The stuff a fat girl's dreams are made of.

I've gained approximately 10 pounds in the last couple of months because I quit going to gym in about July. My life just got cray-cray and I simply didn't have time and I haven't been able to establish a routine again.

So I'm now a fat girl again. I mean I wasn't a skinny girl in June but I was skinnier.

The other day I took a nap. Because not only am I fat, I'm also lazy.

Do you know what I dreamed of whilst I was asleep?

A buffet.

If I wasn't aware that I was fat by looking in the mirror I'm reminded of it when I dream. Of buffets. I don't even like buffets; I feel like it's a waste of money. Although it's kind of like that line in Shrek when Donkey says "I don't know nobody that don't like no parfait." I imagine everyone likes a buffet, most especially fat girls.

Le sigh. I feel shamed. 

Why I will not whine about weight lifting class again.

Here's a quick update on 'the-thing-which-I-cannot-not-speak-of': Apparently basketball camp is important but as my HILARIOUS friend Mickey told me the other day 'What? He cannot leave campus ever? He can't go to the Burlington Coat Factory? He can't go to the DOMINOES? Whatever. Tell him to make time for you.' it's not thaaaaaaaaat important. Seriously I should quit speaking of this, eventually I'll have to tell him about this blog and then I'll have to go back and redact all of the parts that I mention the 'the-thing-of-which-I-cannot-speak-of' and then those posts will just be utter nonsense and then I won't be near as funny as I think I am which is probably the case anyways but the point of all this is that 'the-thing-of-which-I-cannot-speak-of' SEEMS to be progressing along at a nice pace. But ya'll keep your fingers crossed and the prayers coming (Yes I realize that it is somewhat hypocritical for people to be praying that I continue to get laid but come on! I NEED this. I need to have some sort of physical interaction with another human on a regular basis so that I know that I am indeed a member of the human race because sometimes it seems as if I'm just wandering around as this asexual plant type thing even though I couldn't even be a plant as plants actually get to have sex! So that would make me one of those weird ameobic things that reproduces by budding itself off of itself, which don't get me wrong I don't see how the world having another me would be a bad thing but whatever. Gee I'm really tangential this evening aren't I? I apologize for that.) that this continues to work out nicely for me at least through basketball season. Of which I must admit I am very excited. Jesus I NEED TO SHUT UP.

Now I will continue the normally scheduled blog post about why my new favorite thing is my power lifting class at the gym.

Four words: My ass is phenomenal.

For serious ya'll those 9 bajillion squats they make you do that make you see stars are actually doing something for meeeeeee. My ass has never looked this amazing in it's 25 years of existence. Shut up I am too only 25. I was just really smart in high school and finished early. Sucks to be you, I know.

Normally I bitch about going to this class because I have yet to understand why people would put themselves through that much physical, actual torture and now I know why. To get a great ass. I kind of see the point in running/spinning until you want to puke because eventually those endorphins kick in and you could literally run 'til you puke but that does not happen in power lifting. The only hormones that show up there are the ones that realize there is way too much lactic acid being produced and that you need to chill the fuck out, drink some water and put down that heavy ass bar and eat some pizza. If that is indeed a hormone that does that; it may just be a regular chemical or something I don't know. I was always to lazy to really take to those signaling pathways.

Sooooo it just goes to show you, well me really, that with a little effort and some determination one can achieve their goals.

I'd still rather eat dirt than do shoulder presses though. Those can eat a dick.

You want me to do what exactly?

The other day my trainer (I know, I know.) wanted/expected me to climb the rock wall in our gym for exercise. I protested and he wanted to know why.

Nevermind the fact that I have T-rex arms, you know the whole 'teeny arms that cannot support body weight' argument, but have you seen a rock climbing harness? They're hideous.

Look at her ass? It's like right there.

He of course wanted to know why. So for the first time in our relationship as trainer and trainee I was painfully honest.

I told him that I was not climbing the rock wall because I was not putting on that god awful rock climbing harness. "I've seen people in these things and if you think I'm going to put my ass in that contraption and scutter up a wall for God and all of his creatures to see, you're crazy." I have a nice ass. I know this because I notice people noticing it in an admirable fashion not in a 'oh my God, that's a big ass' fashion. You can tell the difference because the former is has a subtle affirmative head nod and the latter carries an expression of widened eyes and a slightly agape mouth. But I've seen fat people at our gym in the rock climbing harness and it's less than flattering. (I tried really hard to find a picture of a fat person in a rock climbing harness and the google has failed me yet again.) This is why there are people out there that free climb. They've realized how hideous their nether parts look in a rock climbing harness and they've made the proper fashion choice and left the fucking harness at home.

He was less than pleased but I didn't climb the damn wall.

My New Diet

If you read this blog (I often wonder who actually reads it. I get exactly zero spam which makes me believe no one bothers to read it. Even spammers. Or I was brilliant in picking such a long, long blog URL. We'll go with the second one.) you're already familiar with the idea that I'm easily obsessable. Meaning I obsess over things quite easily. Or that I am easy to obsess about; I don't want to toot my own horn but hey, toot-toot. What I really mean is that I clearly have too much free time on my hands so I need something to obsess about so I don't get bored.

