Tag Archives: weight issues

Drunk I May Be


But feelings I still have.

The fact seems to have escaped my Rockstar.

After a non-grueling day as a Pizza Slut, I arrived home and proceeded to get pleasantly buzzed, thanks to a little (or big) bottle of 99 Apples.

My Rockstar and I sat down and amiably zoned out on a TV show we both enjoy; I cooked him a drunken grilled Cheese, my specialty, ( a grilled cheese slightly askew made with love and Colby Jack cheese), when all of a sudden, his Daddy Dear called. I decided to play a funny, and while he conversed with his male creator, I proceeded to don his newly washed swim trunks over my yoga capris, and my only-minutely small bra over the tank top I was already wearing. I reaped a smile, and perhaps a squashed man-giggle, before he bid adieu to his daddy. I mentioned the obvious swim trunks, when he decided to be his ass-faced self.

“Yeah, my pants used to fit you.”

I admit here that I have gained only two pounds since I last tried his pants on for fun, and so I took this as an affront. (Even more so due to my drunken state.)

I have never once professed to be a skinny-minny; in fact, the opposite is true. I admit to fatness on a daily basis, though I appreciate the times when  people decide to disagree with me. HOWEVER, I may not be a Mena Suvari, but I care (at least sometimes) about other people’s feelings, and would never tell my semi-cute girlfriend with the big boobs that she was less than perfect. That is for people who are jealous of her to do.

‘Tis true that I am more than a little inebriated, but I can still spell inebriated without spellcheck, which means my feelings can still be hurt. And so I persevered in ignoring him for the remainder of the evening, which only resulted in his going to bed early. Fuckin’ A.

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What If Those Last Five Pounds Are in my Bra?


The other day, I was vegging around being almost completely useless, when I decided to torture myself by browsing on the Victoria’s Secret website. For those of you who know me a bit better than those of you who don’t know me at all, you will understand  how this is a somewhat self-masochistic act. As I continue to pay off the $2800 I owe to dear Vicky, I have vowed not to spend a dime there until she is monetarily sated.  However, I am in desperate need of a Boulder Holder I can wear to work that is not falling apart and poking me with an exposed underwire.

As I clicked and clicked away on the website, I reminisced about the days when it seemed I had unlimited funds to spend on over-priced lingerie and  designer shoes. Did you ever notice how perfectly all the clothes fit on those models? I am convinced that just looking at Adriana Lima and that Alessandra chic convinces women everywhere that they are a size two. Luckily, though I am clearly NOT a size two, the jeans from Victoria’s Secret fit surprisingly well on me. And even though I’m certain I could find that booby-enhancing sweater in my hometown mall for a fraction of the price, there’s just something about seeing it on Douzan that makes me want to pay more for it.

While I am completely at home in my body, (after all, I DO have wonderful breasts to play with) I have made the decision that I could lose a few pounds. Sadly, the smell of French fries in the afternoon is enough to make me forget any such decisions. But as I fantasied about over-filling my virtual cart with designs worn by the most beautiful women in the world, I snapped out of it and said to myself, “No! No, Self! You don’t deserve any new clothes until you gracefully fit into all the cute ones you’ve never worn that hang in your closet!” And with a decisive finger, I clicked right on over to my unfinished novel, feeling only slightly powerful that I did not buy the clothes that I couldn’t afford.

The thought of losing weight is never far from my mind, but the thought of exercising is. When my Rockstar suggested last week that the reason for my chronic tiredness was lack of exercise, I calmly looked at him and retorted with, “But think how much MORE tired I’d be if I ran a mile or did situps!” Because of my chestly heritage, even if I DID lose some weight, the chances of my… ahem, upper portions fitting nicely into a size Medium sweater are slim to none. When doctors are weighing the heavy-chested, do they take into account that that extra 20 pounds they’re carrying around just might be in their bra?

Since I have no shortages of men lusting after me, it’s safe to say that I practically perfect at the size I am, but it IS frustrating when I go to try on clothes and nothing fits. So I will once again make a firm decision. I must learn to sew.

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The End of Abuse


I have a confession to make.

I’ve been in an abusive relationship for the past 16 years.

In the beginning, I couldn’t see it, despite the fact that I had my friends and loved ones urging me to open my eyes and see the truth. I began questioning my self-worth when my damaging relationship constantly reminded me I had a weight problem. I had nowhere to turn when several of my aquaintances began ridiculing me about my weight.

I tried to stop the abuse, exercising endlessly, trying to lose the disgusting poundage that caused me to hang my head in shame when out in public. It mattered not. I lost 37 pounds, and was still told I was fat. It was only later that I found out I was being lied to, when the fact that I had only 88 pounds on my 5’3″ frame was staring me in the face.

It’s gotten better, on and off, in more recent years.

As in most relationships, I’ve noticed I receive better feedback when I’m stark naked. When I’m wearing clothes, I’m reminded, “You’re fat! You’re ass is the size of Manitoba and if you go out in public in that, people will be gawking at you in disgust!” There are a few good days, though. Usually, it’s in the morning when I’m commended- “You’re doing better today. That 1200 calorie coffee you had yesterday hasn’t plastered itself on your ass just yet. Keep it up.”  On those days, my confidence is elevated, and nothing can touch me. It lasts, though, only as long as I can restrain myself from snarfing down that large french fry from Mickey D’s, or until the 12 glasses of water I drank completely bloat me. Then it’s back to- “Yeah. You weigh the same as 4 ten-year-olds full off of Doritoes and Ding Dongs, you slob. You might as well park your fat ass in the back of a two-wheel drive F-150 so it doesn’t fish-tail during a rainstorm.”

This morning, I decided enough was enough.

No longer will I subject myself to such hurtfulness. No. I will never have the sleek and slim form that graced Audrey Hepburn. I cannot let another 16 years go by with the voices saying, “Just hurry up and die, you repulsive tub of lard. Make room for someone more worthy.” I will no longer be controlled by one with such cruel and malicious intentions.

It’s time to throw the bathroom scale away.

 

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