Dieting fucking sucks. I hate it with every bit of the fat layers that insulate my thighs, gut and neck region. I hate it like I hate people who lie. And, I hate it like I hate my banana bread sticking to the pan. Why can’t I just like myself the way I am? I’m not that fat. I’m in the healthy weight range for my height and age. Yes, I’m at the upper end of that range, but I’m still within those walls. I just need a lethal stomach virus or one solid day at an amusement park to feel sexy again.
“You look beautiful just the way you are.” I can’t attribute that quote to anyone but Billy Joel, and he didn’t even say it quite like that. Yes, I know Ray believes it based on the fact that he is always trying to fuck me. But, I suspect my vagina—and not the areas surrounding it—is the real draw. I wish my inner voice would say loving sentences like that to me, but I’ve told you about her before: She’s an evil bitch, who hurls insults and haunts me. “You’ll never lose weight.” “You’re too weak to stick to this.” She means well, but, come on, she had a difficult childhood.
I am intrigued by people who seem to have no trouble avoiding carbs, trans fats, lactic acid and sugars. My mouth is like a magnet for this crap, and the pull force is very strong. Oreos come flying at me from behind pantry doors. Ray can eat one mini chocolate after dinner to curb his sweet craving and then walk on over to the couch. Why doesn’t his brain send a signal to rip that whole fucking bag open and funnel it directly down his throat? Do he and these other controlled people have a superior genetic makeup? Actually, I’ve heard of a mutated gene that results in a disorder known as FSS. I’m currently being tested for it. Spelled out, it’s Fat Shit Syndrome.
“Just drink tons of water,” people say. I’ve tried that. All I do is piss all day. Years ago, I had to pull off a highway and squat behind a random dumpster with my baby daughter strapped into a carseat. I’m scarred from that. “Don’t eat carbs.” If you think I’m never going to eat another bagel, then go put your money on the Jets winning the Super Bowl. “Fill up on veggies.” I didn’t eat a tomato until I was in my thirties. “Work out.” I do. “Cut out alcohol.” Fuck you.
“You’ll do it when you’re really ready.” Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard that a lot. I’M READY! I’VE BEEN READY FOR YEARS! I don’t want to hear any psychobabble. I just want to be like those people I see in the before/after selfies in their underwear and bras. Do they have fatties on both sides of their family tree like I do? Did their nanas have a famous, homemade chocolate cake waiting for them when visiting? Were their holidays based around gluttonous amounts of brisket and side dishes followed by enough desserts to fill a bakery? I’m sure they have their own obstacles, even in the midst of them smiling behind their granny panties and unsupportive bras. Who knows, maybe their inner voices sound like Fraulein Maria, and they hear a cheery nun singing to them from the Swiss Alps. Do I sound bitter and jealous? Yup, and that’s because no one is yodeling in my ear.
I thought that ridding my pantry of my kids’ Pop Tarts, Goldfish and sugar wafers would help me a lot, but I learned that a person can find bad things to eat even when those things aren’t staring back at you from a shelf. The truth is that my hurdles come from the fantastic lifestyle that I’m blessed to have. I travel a lot, go to lots of parties, eat at excellent restaurants and entertain a lot. Oh, boo hoo, poor me, right? I wish I could be that person who says, “I’ll just have some steamed spinach.” That throws me into a whole other conundrum of choosing between being boring or being fun, though. I think I just implied I’d rather be fat than boring. And, there you have it.
I dedicate this blog to two of my family’s most revered foodies. They aren’t here to defend themselves, but I know they’d both admit to their love of eating. My dad was known for his willingness to drive anywhere for a good meal or ice cream cone. My nana, as she handed her plate to the man slicing pastrami, famously said, “Don’t be shy now.” I suspect they’re eating Chinese food together right now. It is a Sunday night, after all.
*All names have been changed.
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