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. 

Weight Loss and Body Positivity

I have changed my view so many times on the topic of body positivity in relation to weight loss. I started out thinking body positivity was just another excuse for attention (the very existence of millions of Instagram accounts created for the sole purpose of the vapid need for praise and acceptance from strangers is just one tiny piece of evidence) and just one of the many ways people make it all about looks and appearance. Yes, I really felt this way (and if I am being honest, still feel this way about selfies and Instagram accounts filled to the brim with egocentric pictures). I also had a hard time watching people promote being unhealthy. Then, I changed my tune after learning more about the meaning behind body positivity. After this, I started to believe that being overweight doesn’t always mean being unhealthy. Thus, began my intense eating-everything-streak, simply in the name of being big and beautiful.

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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.