Flashback Friday: My Armpits-A Realization

For this week’s installment of #fbf, I am re-posting about how my armpits have gained weight, because it still very much applies to my life. Enjoy, and here is hoping you don’t share my affliction!

So, I’m about to be really real here. Some of you might not be able to handle the truth bombs coming at you. Brace yourselves (do you notice that I feel the need to say “brace yourselves” almost every post? I wonder if that’s bad?). 

Ready? 

Here goes.

I haven’t shaved my armpits in at least a month. Probably more like two months. I know. 

Super gross. 

What does my poor boyfriend think of this utter disregard of my sex appeal? I know you’re all wondering. Despite the fact that he has no say in the removal of my body hair, as he does not have to spend hours doing it, he, admittedly, is not a fan. At all.

What reason do I possibly have to avoid shaving long enough to have pit hair that could rival that of Meat Loaf’s hair, circa 1977? Really, it all comes down to the fact that I’m lazy af. And, its cardigan season. Double duh.

This post really isn’t about shaving (or not shaving) armpits. No. This post is about what I discovered when I succumbed to peer pressure and finally shaved under my arms.

Usually, I don’t look to see how great of a job I am doing when I shave my pits, because I just don’t care. Normally, it’s just a quick swipe, then on to the next hairy location on my body. This morning, however, I figured I had better look, as there was a significant amount of hair there. Long hair.

After my usual quick swipe job, what I saw was equal parts amusing and terrifying. My armpits looked like a balding Chewbacca.

*Shudder*

Good Lord. I better go back over a couple (20) times.

After taking another go at it, my armpits still looked like an-in-denial-comb-over.

What the actual hell? How is there still hair there? What fresh hell is this? I have been at this for at least 10 minutes. My fingers are even getting pruney.

I went over and over my poor, now irritated pits, and still there were stragglers. No luck. It had to be my razor. After attempting to shave with my boyfriend’s questionable-use razor, I decided to do some inspecting.

WTF. 

There’s still hair! What is going on? What is…What the…There is something bulbous going on. OMG.

Good God Almighty. No. Please no. 

It’s the only explanation.

Some of my boobs have moved into my armpits. 

Instead of migrating south for winter, my breasts decided to wait out the cold on separate coasts.  That was the only explanation for the lumpy, bumpy state of my pits.

Except, after even more thorough inspection (at this point, the water has run cold, I have a crick in my neck, and I’m practically 100% prune), all of my boobs were in their usual locations. They hadn’t done much moving since I last discovered 33 is not like 23 at all.

So, what kind of debauchery was this? What was going on?

Suddenly, it hit me.

My armpits are fat.

My.armpits.are.fucking.fat.

Now, along with every other part of my body, I have to feel insecure about my damn armpits. How will I survive tank top season? It’s bad enough that I have fat wings, now this? 

When I have let it sink in that I have obese armpits, I will let everyone know what my next move is. I think this might be that glaring red flag that I hear so much about.

*Did I trick ya? As much as it would be awesome if that was my hairy armpit in the above picture, it’s not. Alas, it’s the boyfriend’s. Don’t even ask how I got him to let me snap a pic of his pit…

 

 

 

 

 

 

WTF Wednesday #4: The Leggings Spread

It’s no secret that it’s my belief that 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, and 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 elastic, 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 Bertha spilled over the top, like overflowing bread dough in the oven. 

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

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! 

A Fatty’s Dream-LuLaRoe

You guys! Have ya’ll heard of LuLaRoe yet? If not, you’re super late to the Fatty Pants Party! 

I am not crazy, therefore, I do not sell LuLaRoe (I personally know almost all of the consultants I buy from, and they are all lovely ladies. They are not really crazy at all, other than the fact that they actively choose to sell clothes to cerifiably crazy women, i.e., MOI). So, this is not a paid review or any of that shite. 

I’m just genuinely obsessed. 

What I like most about LuLaRoe is the fact that I now wear leggings seven days a week. That’s all the days, yo.

The day my principal walked into my classroom donning unicorn LuLaRoe leggings, it was game on. 

I don’t even know what jeans are anymore. Since discovering the obsession-worthy patterns and unreal buttery softness of LLR leggings, I refuse to wear anything that constricts my fat and makes me breathless when I lean over to tie my shoes. 

