying. It satiates Martha*.
Oh, didn’t I tell you I’ve named my stomach fat? Her name is Martha. The fucking bitch.
When I’m eating this Cup O’ Crack, I’m in another world. I’m riding technicolor stripper boot-wearing unicorns. The sky is dotted with cupcake clouds and cotton candy snow floats down around me.
No, that’s crazy.
I’m actually sitting on the couch in my stretched out skull-print pajama pants, watching Drop Dead Diva, with marshmallow strings hanging from my chin.
Such a glamorous life I lead.
*Apparently, my fat used to be called Martha. I must have forgotten I’d already named her. Eh. Martha…Bertha…pretty much the same name.
For this week’s installment of WTF Wednesday, it’s all about those dick diets that we all love so much (In no way am I insinuating that a particular body part is for lunch. I am using ‘dick’ like ‘jerk’. Got it?)
If you ever wondered why dieting sucks so much and it’s so damn hard (shit, I really shouldn’t have used the word ‘dick’, because now every other word has another meaning), it’s because diets taste freaking disgusting.
If I could, without guilt or consequence, continue eating marshmallow fluff and Nutella sandwiches for breakfast, till my dying day, I’d be a very happy, agreeable, and stress-free person.
But, because Heaven on Earth sandwiches make me fat and unhealthy, I get to eat unsweetened oatmeal and farty hard-boiled eggs for breakfast now.
Along with finally trying to get my eating back on track, I’ve recently purchased organic colon cleanse pills and doTERRA Slim and Sassy.
Because anything that’s quick and easy is my game.
Let’s start with the colon cleanse.
Never have these two words together ever sounded like a good time to me. Sure, it sounds like it’s maybe a good idea, because it’s supposed to rid you of the nasty sludge that gets built up in the intestines. But, the actual process of a colon cleanse?
When I bought these pills, I specifically asked if they’d make me poop my pants. I was assured it was a slow, not unpleasant process.
As much as I’d like to share some embarrassing story about how I was lied to and that I did actually crap my pants at school, it’s just not what happened.
In fact, nothing has happened. Like, nothing.
Maybe they are magic pills and they cleanse unknowingly, invisibly, magically. Or, I got scammed.
I could have performed a more successful cleanse by eating from the shady roach coach that parks across from the strip club downtown.
Next, let’s discuss Slim & Sassy by doTERRA.
First, I have to make it clear that I am a hardcore fan of doTERRA essential oils. I know and love a couple consultants, and they are why I’m addicted to the amazing Past Tense for my headaches. So, I’m in no way dissing the company at all.
But, Slim & Sassy is straight up “I’ll Just Stay Fat & Nasty”.
This morning, I excitedly dropped a couple drops in my water, did a sniff test, and nervously took a tiny sip.
I CAN’T EVEN EXPLAIN THE FLAVOR.
It’s like your water has been tainted with grass-flavored peppermint grapefruit bark.
And, now, my brand new “Boss Lady” metal water bottle will never be the same.
Needless to say, S&S is not my jam.
Not only did it taste just incredibly odd, it mildly burned my lips and then left them numb.
In the middle of my light and sound read aloud, I started slurring my speech and drooling down my chin.
As a teacher, this is just not a good look.
I don’t think I can stand trying Slim & Sassy again. My gag reflex is activating just thinking about it. Anyone want an almost-full bottle?
In ending, I’m literally a walking billboard for the fact that almost all diet “tricks” do.not.work.
The only thing that works is to stop pounding cake into your fat gob as if it were the end of days.
This is why I struggle, because feeding Bertha* tastes a million times better than tainted water, sulfur eggs, and grass pills that just make my belch-y breath smell like fertilizer.
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:
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.
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!
I blogged last year about my time in Glutton’s Paradise AKA Apple Hill. This post basically outed me as a food whore. It’s not like we didn’t already know that with the type of posts I write, but this was my first post involving any type of visual proof.
Since, I’ve been pretty IDGAF about what my pictures I post here and on social media portray.
I’m fat and I’m addicted to rainbow sprinkles.
Get over it.
So, without further ado, here are this year’s pictures of the annual Eat-Until-You-Are-Comatose-And-Then-Eat-Some-More trip.
And, because I wasn’t done being ridiculous, I decided I’d be an actual cupcake for Halloween. Here’s my attempt at being a cupcake for my students:
In ending, here is my promo photo for LuLaRoe leggings. If you haven’t gotten sucked in yet, RUN…to the nearest pop up. They are the best leggings I’ve ever sucked my fat into. The.best.
Notice how stretchy they are. Notice how they delicately caress my bottom butt. Notice how busy they are so you can’t see my bumps and lady lumps.
So, even after a weekend of eating my weight in food, I can still rock a semi-decent look.