I had nothing short of a giant, fucking epiphany this morning. Seriously: It included lightning, thunder, and the Universe smacking me on the back of the head screaming, "Hey, FAT-ASS! YOUR PANTS DON'T FIT BECAUSE YOU'VE BEEN EATING LIKE A PIG AND SITTING ON YOUR ASS FOR DAYS AT A TIME!"
It started like this:
I needed to run to the bank to deposit Dan's check. I did my usual "Since I know absolutely not one single person in this Godforsaken place I can throw on jeans, a t-shirt and a hat and go happily about my business because there is like a chance in ZERO that I will run into anybody I know" routine (which basically involves a minimum of primping prior to leaving the house... as long as there's no spinach in my teeth or boogers hanging out of my nose, I'm good to go). I tossed off my jammies, grabbed a pair of jeans that haven't seen daylight since we moved here (because it's been hotter than freaking hell since MAY) and yanked them on.
And that's when the aforementioned epiphany occurred:
I could barely button them.
My eyes popped out of my head, I sucked my stomach in as far as it would go (which turned out to be not very far), and almost passed out from lack of air when I finally squeezed the button into the buttonhole.
And for the first time since, like, high school (when wearing jeans tight enough to see your front from the back was all the rage) I had to lie down on my bed to zip them up.
It was tragic.
I had to put on a longgggg t-shirt to hide the camel toe, then cover that with a big old baggy sweatshirt (to hide the exreme muffin top). I had to put my boots on standing up because my pants were too tight for me to lean forward and pull them on from a sitting position (and if I'd unbuttoned my jeans to make it possible for me to achieve the goal of putting on boots while sitting without slicing myself in two, there was a distinct risk that I wouldn't be able to button them up again or that I might die trying).
Oh Em Gee, I said to myself. I think it's a teensy bit possible that I've gained a little weight.
(Okay, that's a lie: What I actually did was yell, out loud, "Fuck! FUCK!! What the FUCK! Why can't I button my pants?")
And that's the part where the Universe arrived and called me a Fat-ass.
Holy Bejeezus, y'all. I had no idea that I've just been sitting around, fattening up like a little Christmas piggy. I mean, I thought I'd maybe gained a little weight... You know, not enough to say so, just enough to round out the number a tad. Like, to stick a 0 where a 5 used to be. Nothing major.
I ran my errands, feeling like a sausage about to burst from it's casing, and couldn't wait to get back home so I could take my freaking pants off.
I came into the house and had my pants undone before I'd even shut the front door behind me. I stripped down to my skivvies, walked into the bathroom, and stared at my poor, dusty, unused scale, sitting helplessly on top of the washing machine (where it's been since, well... May).
Did I dare?
Did I really want to know?
Would being in complete denial really be a bad thing? I mean, I could be one of those Big Girls who walk around feeling all fiiiiiine in low rise jeans and baby tees while their bellies and back fat hang down over the waist band of their pants and obliterate the whale tail and tramp stamp they are showing off... right?
Yeahhhh... I'm gonna go with NO. I just don't have that kind of self-esteem.
I dusted off the scale, stepped on it 16 times, and arrived at the horrifying conclusion that I eat too much and move too little.
Who knew? The Universe was right! That bitch!
Time to fix that.
Dear Skinny People Who "Can't Gain Weight" or "Forget To Eat",
You can pretty much kiss the fattest part of my ass.
Love,
Dani
Sweet syruppy sassafras! That was me last year, as soon as I turned 36, I gained 20 lbs. Seriously, within 2 weeks. And then added about 12 more. Finally, finally it was found out after much testing, and a full year later, it was the gluten allergy, but still, NONE of my clothes fit. My panties, pants, shirts, even my boots were all too small or ridiculously tight. And the 'well meaning' advice everyone, and their brother, and their aunt's cat had to offer? Bullshit. All of it. Walk around the park, park farther away, eat less...really?!!
ReplyDeleteBeing told there was a legitimate reason for my fatness (other than gluttony), like an allergy, would be a blessing and a curse, I can imagine! On one hand, it would be like, "Well, duh... eliminate gluten!" but on the other it would be like, "Well, shit... I have to eliminate gluten!" Now I'm thinking, "Hmmm... I wonder if I have a gluten allergy..."
ReplyDeleteSeriously, though, I hear ya. My naturally thin and fit grown sons say things like, "Just exercise, Mom... it's not that hard."
Sure it isn't. That's why obesity is such an issue in our country, right? Because all anyone has to do is park their car further away from the front of the buffet.
Oh, and eat less.
Sigh.
Aw damn. The jeans test is a bitch. I actually don't own a scale, because I wouldn't be able to keep myself from stepping on it every day. If I feel like I've gained weight I pull out a pair of old jeans I save only for this purpose.
ReplyDeleteIf I can put them on without wiggling then I'm just being silly.
If I can put them on with a minimum amount of wiggle it's still fine.
If I have to do the jump wiggle shake to get them on (you know what I'm talking about, right?) then we have a problem.
If the jump wiggle shake fails, and I somehow manage to get them on anyway and then proceed to walk like I have a stick up my ass because everything is so constricted, then...FUCK!
It would probably be easier if I bought a scale. Point being, I feel ya.
Since I'm all about extremes, I veer from one end to the other: I either step on the scale a thousand times a day and obsess about every bite I put into my mouth or else I pretend it doesn't exist and stuff myself stupid until my pants don't fit.
ReplyDeleteGAH!
I like your Jeans Test... I'll just put those suckers on every day and stay off the flippin' scale.
xo