I just might be the queen of yo-yo dieting.
It wasn’t the fiefdom I ever wanted for myself, I assure you. My wish list very clearly said “Emperor of the world” in bright, red lettering. But there you have it, after discovering, in my mid twenties, that I actually lose weight fairly quickly when I try to, I decided that meant I could get as fat as I wanted when I wasn’t trying because, well, I could always lose it later. (Also, yes, I know all about the studies suggesting that this is very very bad. It is. And I would much much prefer my Emperor of the world papers to come through instead.)
There are many drawbacks to being the queen of yo-yo dieting.
One of the more hilarious ones is that I no longer know if someone I haven’t seen in a while is giving me that look because I have gained a lot of weight since they last saw me or if I have lost a lot of weight since they last saw me. Actually, my default is to assume that I’ve gained a lot of weight, if the look isn’t quickly followed by “you look great.” Evidently, one NEVER looks great after massive weight gain and the politest of company will stare and then quickly change the subject to “what’ve I been up to these days?” Apparently, eating Doritos. #WOMP
As queen, there are also certain burdens which I bear. After a spell of massive weight loss, there are endless questions about “how I did it” and “how much better I feel.” Ate less/exercised more; TONS (get it? get it?) *GROAN*
I am also completely and utterly unmoved by any weight gain or weight loss stories involving less than 60 pounds. As Ugarles says, quoting a guy quoting Jay Cutler “DDOOOOONNNNNN’TTTTTT CCCCAAAARRRRREEEEE.” Frankly, I don’t even really care about my own weight fluctuations, except if it goes way too far in one direction or the other and I am forced to buy large quantities of new clothes. I DO care about my money.
Also, and I know this is terribly horribly wrong, but I want to punch pregnant women, who natter on about how “fat” they are, right in the face. On the other hand, I’m not a fan of the “I’m not fat, I’m pregnant” line of accessories. We get it, you don’t want there to be any confusion! Being a fat woman is the single worst possible thing ever and I’m pretty sure we’re supposed to kill ourselves or lock ourselves up in an attic. Dicks.
I’ve long since given up deconstructing images of fat women in pop culture. (Although, I always loved the Gilmore Girls for how they portrayed Sookie St. James — she was always just a regular person; her weight was never a subject of any storylines, she was just another kooky resident of the town… unlike Melissa McCarthy’s current TV role or her most famous movie role. #LeSigh)
I was “watching” an unbearable episode of Glee yesterday. It dealt with the stick thin daughter of a 500 LB lunchlady becoming bulimic because her Grease costume wouldn’t fit. (Turns out the villian blond girl had been taking in the skirt every night after rehearsal! GASP! Meaning that instead of worrying about whether she inherited her mom’s fat gene, she should be worrying about the stupid gene which made it impossible for her to figure out that if all her other clothes fit, the problem was with the Grease wardrobe; but, I may just be “overthinking Glee” again. I do that from time to time.) Anyway, the episode was fairly terrible and so I found myself pausing and doing other things, including reading newsfeeds, one story jumped out at me:
I KNEW that face. Those eyes. Without trying very hard, I could hear the voice:
“Maybe you try 3X, yes?”
His voice, the soundtrack of my tormented teenage years as the size of my clothes went up from 20 to 22 to 24 then magically down to 2x, then up to 3x and 4x.
His heavily accented voice mingling with my mother’s outside of the tiny dressing room in his shop.
That voice meant 1. there was some formal occasion coming and 2. I couldn’t fit into the dress we bought there for the last formal occasion.
No offense, and rest in peace and all that, but good lord, I hated that man and I hated his shop and I hated the checkered cardboard notebook he used to keep track of my mother’s crumpled twenty dollar bills as she finished paying off her “lay-a-way” balances. (He would “give good price for good customer.”)
Again, not his fault, but there wasn’t a single time I didn’t want to die stepping foot into that store. That store meant tight binding shoes and relatives and my mother’s lecture about how I was too big and was going to die of a heart attack and/or lose a foot to diabetes on a loud repetitive loop. (Never mind, that we’d go get pizza for dinner right next door afterwards.) OY.
That he was murdered is awful, though. And that it may be the latest in a string of serial murders, awfuler still (am I just making up words now?) I see that dreadful crime scene police tape around landmarks in my old neighborhood, with a heavy heart. And heavy arms, heavy legs and heavy stomach.
Not pregnant, fat!
I’ll be here all week, folks, tip your waiters.