I went camping for the 4th of July weekend. As with everything that I get myself into, it was definitely not uneventful. Oh, no.
I’m going to surprise you all by saying I’m not a real tough-cowgirl-up kind of chick.
Shocking, I know.
First, I really hate to be dirty. Especially my feet. OMG. My feet. During the summer, when flip flops and sandals are standard, I soak, scrub, pumice, and moisturize my feet to the point of obsession.
I can’t get in bed knowing my feet have God-knows-what on them, and so help me if even the tiniest speck of dry skin catches on the sheets.
Ya’ll might as well commit me now.
Next, I positively hate being hot and sweaty. If I can avoid ever being overheated during the summer, I’ll do whatever needs to be done. If that means blasting my AC and having a fan directed at me 24/7, so be it. I’ll pay an exorbitant electric bill for the sake of comfort any day.
Eventually, though, I do have to venture outside and away from my comfortable 68 degrees. When this happens, swamp ass and underboob sweat is just inevitable. At some point during the summer, I just resign myself to the reality that I’m going to sweat from every crack and orifice, and I just have to deal.
Also, if I know getting to the bathroom is going to be a pain (i.e. needing to get dressed first, finding shoes in the dark, walking half a mile to the campsite toilet, etc.), I’ll have to go the bathroom precisely eight times in the night.
Lastly, I’m a germaphobe. If there isn’t running water wherever I find myself to wash my hands precisely every hour on the hour, forget it.
As I mentioned before, this past weekend we went camping. It was at a gorgeous campsite in California.
While there, the worst.possible.thing that could happen to a germaphobe happened.
My darling, one-of-kind, beloved boyfriend put the roll of toilet paper-the very roll he took into the Sani-Hut (and don’t even get me started on Porta Poops), and almost certainly set on the pee-soaked floor*- in my clothes bag.
JUST BURN IT ALL.
So, if you just ignore all of the above paranoias, I’m a real joy to be with out in the good ol’ outdoors.
I’m being serious.
Once I procure/figure out a way to wash my hands with actual soap, and if I just accept the fact that my face will be so greasy the bright sun will reflect off it all day long, I’m actually a real camping star.
I’m of the belief that if something unsavory (like cleaning toilets or setting up camp in 90-degree weather) needs to be done, it’s better to just do it right away and as quickly and efficiently as possible. I can set up a tent, cot, and camp stove in record time if it means I get to sit in the shade during the rest of the camping experience.
Also, I don’t complain too much. As long as I have s’mores and a summer beer to look forward to later, you will only hear me complain about the heat and my dirty feet a minimal amount of times.
This past weekend did not deviate from the norm. There was just a little bit of complaining, and a whole lot of loving-being-outside-of-the-city.
The part of this camping adventure I was most looking forward to was a swim in the pond, because I bought a donut floaty, and I simply couldn’t wait to flail my gorgeous bod atop it.
The float and swim was simply glorious. I’m a fat chick, but I also grew up going to a lake cabin every summer of my life. I can swim like a fucking majestic mermaid.
It wasn’t until exiting the water, that I questioned our decision to take a dip in a pretty questionable pond.
The great debate is still on going, because my boyfriend positively swears that what was all over my legs were little wormthings.
No, I don’t care that he dual majored in biology and microbiology, those little effers were leeches.
After positively freaking out and making him run back over the rocks in his bare feet to inspect and remove the vile creatures that were sucking my life blood straight out of my pudgy, translucent legs, my first thought was, “Where else are they?”
Me: “Are these like ticks?”
Him: “Uh, no. These worms aren’t anything like ticks.”
Me: “No, like, would they possibly be elsewhere on my body?”
Him: “OMG. You had one worm on your leg. The other thing was a twig or some dirt!”
Me: “Are you blind?! They were all over my legs!”
Him: *rolls eyes clear back into his skull* “OK. Sure. They were all over your legs…”
Me: “OK. So, could they possibly have found their way to other parts?”
Him: “No, babe. I highly doubt it.”
Me: “Are you sure? Because if water can go through my bathing suit, maybe tiny water monsters can go through my suit, too?”
So, after I was reassured that the worms (leeches) almost certainly didn’t find themselves in my more delicate regions, I felt mentally stronger and more ready for the next camping obstacle I’d likely face (this time it was being eaten alive by mosquitos and the TP incident).
The struggle is real for an outdoors-loving germaphobe freak.