For a while it was the fact that I'm single. I've moved on from that. Now I'm obsessed with my body, it's image and my weight. And maybe the vulva puppet. But that's because I want to take it places and photograph it making people uncomfortable as possible. For some reason this amuses me to no end.

As you may or may not know I go to the gym quite regularly. I go to spin class at least 4 times a week although most weeks I attend 6 classes. And do you know where it's gotten me? Nowhere.

I guess you could make the point that you don't go anywhere on a stationary bike and I couldn't argue with you.

My point is this. Since I started attending spin class regularly last spring I've lost about 8 pounds.

I know that 8 pounds is a good bit of weight but I need to lose 4 or 5 times that much and I don't especially want to wait another 4 years to do it. I've started this new diet because according to my personal trainer (Yes, I have one. I told you I was obsessed.) I don't get enough protein. Now I have protein shakes and eat almonds by the handful. Veggie burgers and hummus, eaten regularly. Broccoli, brussel sprouts, green beans and squash, again and again on them I continue to gnash. I haven't had a grain that wasn't whole grain in at least a week. I haven't had mayonnaise in 2. I HAVE NOT had mayonnaise in 2 WEEKS. 2 WEEKS. (This may not seem odd to you but it's a miracle I'm still alive and kicking. I live for mayonnaise. I love mayonnaise so much that I don't even have to look up how to spell it. That is how much I love mayonnaise.) I fantasized about biscuits earlier this evening. Biscuits. Saying the word causes me pain and agony.

So tonight at the gym I weighed myself. Yes, I've gained almost 2 pounds.

I hate my new diet.

I'm starting to resent Lunch.

First I would like to say that I just realized that I haven't had a soda since Sunday! That's a new record.

I'm on this diet. Well, it's not really a diet, it's more a lifestyle change. (I totally stole that from my bff Jess.)

Because eventually one gets tired of being a lard-ass and decides to get off her hind-end and do something about it.

Lunch used to have to hide in amongst the foliage from me. Every day I would wake up and start planning how I could trap and ensnare Lunch. It would spend all morning quavering, wondering when I would pounce from my super-neat hiding spot and gobble it up in 2 minutes flat. Lunch, he was running scared.

Now, I feel Lunch jeering at me. Laughing and pointing with Dinner. 'Look at the fat girl now! MWA HA HAA,' Lunch now chortles. He doesn't even bother to hide anymore. He sits out in the open and taunts me.

'Yummy broccoli! Can you not wait to eat your yummy yummy broccoli, ANNA? . . . You do not even have a soda to wash it DOWN with! You must drink of the WATER! MWA HA HAA! Silly child, I no longer hide from you in fear. You no longer pose a threat to my well-being! I taunt you with my availability now. Be sad. Be very sad. Yes, I want to lick the tears of your sweet, sweet misery.'

Now I no longer attack Lunch. I merely sit quietly and masticate alone and silent. Where once there was the joyous euphony of the Angels singing their heralded songs of peace and goodwill now is just the cacophony and discordance of my ululations of sorrow at missing my Chef-Boyardee Mini Raviolis and Velveeta Shells & Cheese. Gone are the Meatball Subs and Pepperoni Pizza Hot Pockets. Lamented are the Code Red Mountain Dews and Cheddar Cheese & Sour Cream Ruffles.

I no longer look forward to lunchtime; I just groan and suffer through it.

And the first person to leave me a comment about how I can have the things I want in moderation or to treat myself once in a while, I swear to the Lord on my everlasting Soul, I will hunt you and down and maim you. We're talking ripping limbs from torsos. I can do that now. I've been weight-training.

On The Subject of Lunch

So there is this woman who lives in my building who obviously, obviously has an eating disorder. We call her Skeletor, but that may be because my roommate fancies himself to be He-Man and it makes him happy to think of our building as Castle GreySkull or whatever. The point being is that this chick is skinny, unhealthily so.

You can tell first and foremost by her hair. It literally looks like straw. I am prone to my gremlin moments when my hair has a mind of it's own but at least it looks healthy whilst messy. Then you see her in a bathingsuit and you cringe. You cringe because you know she's not having her monthly menses and that her bones are brittle as hell and her heart probably has a few hundred more beats left before it shuffles off this mortal coil and she's pushing up the daisies. It's really sad.

But this morning on the elevator she got on with me and we had quite a pleasant conversation. Here's the kicker. She's a PhD, in Cancer Biology. So she has to know that her body is suffering, right? No matter how nice and cordial she is, nor however much I could milk her for a job in Winston, I cannot even reasonably think about being her friend because I'd compulsively feed her sticks of deep-fried butter. Or corn bread and pintos. Or something. Food. Lots of food.

The funny part is that she takes a lunch box. I guess she feels like she can fool people by toting a lunch box around. Then I started thinking about what could be in her lunch box, which got me thinking about what was in my lunchbox. Here's what was in my lunch box: 2 slices of cheese pizza, 1 caesar salad, 1 cup of applesauce, 1 peach (that tasted like nail polish. Yay for pesticides.) and a diet pepsi.