No more, jeans! No.more. 

Not only have the leggings replaced all other leg coverings I used to wear, the other styles LuLaRoe offers are MAGIC FOR FATTIES.

I currently own eight pairs of leggings (waiting on a pair I just bought today). I also own seven other pieces that aren’t leggings. This is my favorite skirt of all time:


I’m a cheapskate. So, for me to buy clothing that starts at $25 a piece, LLR must be pretty magical. 

Maybe I’m delusional, and I really look like Bertha the elephant clad in seafoam and gray arrows. Or… I LOOK FUCKING AMAZING! 

Here I am in my striped Carly and my super sweet cassette tape leggings (the boyfriend calls these the “Cosby sweater ones” 😂).


For OBVIOUS reasons I HAD to have these!


Yes, I walk out of the house with these wild things on.


It was hard to capture the true green of the shirt. I really do know how to match. I promise!


This was me limbering up for Thanksgiving. In LuLaRoe, of course #duh.


I really ought to be working for LuLaRoe’s advertising department. This crazy town collage was to show how utterly stretchy and giving the leggings are. They also don’t look too bad on my second butt. Winning!


Dudes, I even voted in my LLR! I like to stray away from the norm, and I felt there were already too many face selfies with the ubiquitous “I voted” sticker.


Treatin my babies right 👍


My fat loves my LuLaRoe. Since I stopped trying to suck my fat into too tight jeans, I’ve been surprisingly happier and more relaxed. Everyone who knows me in real life ought to stop hating and be thankful my new obsession benefits those around me. 

You’re welcome. 

#leggingsarelife #leggingsarepants #yestheyareasshole

Fatty Fo’ Life 

Fatty McCupcakes here (well, no shit. Who’d I think you would think it would be? Freaking Richard Simmons? Come to think of it, a guest spot by Richard Simmons would be absolutely fanastic.

  

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Well, that was weird. 

I guess I’ll get to the point. For the past couple months I’ve been hiding behind the guise of Fatty McCupcakes. I’ve literally been living my tag line-I’ve been busily eating my way through all the baked foods I can find. It’s been delicious, but too much of a good thing gives you cankles. 

I can’t do this to my body anymore. 

Gone are the days when I could eat half a large pizza, a whole coop full of chicken wings, and steak-cut fries, dripping in ranch , and bounce back after eating a salad for lunch, for a week. 

No. 

Now, if I overindulge, I feel like a freight train hit me the morning after, and if I could, I’d attach myself to a Pepto IV. And, a continuous stream of calming pink bismuth would only make me feel half human. 

I’ve been worried, lately, that if I stopped living the fatty life, Fatty McCupcakes would be gone. There’s no use for that kind of alter ego when your life revolves around kale salad and yoga. How can I be Fatty McCupcakes AND not slowly kill myself one delicious bite of cupcake after another? 

In all seriousness, if I don’t emerge from winter break with diabetes, I’ll be damn impressed. 

I have problems with food, guys, if you didn’t already guess that. Gee, what gave me away? 

I don’t see why I can’t be Fatty McCupcakes AND get healthy, because the real meaning behind Fatty is that I aim to decriminalize the word ‘fat’. Yes, you’re practically a criminal when you’re fat. It’s also a “bad word”. Worse than ‘fuck’. 

This fatty be like, “Fuck that.” 

No matter how thin, fat, attractive, ugly, or willing to be flexible to the changing whims of society you are, you will never be enough something to someone, somewhere. 

And, why is it anyone’s aim to be enough for anyone other than themselves? 

I am loving the blog, When I Thought I was Fat, because there’s so much truth contained there. How many times have you looked, fondly, back on a time when you thought you were fat, but you would, maybe, give up bacon to go back to that body? Because you weren’t fat?! 

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So, what is fat? Who defines whether or not you’re fat? Who says the way you are isn’t good enough? No one should have that kind of control over your perception of self, but you. 

