The Life and Times of a Fat Girl (Rated R)

Well folks, we hit 255 this morning, and I actually performed the entire dance to Thriller in my underwear upon exiting the bathroom.

It was a glorious moment, well, until my crazzzzy Portuguese elderly neighbors realized that I was watching them, watch me. I can only imagine what they think about the unmarried 27 year old with two dogs doing a full on 80’s dance in pastel yellow panties. It was hot; you all know you want it. (Distant crickets)

I feel like these people are somehow going to be a comical element when I finally get my ass moving to write my book. They see me everyday, mounting my bike, wearing the same white long sleeved shirt when I go on my walks, they see me sweat, they see me cook, and I almost feel like incorporating them, and their apparent voyeurism, into a type of Statler and Waldorf, if you will. It is easier to keep their obvious staring at bay during the winter months - when the sunshine isn’t fabulous and the breeze isn’t nice.

For those of you who are Muppet-tarded – Statler and Waldorf are those hecklers from the muppet show that sit in the balcony claiming how bad the performance is.

Oh, and for those of you that are lost on the Star Wars Bantha reference – The second picture is for you.

So seeing that my recent success was sending me in to cloud nine – I decided to try on this pair of black pants that have been hiding in my closet for 2 years. I bought them because they were my size and when I got home I couldn’t even get them past my thighs. I could have returned them but something in my gut told me it just wasn’t worth it. So, 255 meant it was time to try the damn things on. I was ½ excited when I could get them past my thighs. I was more excited when they covered my butt. I was less excited when I finally buttoned them they created one of the largest muffin tops you have ever seen in your life. I didn’t cry but instead started cracking up.

I looked like a chunk of breakfast, which brought me into the blueberries, which brought me to Violet Beauregard. Violet, I was turning Violet, Violet. Not just because of the muffin my midsection had created – but because I think if I left them this way I would have trouble breathing and start to turn purple. It is amazing how my mind works sometimes. But I was cracking up. My dogs, Brisco and Kenobi, stared at me like I was insane.

Oh, and if you see missing posts on this blog – it is because I made the mistake of telling my mother, who has begun South Beach, about this website. Seeing that those posts were basically ripping her a new one – I put them on private. Lol. I am such an idiot.

Oh mayun. Today was one of those days where you actually are proud of yourself for making it. I went on two bike rides today, one, in the morning after I woke up, and the second around 7 p.m.

But I am hitting something that is both annoying and frustrating. I cannot figure out why it so hard for me to bicycle. I can only make it a mile before I start to think that I just cant do it anymore. I was also sweating a lot more before and even that has stopped. So tonight I felt like my second bike ride was totally moot. I get in the house and do my normal walk around my kitchen dancing around but it was worthless. My heart rate was nothing. So I decided – what the hell – I am gonna go on a walk. My dogs grabbed their own leashes and away we went. I ended up walking them for a good portion of two miles. I feel it in my legs and my ass is sore. I am unsure if this is from being sexually assaulted by my bike seat when I go or just the reflex in my muscles.

When I first started going and working out – what I feared most is how the public preserved me. I have not had once instance yet where someone yelled at me out the car window until this evening. Friday night – go figure. Also, while I was walking my dog this group of teenagers I was walking past – one smart assed little hag decided to open her mouth.

Now, you see, I am possibly one of the most obnoxious people you have ever met and being in a job where I basically get to take on some of the most powerful people in the community, corrupt cops, politicians, and just general people who take a great deal of education and balls to debate. Going head to head with a 16-year-old girl calling me fat wasn’t going to be an issue. I verbally break danced on this girl and it made me feel like a million bucks.

After she had called me a string of nasty names, I removed my headphones, commanded my dogs to the ready position. I have a spaniel and a schnauzer and they are both hunting dogs that go on point at command. They are also highly trained in all manor of snuggling and attack. I turned around and looked at this ghastly harlot up and down and started to laugh.

She then issued a string of obscenities, another thing that I am very good at, asking me what my problem was. I walked closer and stared at her for a moment and the burst out laughing. She seems appalled and downright surprised. I then looked at her straight in the face and issued the following statement.

“I may be fat, but even to an amoeba like you, can see that I am working on that – But no matter how hard you work you can’t fix what is wrong with you.”

“What is that,” she inquired.

I mustered up the biggest smile I could gain and responded.

“Ugly.”

She had nothing left to say after that and I kept my walk up at a slow jog. I felt like I was the head Marshall in a tickertape parade.

I have dealt with assholes like this my whole life and to finally be able to be heckled as I bettered myself just reminded me how powerful I am as a woman and that no skinny skank in a Wal*mart t-shirt reading “Princess” is going to kill my feel-good buzz.

The shirt may have say princess but the face said… Troll.

The scale finally friggan moved. Thank Jebus.

So something occurred to me tonight… that my best friend is a registered Dietitian and I have begun leaning on her for portion support. I have been really trimming down what I eat and am thinking that WW may not be the best way to go for me. You see, I have no issues about what to eat – being my fruits and veggies and whole grains. The pointing system is literally driving me up a wall. It just seems so implausible. I don’t have the urges to mow food down. I don’t need 30 points a day to survive. Shopping with the counter embarrasses me.  I have re-learned to cook. I am changing my life.

I am so annoyed with the want to exercise more. I just can’t do it. I go for a two-mile bike ride in the evenings and I still feel like a total fat ass because my legs give out if I want to do any more.

So I have resorted to coming home at 7 p.m. after my bike ride and dancing as I make dinner. I can tell you that the crazy Portuguese old people across the driveway must think I am some kind of friggan lunatic dancing to Phil Collins as I am dicing up broccoli. I am also gonna be waking up earlier to go for two rides a day as opposed to just one. I am hoping that will strengthen my legs enough for make it workable for myself.

The minute you wake up that day when you decide enough is enough is possibly the easiest day you will have when losing weight. It haunts me and that is all I think about all day. Just the challenge and the justifications of what I need to do to become that person I always wanted to be.  The journey is just so tedious. I want to feel like I am changing.

I need to find 250. I need need to drop Jessica Biel off my frame to look like Jessica Biel. That people… is just screwed up.

In the past few days, after discovering exercising, I realized that I had done so well that I was dying for this amazing curry from a local Thai house. Now, compared to eggrolls, fried shrimps and those delectable scallion pancakes from the local Chinese cuisine place, which is chock full of the MSG and deep fried, or what you could call my formal norm, – the boiled chicken, veggies and curry paste seemed pretty harmless.

But I still felt as if I should go and puke it up in a fit of disgust. No, I have never forced myself to vomit – unless you count that week after my 21st birthday and I had consumed that bottle of tequila and it was totally necessary. But the sheer thought of me trying to rationalize myself of how bad the idea of take out food is was pretty brutal.

To make it worse – My father comes over and is looking for seafood. I shake my head knowing damn well that there is some kind of theme happening this weekend that involves testing me to see the before and after of myself.  Before – Fried. After – Baked.

I end up getting a pretty lean piece of fish, seafood stuffing, mashed potatoes and raw broccoli. Of course it comes with the lobster sauce and the dinner roll. Not only am I not getting a pound of fried fish, French fries, coleslaw and enough tartar sauce to dice a mermaid up and cover her in it – but I eat half of everything and put the rest in the fridge for my father to eat tomorrow.

My rational side is telling me that I was okay. That I had changed. That my changes and mentality are permanent.

But why am I beating myself up. Why did I feel the need to go for three bike rides today just to get rid of some of the guilt?  A month into my diet and I am wondering if it ever ends.