*After making it clear my disgust with his dirty deed, he swore up and down that he nestled the TP roll in his underwear and that he most certainly did not put it on the poop-caked floor. I feel just a tiny bit better.
Damn it all to Carb Hell. Why is it so hard to make good food choices? Why does movie theater popcorn taste so damn delicious? Why does a piece of Boston cream pie at 2 AM always sound like a good idea? Why do carbs make you feel warm inside, like you’ve found the promise land of gluttony and instead of guilt, all you feel is sweet or salty goodness on your tongue?
I mean, really. Sure, eating healthier has long-term benefits. I can attest to the fact that eating better makes you healthier in that I haven’t had a single migraine since I’ve been eating better. Not one. Before, during the height of my Cup O’ Crack days, I was having a migraine once a month. Once a month. Anyone suffering from true migraines (I say, “true” migraines, because a regular take-two-Ibuprofen-and-you’re-good headache ain’t no migraine, ya hear?) would understand why this is so monumental, so joyous, so motivating.
So, why isn’t it motivating when I’m faced with a decision- to sneak a pink sprinkle donut into the early-geriatrics-only movie, or not, and I choose to be that person inhaling a donut that, more or less, made it into my mouth, the rest melting between my fat boobs?
Why, Diet Gods? With all that is good and Holy, why?
I have made some positive gains. It hasn’t all been disappointment and let down. I’ve found that eating more than two pieces of rich fudge practically sends me into a diabetic coma. So, I have started eating only one 5 inch square piece of fudge. Progress.
I’ve found that cabbage steaks are actually really good (not the same as actual steak-dripping with salty, bloody garlicky goodness. Erm, excuse me a minute, while I…).
I’ve found that chocolate protein pancakes with banana and sugar-free syrup almost tastes like the real thing.
I’ve found that baking an egg in half of an avocado is the most disgusting fucking thing I’ve ever eaten (do not be fooled by those beautiful Pinterest images of a beautiful egg inside of an inviting avocado, all lightly sprinkled with pepper. It’s horrible. Don’t do it.
I’ve found that drinking more water makes me have to pee every 15 minutes, but I actually do feel more alive.
These are just some of the discoveries I’ve made. What remains glaringly obvious, however, is that resisting a vanilla cupcake with rainbow sprinkled frosting will almost certainly take the strength of the gods.
Sometimes I might be feeling Herculean, most other times I might be feeling like a damn cupcake.
*’Wherefore’, despite the common misconception, does not mean ‘where’. It roughly translates to “Why the actual fuck, cupcakes?”
It’s been fall break over in my neck of the woods. Us educators call this time, “Thank Baby Jesus We Made it to October”. I swear these breaks aren’t really for the kids, they’re for the teachers, for our sanity.
Every fall, since I can remember, we have gone to Apple Hill. Nestled between South Lake Tahoe and Sacramento, Apple Hill is a labyrinth of orchards, pumpkin patches, wineries, and family-owned farms, open to the public.
Apple Hill has always meant eat all the apple treats, drink all the cider, and buy all the crafts to me. You can’t bring enough money, because saying ‘no’ to your tenth caramel apple and a bunch of overpriced, homemade crap is impossible.
Since I’ve been a destitute teacher, I only buy the best of the best; no more hand-painted pumpkins and doilies for me. What is worth my money is this sign that I had to buy for my bathroom. I mean, there was no question.
I also wanted to buy every single candle from B&B Candles. Not only are they the most delicious, long-lasting candles I’ve ever purchased, the older gentlemen who sells them for his wife is the cutest. #supportgrandmaandgrandpa
OK, let’s get down to it, I know you’re waiting to hear. Exactly how naughty and gluttonous was I? If success is becoming a diabetic on vacation, I went for the gold. It was bad, but so damn good.
Not even an hour in, and I found myself a cherry apple empanada. Delicioso!
Photo op tip: Always stand behind the other people in the photo. Instant diet! Wearing black will optimize your results! This was lunch. They were called “Hog Fries”. How apropos.
“Cyser”: hard cider, mead, and honey. I had two. They were that good (I’m also a serious lightweight, and these bad boys were like 13%. You do the math). I didn’t capture my Chinese dinner, because I was drunk. What I did do was have a snorting, laughing fit in the Peking Duck, because apparently egg rolls are hilarious when you’re on a drunken, sugar-high binge.
Morning in Apple Hill means freshly-fried hot apple pie donuts and hot coffee! Look at those fat, hungry fingers!
Warmed Dutch apple sour cream pie for second breakfast. Yes, really.
