Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

06 February 2012

The Great Refatting

Wanna bet?

As I may or may not have mentioned before, I've been fattening myself up like a champion sumo wrestler since moving to New York.  I've never been one of those people who "can't eat" when they're depressed... (I put that in "air quotes" because it literally makes no sense to me... I'm not even sure it's a thing...) 

I'm one of those people who self-soothes with carbs.  If I could do the back-stroke in a tub full of Good n Plentys I could probably be taken off of anti-depressants.

True, sad, sad, story.

Being thin has never come easily for me.  I'm a short girl who likes to eat more than she likes to move.  I'd rather take the elevator than the stairs (or even the escalator... that involves more walking than the elevator), I will cruise a parking lot for days until a space close to the front opens up, and if I could get one of those little chairs that carts me up and down the stairs in my apartment building, I'd be all over that like stink on shit.  

I want one of those little robots that vacuum for you while you sit on your ass and read.  And eat cookies.   Which you wash down with Diet Pepsi.

Ah, such lofty goals I have for myself!

My idea of a dream vacation involves a fancy hotel room with a jacuzzi tub and room service.  I don't even want to get out of the tub to answer the door... I want that food delivered to me tub-side.  

You will never catch me hiking up the side of a mountain, or running a marathon, or even, for that matter, jogging on purpose.  I'm not one of those happy fatties who enjoys hiking, biking and having fun, or who is more than willing to don a Miracle suit and splash around like a baby whale in the turquoise waters of Cabo San Lucas.  

If I go to the gym and work out, it's because I'm fat and not happy about it.  I'm the cranky bitch sweating and swearing on the treadmill, resenting the hell out of all the "Oh, I forgot to eat..." skinny cwords and hoping they all choke on a celery stick.  

And it isn't that I'm lazy, because I'm not.  I will work my ass off when necessary.  It's just that I can always think of something better to do other than exercise.

Like, for example, blogging.

Anyway, here's the cold, hard, ugly truth:

I've gained 30 lbs since moving to NY.

That's (for those of you who like visuals) 120 cubes of butter.

It's also a couple of pants sizes.

And a roll of lard around my mid-section.

And face.

And neck.

And back.

Oh dear Lord, the back fat...

I'm too sexy for my back fat... too sexy for my back fat...

And the muffin top...

Mmmm... muffins...

(Sorry, I got distracted.)

Muffin top:

I want the pink one...

Okay, let's try this one more time  (Did you say cake?):

Anyway, I'm down to one pair of pants that I can actually button.  I can't sit down or breathe in them, but I CAN button them.  I appear to be growing an extra chin and my boobs are out of control.  All in all, I've reached a crisis of epic proportions.

This calls for extreme measures.


I forced myself to go on the People of Walmart website and look for people fatter than I am to make myself feel better.

(A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.)

These are the Winning Fatties who made me feel okay today:

I would totally be the pretty one... 

I would never wear elastic waist pants...

Excuse me, Miss?  I think you're dropping something...

Whoops... I forgot to put my boob away!  I hate when that happens...

(Sidebar:  Do you ever look at the pictures of the People of Walmart and secretly worry that you might find one of yourself?  *pause*  Yeah, me neither.)

Well, I feel better now.

Meanwhile, is this not the coolest thing ever?

Is that a dude?

Okay, no, not that.

I was looking for something else and that popped up and I became momentarily confused.


No, not that either.  But I can totally do that.  Totally.  In fact, that might be me.  Only with better hair.  And no way would I wear those shoes with that dress.  Or anything else, for that matter.  

Where was I?

Oh yes.


That's pretty much the only way you'd ever catch my ass scuba diving.