Back “when I thought I was fat”, I went out, in a rather…creative outfit, to attend a superhero beer crawl. This was probably 40 pounds ago. I felt sexy, powerful, ready to take on the villains in my leather, fish nets, and cape (don’t ask). I felt great until some drunk creep, who was probably just growing pubes, called me, “Super Thighs”. Secretly I was just relieved he didn’t call me, “Super Double Chin” or “Mighty Double Belly”. Still, after that comment, I didn’t feel much like taking on the world that night.

  
Why did I let someone like that have control over my emotions and perception of myself? Why, after more than 4 years, I remember that comment? 

Who cares if I have large thighs? “More strength to crush your head like a pimple, you assknuckle!” is what I should have said to him (thanks, Stephanie).

There’s also this: 

  

Can We Stop Talking About the Thigh Gap Already?
I’m going to continue being Fatty McCupcakes, because there’s nothing wrong with being who I am, in all my voluptuous glory, while I work to better myself. Let’s make the word ‘Fatty’ a positive word like, ‘yum’, ‘love’, or ‘cheese’. I mean, it only makes sense. 

Here’s to a healthy 2016, filled with fitness, lettuce, and the ocassional cupcake (there’s no way in food hell I’ll completely deprive myself)! 

Fatty Fo’ Life 

  

I Give 

I had every intention to hit up Cinnabon when I went to the mall to look for a gift. When I attempted to purchase my gluttonous gooey bread-of-shame, my wallet was nowhere to be found in my purse. My forever-fat, anxious self even looked in my tiny change purse for my wallet. Nope, not in there. I never forget my wallet. Who does that when they own a purse to keep it in? I had to walk away from Cinnabon, with nothing. 

I decided to try again at the Starbucks in Target. I purchased my cake pop and gleefully walked out of the store, like a fat kid with a lollipop. Oh,and my wallet? It was in the back seat. Deceptive bastard. 

As I went to take my second bite of the cake pop, it fell off the stick. It actually rolled down my chin, over my fat gut, hit my shoe, and rolled into the gutter. 

I fucking give up, alright?

I think the universe is trying to tell me something, ya think?

Testing the Waters-“Body Positivity”

Methinks I’ve made it pretty clear that I’m not skinny. I mean, my body size is in the name of my blog. If you’re shocked right now, you have not read one thing I’ve written. If you have read at least a few of my blog posts, you know I specialize in self-deprecation (no, not defecation-that’s an entirely different animal). I love making fun of myself. Calling myself names and poking fun at my body is how I take life not so seriously. No one wants to be the fat girl who cries about being fat. No.  

There are days I hate my body, days when I find 6,452 things wrong with my appearance. Some days, I check myself out in the mirror and say, “You look pretty alright. Alright, alright”. If I spent as much time as I do on worrying about when my next meal will be, on how I look, I would be a very miserable person. I look to my other strengths when my jeans fit a little too tight, or my new bra gives me back boobs. There has to be more to this life than how I look.   If I cared too much about my appearance, I would be one sad person, because I will definitely never be mistaken for Angelina Jolie. 

And that’s OK. We can’t all have huge breasts, a tiny waist, and Brad Pitt. Some of us look decent in black yoga pants and have even teeth. It isn’t fair, but who ever promised it would be? 

Now that I’ve stated my own personal attempt at “body positivity”, I have to give my opinion on the “Body Positive” movement. 

Wait for it…

I effing hate it. I’m so over it. It’s all about looks and that is not what is most important in life. On the other side, it is nice to feel good about yourself, but at what cost? 

I want to lose weight because I don’t feel healthy, my feet hurt, and yes, I want to look good naked. So, I don’t really appreciate Tess Holliday and all those other “Body Positive” representatives telling me, “It’s OK you’re fat. Don’t change who you are. Fat is beautiful”. No *holding up stop sign*. 

Please do not give me one more reason to not put down the cupcake and get off my ass. Do not. 

How many women really feel beautiful having unwanted fat? Come the fuck on. That’s not to say someone who is fat isn’t beautiful, or lacks worth because they don’t fit into society’s cookie cutter beauty terms. 

No. 

I’m not saying I am not worthy or not beautiful. What I am saying is I don’t feel beautiful when I can’t find tights for a costume, because “one size fits all” fits up to a size 8. No. And finding tights in the “fat section” doesn’t make me feel any better either. 

