BEING FAT SUCKS

Look – I like batter.

Cookie batter. Apple bread batter. Brownie batter. Pancake batter. The whole batter family, really.

Thing is, I don’t have a wicked sweet tooth. I simply prefer the batter of a treat-in-process to the finished delight.

And this doesn’t stop at sugar or flour-based mush. I also enjoy the savory succelence found in a crock pot of chili, or tomato sauce, or fiber-rich porridge, for crying out loud. I just like to sample the mess, taste the work in progress, season as needed, experience the metamorphosis of a bunch of singular ingredients becoming something grander and more delish than they ever knew they could be.

Unfortunately, as a fat person, I’m supposed to avoid life’s batter altogether. The recommendation is always the same: Shove a stick of gum in your mouth, trust the recipe, and put dish detergent in all containers and all over the mixing tools as soon as they’ve served their pragmatic purposes.

That means no twisting my tongue around mixer spokes to lick a little mashed potato. No dragging my finger along the sides of a bowl to scoop up some buttery cookie dough. No sampling the stew, dinging the dip, or plunging into the parma rosa before it’s fulfilled its destiny as a rouge for rigatoni.

But…but…that really, really sucks!

Do skinny cooks really skip this luscious rendevous their culinary masterpieces?

Do lean and lithe gourmateers voluntarily reject the intimate and savory sampling only found in the world of BLTs? (That’s “Bites, Licks, ‘n Tastes,” for those who’ve never done Weight Watchers.)

Are there BLT Anonamous meetings for those of us who are overly fond of in-transit concoctions?

Heck, I can’t go to my son’s tee-ball game without salivating when I hear the coach yell, “Batter up!” And yet, if I want to go kayaking without having to worry about capsizing the vessel, I’m told I have to forsake any and all thick, gooey, drippy, yummy, uncooked and underappreciated edibles.

Dang, dang and triple dang.

Looks like I better stock up on some duct tape with skin-friendly adhesive.

Okay, so there’s New Year’s Day, the annual blip of hope and new beginnings for Fatties the world over.

Then we have the seasonal anniversaries of resolve and renewal, like “Yikes! Bathingsuit Season’s Just Around the Corner!” Day (May), and “Help! I’m the Size of a Woman in Labor!” Day (September).

Then we have the most universal and ubiquitous collective conscious experience for Fatties, hands down:

Mondays.

Fifty-two times every year. No exceptions.

The food oopsies of the weekend have come and gone. The party’s over. It’s a new week. Either the kids are back at school, the work week has begun, the regular primetime TV schedule is back in full swing, or some combination of the three.

Whatever the individual triggers are, the outcome’s the same. A nausea-like wave of realization slaps us in the flub and tells us it’s time to buckle down, get serious, and shed some pounds.

Ambitious exercise regimens course through some of our brains. Weekly meal planning is the go-to rite of passage for others.

Details aren’t as important as understanding this:

Every female – and I do mean EVERY female – with any unwanted chub on her skeletal structure whatsoever, considers some kind of diet or weight loss regimen on Monday mornings.

There’s a theatrical sweep of the psychological slate. Inner monologues are channeled as drill sergeants, knuckle-whipping nuns, and broad-shouldered, square-jawed women named Helga.

“That’s it. I’m serious this time.”

“No more messing around. Let’s do this thing.”

“I am never eating anything but cabbage, celery, and fiber-infused cereal, ever again.”

“Two hours a day – 1000 crunches, five miles on the treadmill, full-circuit free weights, and a good 30 minutes on the bike, elliptical, or stairmaster, depending on my mood. No excuses.”

“How bad IS bulimia on my tooth enamel, really?”

Cookies are sworn off. Fast food is noted as the Devil’s poison, never to be touched. Gym memberships are recalled fondly.

The plan’s in place. The strategy is bulletproof. Fate as a skinny Minnie is signed, sealed, and just waiting to be delivered.

Breakfast’s are skipped. Fat clothes are scowled at and told they’re not long for their closets.

