Ten

I hate being fat. I really do. What I hate more than being fat, is constantly pissing and moaning about being fat, and never doing anything about it. There are so many things going on with me right now that are out of my control- being unemployed, having a pinched nerve in my back- that you would think I would get off my ass and take care of something that I actually have the power to correct! I am not going to sit here and write that I have the fat gene, or a thyroid problem, or an emotional eating disorder, or whine whine whine. No, I eat TOO much, and I sit around TOO much. Any moron that can watch Oprah or read Prevention knows that this equals = being a lard ass! And that is what I am. Maybe I am being a bit too cruel, calling myself names. Whatever. I don't buy into that stuff, I should beat myself up about it because I keep screwing up and engaging in the same old behavior that is keeping me fat. I know well and good how to count calories, how to read nutrition labels, how to measure out portions, how to buy skim milk and whole wheat bread and high fiber cereals and journal my food and drink water. Groan. So I know all that, but do I do it? Sometimes. But sometimes isn't good enough, and sometimes isn't going to get the fat rolls off my belly and thighs. Duh. So what if I eat All Bran for breakfast and have a Lean Cuisine for lunch? If dinner is a double bacon cheeseburger with fries and a Coke, hell no the "diet" isn't going to work. And I'm not one of those idiots who says gosh, I just don't know why I'm not losing any weight?? Yeah I've got a treadmill, but using it once a week isn't good enough, when I know I can and should do better. So maybe I use my back pain as an excuse to not exercise. But what is my excuse to stuff my face with fatty foods? Because I'm lonely, I'm depressed, I'm angry, I have no willpower? That's all bullshit, I don't believe any of that stuff about myself. I order that big calzone with extra cheese because that's what I want to eat, and it tastes great, and so that's what I'm going to order. There's no loneliness involved in making that decision, my happy hubby is right there with me, and we're out having a fantastic time together. Want to order dessert? Sure honey!! I'm not depressed when he's smiling over at me, reading out the description of the creme brulee cheesecake off the menu to me. So what gives Dr. Phil? Tell me why, when I know damn well that I should be getting a salad with fat free dressing on the side, that I order the fettuccine alfredo instead, and enjoy, love, slurp up every last bite of it? I don't order the steak and cheese sandwich with extra mayo because I'm angry at life. I'm angry because I ate the sandwich and I know it's not the right choice, and it's unhealthy. I don't indulge in any other destructive behaviors- I don't smoke, I don't drink, I don't do drugs, I don't go to sex clubs or hook on the side, I don't beat my husband, I don't cut myself. I just eat a lot. Destructive, yes, to me physically and probably to my self-esteem a little bit because I can't wear cute clothes or sexy lingerie these days. But there are no underlying emotional traumas that make me eat uncontrollably. I am in total control of what I choose to put in my mouth, and how much of it. I used to overeat even as a kid, so this isn't something X caused. My weight has always gone up and down, up and down. My current husband (that's a lot to keep typing, from now on let's call him A for adorable, amazing, attractive, ambitious, appealing- and it IS the first and number one letter)- so anyhow A has seen me 50 pounds heavier and 50 pounds lighter than what I weigh right now. He's never said a single word to me about my weight. But he worries about my health, my flagging self-confidence. He's very overweight as well, and I think in the beginning of our relationship (when I was 50 pounds lighter), I gave myself permission to relax a little, cut loose, enjoy being with him and being out on dates again, with someone who treated me like a queen and who had the money to take me to the finest restaurants around. Of course I was going to enjoy myself, eat everything good and tasty and wonderful at these places where I'd never been before, and may not ever go to again. I started to gain weight as soon as we started dating, and at first it was only five, then ten pounds, and I could shrug it off because it wasn't too noticeable. Then by the time we were married, it was an extra forty pounds. Then a few years later it was suddenly almost a hundred pounds extra. We ate out all the time, we ate a great amount of food (he's a big man) and he never once made me feel bad or wrong for wanting to order an appetizer, or asking for extra cheese on my pizza. We've always taken lavish vacations, on cruises and to casinos, where the food was free and we lived it up and experienced it all. I packed on the pounds faster than Secretariat ran the Derby. So now here I sit at an in between weight for our relationship, slowly working my way back down to my lightest weight. But struggling along the way, as most of us do. Even though I make more right decisions than wrong ones lately, I do still make bad choices when it comes to eating and exercising. And yes, I still hate being fat. I always will.