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.