For those first few hours on Monday morning, women are proud and happy of themselves. There have been no slip-ups – no binges, no skipped workouts, no surrender to fried, salty lard sticks.

From 6am to 11am on Monday, Weighties everywhere are thinking, “This very well could be the first day of the rest of my flat-stomached life.”

And it could. Except for one, small thing.

Tuesday.

And even if Tuesday keeps the same rules and momentum as a flawless, faithful, perfectly executed Monday – a feat of grand proportions! – then Wednesday has to come and go. And Thursday has that after-work networking thing. And Friday there’s dinner with the Swinsons, then brunch on Saturday, and your in-laws are coming over for dinner on Sunday, and they ALWAYS want bread, dessert, and wine, at the VERY least…

But thank heavens for Monday.

Monday – the day all diets and weight loss plans are possible, if only for one fabulous, fleeting jiffy.

(I’d write more, but it’s 11:10am right now. I have to go eat something before I pass out.)

Consciousness. Coming to. Transitioning from the cushion of slumber to the inescapable dread of day.

For me, hell begins as soon as my brain flips on. There’s a lightning fast inventory taken, a checklist that goes something like this:

-Alive? Check.

-Any noticeable, pre-motion pain? Usually nope, with the occasional yup.

-Still fat? You betcha.

Sunk into the thick mattress pillow, I feel the giant imprint of my flesh. Queen-size bed. I swear I’m half of it. Do skinny people thrive in full-size beds? If I can’t get a handle on my girth, will I have to upgrade to a king someday? Soon? Does my svelt husband have any room when we sleep? Or has he trained himself to balance on his side and work with a sliver of space for seven hours a night?

On the brave days, or the extra-self-loathing days, I actually feel the bulge of my tummy, hips, and thighs with my fingers. Poke, gloop, blop. Poke, glerp, pinch, ech. Are there really people who can’t pinch an inch of extraneous flub? What must that be like? I’ve got fistfuls to spare, all decorated with stretchmarks and cellulite.

I feel it all, and it weighs me down even before I set foot on the floor to feel it literally weighing me down. I’m in my mid-thirties, and I’m relatively healthy. Every month, every year I put on a pound or twenty, and this weight thing gets worse. I know this. I’ve tried to flip the cycle. Diets, “live-its,” trainers, exercise binges, weights, whole foods, no carbs, homeopathic pill-popping campaigns, and the worst remedy of all: HOPE.

These days, HOPE is a last resort. I’ve tried it before, and it’s always failed me. These days, the option of HOPE gets less accessible. I used to be able to summon all my strength (whatever strength I thought I had, anyway), do a “buck up little camper” like no one else, set a focused mind and a determined spirit onto the goal of conquering my weight issue once and for all, release the fact that I’ve said as much before and never succeeded, insist that the “real” time is destined so it might as well be today, and get excited about the prospect of all this “not me” stuff finally, FINALLY getting off of my beautiful, glorious, wonderful body once and for all.

But after you’ve failed so many times at the one thing that tortures you daily, hourly, and in virtually every waking moment, mustering such HOPE becomes as painful as the weight itself. By now, I’ve tried the gamut of approaches. I’ve watched others succeed so I know it *can* be done…just not by me.

Which then becomes the suckiest thing about it. People DO lose weight. People much larger than me. I see it all the time. I watch The Biggest Losers, the Oprah Winfreys, the makeover shows. Hundreds of pounds, *POOF*! All gone. And boy, do the newly-thin look HAPPY!

Then there’s My mom. My neighbor. My best friend. Eight pounds, 20 pounds, 50 pounds. I see it can be done. They’ve all done it. I just haven’t been able to do it. It’s not like walking on water, or pulling some high-fallutin’ David Blane stunt. It’s losing weight. People can do it. I haven’t been able to do it. Therefore, I suck.

Good morning, world.

And soon, I get the privilege of figuring out what to wear.

Oh, dear God, kill me now.