Of course, I had to take a selfie! Come to mama!
This is an apple cider float. It was at this point that I began feeling my two days of absolute gluttony. When I bent over to tie my shoes, my apple treats and regret almost came up. My last words before my coma: “And…I now have diabetes.”
The whole ride home was spent trying not to throw up.
I went hog wild because Monday starts a new chapter. When people take pictures of the fat girl taking a selfie of herself eating baked goods, it’s time. Back on the wagon I go.
I’ll let you know how God-awful Monday after a break, on a diet, goes.
This shit, THIS SHIT right here is why I’m always gonna be fat. Friday is “National Doughnut (donut? Why are there two spellings??) Day”. Every damn day is some “National Excuse to Eat Day”. Every damn day. Do you know what this bullshit does to an impulsive eater? It isn’t pretty. Today is “National Chocolate Macaroon Day”. Did you know that? Basically, this means that I need a chocolate macaroon now. I mean, it’s only patriotic to celebrate, right? It would be un-American to not participate. I think the macaroon is French though, so now I’m all confused. I’ve never had a macaroon and have no idea where to purchase one, but it’s on my to-do list to find out. I bet you’re saying to yourself right now, “You mean the chubby girl has never had a macaroon?” I know, right?!
Let’s get real about this donut business. Donuts are my absolute weakness. I would probably sell my soul for the right donut. I’m very particular about my favorite naughty food, however. A dry 7-11 donut just won’t do. I also don’t like the fluffy ones. My donut needs to have some meat on its bones. I like the really dense cake donuts. You know, the kind you have to be careful not to eat too fast or you get it stuck in your throat, and it feels like it’s knifing you on its way down (why you gotta play me like that, donut? I love you and all you do is hurt me). My absolute ideal donut is a dense, yellow cake with pink frosting and sprinkles delight. I don’t even know what the flavor of the frosting is supposed to be, but it’s pink, and it’s fucking delicious. The sprinkles add some grit, and sometimes crunch, if some stray sugar sprinkles hop aboard. Sometimes, I can find the rare purple frosting donut, and that’s like seeing a unicorn. It’s so beautiful, rare, and just magnificent to behold. This past autumn, Raleys had a blueberry cake donut with blueberry frosting, and it far surpassed any of my donut expectations. I was more sad to see that go when the season passed than the PSL. My dream is to visit Voodoo Doughnut in Portland, Randy’s Donuts in L.A., and Top Pot Dougnuts in Seattle (keeping my obsession contained in the west). I’d like to go on a donut road trip if anyone cares to join me…I told you I take my donuts seriously.
In actual seriousness, this constant temptation all around me makes for a really hard time. I can’t even log into Facebook without seeing some sinful thing I want in my mouth. I honestly make a huge effort to eat right. Every morning I bag up my healthy food I spent hours prepping, I make coffee at home to put my homemade creamer in, and I count every calorie that goes into my mouth. Then, advertisements for S’mores Frappuccinos happen. Or, I get asked to go to sushi. Sometimes even, I smell McDonald’s breakfast on the way to work and my willpower is demolished. Just like that. It sucks. Unless I want to spend my life unattached to the outside world, I need to learn control. I need to learn how to not allow myself to be tempted. I need to learn that, while Cherry Garcia does make all the stress go away in such a sweet, sweet way, eating the whole pint in one sitting is disgusting.
If anyone has any pointers, I am all ears. I’m really close to buying the food addiction hypnosis class on Groupon, if all else fails (which it will, and I’m ALL about trying to not eat whilst sleeping). I do believe that choosing to not eat or exercising control is 100% mental. I do know enough to understand that my stomach isn’t calling the shots. As my new experience with yoga is a journey, so is my relationship with food. Maybe someday I can actually buy a box of Girl Scout cookies and have them around longer than 2 hours. Maybe.
Just in case anyone was curious, I did celebrate “National Chocolate Macaroon Day” with an It’s It. It’s like a macaroon in shape, only its bigger and not coconut and there’s ice cream. So, not a macaroon at all, but delicious just the same.
Also, I will attempt to not claim a free donut on Friday, or eat one in any way, but if I happen into the staff lounge, all bets are off. I call the pink donut, bitches!
*The fact there was an ad for KFC on the page about “National Dougnut Day” was not lost on me. While I know full well that move was the media intentionally sabotaging every chubby girl’s diet, I can’t help but find it genius. Everyone knows that after three donuts, you’ll be wanting some salty gravy. Brilliant.