Thus, I’m practicing yoga and trying to be a healthier, more beautiful me. 

I have to share a comment on a post that Tess Holliday shared (Her social media posts are becoming more and more negative. Soon, she will just be another hater). This young man was positively attacked for his comment. He was not rude, he was not “fat shaming”, nor was he unreasonable. The pack of wolves who tore him down were vicious. The same women who don’t like people judging them. The same women who don’t like being bullied. 

  The above responses were some of the kinder ones. 

  
  
Just take a moment and let this marinate. 

I’m testing the waters with my opinion on this matter. I don’t want to scare away all of the beautiful people who read my blog, because this is a heated topic, and my opinion is the unpopular one. At the same time, I don’t want to stifle my desire to write about what I’m passionate about. 

So, I’ll just leave it at that, for now. Like just one bite of a cupcake, I’m leaving you with annoyance, dissatisfaction, and wanting. 

Awkward Moment #3

That awkward moment when you come face to face with your fat foe at the hair salon. Your hair stylist can’t put the cape on quick enough. 

I know I have extra fat in the way my pants groan when I squeeze them on, and when I’m asked how far along I am by complete strangers. I get it. I know. 

The absolute worst reminder you’re fat is when in the seated position in front of a mirror. Maybe I’m out of practice with sitting in front of mirrors, but it’s always a huge surprise when I sit in the hot seat at the salon. I guess I forget the extent at which I’m fat. My thought process, when faced with this fabulous reminder, usually goes something like this: 

Before leaving for the salon:

I need to wear something that sucks all of my fat in, but is also flowy. Something that doesn’t cling to every crevice and stretch mark. It also has to be something I don’t care too much about, in case I get dye on it. Do I have something like that? No, of course I don’t, you fool. If I did, all of my fat problems would be solved. 

I guess it’s the leggings I yank up to my boobs, a layering tank, and a moo moo. It’s stylish, it has chevron print *sigh*

At the salon, upon sitting in the hot seat: 

Just don’t look, the cape is coming soon. Just don’t look. 

Jesus. 

I looked. 

How is it possible my body spreads out like Jabba the Hutt upon sitting? Where is all of this fat when I’m standing? It must go where my boobs jet off to when I lay on my back. Backstabbing, bitch body. 

Where is the damn cape that hides all of this? Where is the cape? Where is it? The cape! Gah. I can’t avert my eyes anymore. Put.On.The.Cape. 

Oh, here it comes. It’s like a long-lost Blanket of Denial. It feels good. It feels right.

The entire time my hair is getting done, I forget what is under the cape.

 I look fabulous in a capeI wonder if I could start a new fashion trend. Fellow fat ladies would love me. I could call it “The Cape of Denial”. It would be very forward and en vogue. 

When my hair is done: 

My hair says, “I’m sexy. I’m unstoppable. I’m fucking fierce”. My body says, “I like long walks to the refrigerator and I’ve given up”. My hair is gorg. At least I have my hair.

That’s usually how I self-soothe, the “At least” thought pattern. At least I can still see my vagina. At least I have pretty eyes. At least I usually know how to dress my fat. At least.

The struggle. 

Awkward Moment #1

  
That awkward moment you are attempting to sit on a stool at the cupcake shop, you shouldn’t be at, and the bastard feels very, very untrustworthy. After coming too close to breaking a chair made out of metal, at a cupcakery, it’s only necessary to swear your friends to utter secrecy. You take it one step further by threatening bodily harm if your secret gets out. You didn’t break the chair, but in the “fat world” almost breaking it is just as damn bad. 

The next realization you have is that if you didn’t feel it necessary to suggest cupcakes right after eating an entire meal (as if that wasn’t satisfying enough), you wouldn’t be in the predicament of almost breaking a chair while biting into a massive cupcake adorned with marshmallows, graham cracker crumbs, and chocolate sauce. No one suggesting hikes after lunch break chairs. 

Then, you wonder when it will be that the awkward moments become too frequent and you actually make a change. How many chairs at specialty bakeries does your ass have to dismantle until one is done with the bad choices? 

Awkward Moment #2 happens when you realize, probably never. Because cupcakes. 

  
Shut up, Ryan Gosling, you don’t know me!