Archive for December, 2006

The ROLLS (or: “Back Fat Sneak Attack!”)

Monday, December 11th, 2006

The thing about Back Fat is, you just have no idea.

bodyparts_backfat.jpgWe’re not owls. We don’t have 270 degree head rotation capabilities. And we Weighties spend most of our time avoiding prolonged self-scrutiny in the mirror. We’re not about to start using the hand-helds so we can get a more accurate look at our all-too-obvious flaws.

That’s why our scathing self-criticism is focused on our jelly bellies, sprawling thighs, and bulging booties. These are the parts we can see on a daily basis. Or else we’re trying to cram them into our ever-shrinking jeans, slacks, skirts, and trousers.

But shirts? We just buy bigger shirts. We don’t stress out too much about it. “It’s our bodacious bosom,” we say, or we just go with the styles that are designed to be roomy. “Ethereal” or “Sporty” are two style words that come to mind to support the purchase of larger tops.

Now, I admit – the bra straps should be a giveaway. But since something like 98% of all women are roaming the Earth with ill-fitting bras, it’s easy to understand how we Weighties don’t pay much attention to a sadistic, flesh-binding torture devices.

But then it happens.

Someone snaps a spontaneous pic at a party or gathering, and you happen to have had your back to the camera, mingling innocently, unaware of the Lebowitz-wannabe behind you.

After the merry-making event, the party pics gets emailed around to all attendees. So many happy pictures! What a fun time was had by all! Until you notice the back of a very large woman with Quasimodo-esque lumps plumping out of her sweater, and by some strange coincidence, the sweater is the same color of the sweater you were wearing. Oh, and she has your same hair-do as you, and even your pants look similar…

Egad! It’s YOU! It’s YOUR Back Fat!! You didn’t even know you had to worry about your back, and yet – there it is, a monstrosity if ever there was one.

Layered rolls, tumbling, cascading. Displaced skin. Pudge with nowhere to go but out. Shoulder blade cushion. Armpit stash. No wonder you can’t wear button down shirts anymore.

It’s not your ample cleavage on your chest. It’s the growing boob garden on your back.

And as your epidermis expands, and your shoulders get closer to your skull by default, you notice you’re being attacked from behind, too. And those guerrilla warriors take no prisonors.

And to think, you never even saw it coming.

Weighing in on…Waking Up Fat, Every Day

Thursday, December 7th, 2006

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.