Obviously my heart would have problems for the exactly opposite reason. But I have to have a nice lunch and some snacks. And I only ate one of the pieces of pizza.

People say that breakfast is the most important meal of the day but honestly breakfast makes me puke. So that makes lunch the most important meal of my day. And in Europe I hear that their biggest meal is lunch and they've been around for forever so they can't be all wrong. I'm going to lobby Congress to put more emphasis on lunch. Lunch should be the most important meal of the day! It's in the middle of the day! At the peak of the day really! Hence it's eating as the best time of the day so it's the best meal!

But I do really like dinner too. . .

Do you want to join my new support group?

I'm starting a support group. It's going to be called MDOMWTIF (AICDAAI).

It's short for: My Doctor or My Wii Thinks I'm Fat. And I cannot do anything about it.

I put that last part in parentheses because it's mostly vowels and acronyms really need consonants to make them work.

If you've had the pleasure of conversing with me lately you've noticed the extreme mood swings that are exemplary of dieting and/or hours of a frustrating video game that may or may not have taken over my life at the current moment. (Seriously, there is no need for a video game to be that damn frustrating. The stinking bosses are easier than the stupid elk-seal hybrid experiment.) But I've been dieting and I was pseudo successful. As of last Thursday before the Mellow Mushroom trip and before the weekend of food that was this past weekend, I had lost one pound.

Now at my family practice doctor's office, not only does the nurse check your temp and pulse and put you through the grueling process of weighing you in the middle of the nurse hive so that they all may judge you conveniently, they now get out a tape measure and measure your middle.

Because really, you weren't aware that you're fat?

'Who me?' You always say. 'I'm not fat, I'm big-boned. Now hand me those cheesy poofs.'

And in case you were, in fact, in the dark about your body size, your video games now can weigh in on the verdict. Yes, I have plopped onto the Wii Fit board and had it determine, that I, am obese. Yes, you read correctly. According to the Wii I am obese. I personally choose to believe that the Wii was built for tiny Japanese people and thus it believes that all Americans are over-sized, over-sexed and generally gigantic.

I understand that there is an epidemic sweeping this country and that as Americans we're the heaviest we've ever been and we're raising a nation of children that are the heaviest they've ever been as well. As an adult I look at myself and compare myself to the other women in my family and I realize that I indeed look exactly like they do. Yes I may have an extra 10 pounds that I could stand to lose or an extra 30 but for as far back as I can remember the women in my family have always whined about losing weight. In fact I believe it's what links me to them genetically. Not that we all have the exact same body shape and are emotional messes but that we all want to lose weight and can be only marginally successful. Yes, I could probably lose ten pounds if I ran a marathon everyday but I'm not going to change my body shape and I need someone to accept that. If I need to drag my entire family into the doctor's office with me the next time I go to prove to that man that I will look like this no matter what I will. (He's been my doctor my entire life. Yes, he was my pediatrician too.) I know he's dealt with my mother on more than one occasion so he should compare us and see that I'M ALWAYS GOING TO LOOK LIKE THIS. It isn't going to magically go away.

But then he'd probably say anything to get the gaggle of women that is my family out of his office. We're kind of a mess.

Anywho, first support group meeting this Friday, 7PM. . .at someplace where we can eat fried food. I can't talk about my vulnerabilities without being fat, happy and full. And knowing that my arteries are screaming.

My new dieting strategy.

So I've come up with a new dieting strategy as has been clearly elucidated by the title of this very post!

I've decided to blog whenever I am hungry at inappropriate times. I feel fully confident in this plan. Well not really, I'm never really fully confident in anything. I think that quality accompanies the wishy-washiness. I'm mostly concerned I'll run out of things to say.

Since this is a dieting type post I'll stick to dieting type things.

I wonder if I will ever quit craving fatty foods? Most people crave sweets. Not me. I will gorge myself until I practically puke on pizza, stuffing, bread, ranch dressing, french fries, red meat.

I know I'm beginning to creep people out at this point in my diet. There are only so many vegetables a person can consume before they start to resent the vegetables themselves. Even the farmers that grow them. The other day I wanted to find the nearest dairy farmer and throw myself at them for butter or even sour cream. Awesome, I just admitted that I would ho myself out for butter. That has to be a new low.

Take today for instance, I ate lunch. I was extremely satisfied with it. I had a little cup of Chef Boyardee beef ravioli (for energy and protein) and an applesauce cup (because apple sauce freaking ROCKS!) along with a Diet Coke. Then I get a phone call from the guy in the chem dept who is going to use the scope that afternoon. He proceeds to explain to me that he ran to get a quick bite to eat at McDonald's and then starts to talk about his expectations of the imaging, etc. He lost me at McDonalds.

Several thoughts ran through my head and here they are, accurately and in the proper order:

1. I hope he doesn't smell like french fries when he comes back because then I'll just die. I don't think that it's very professional to stand close to him and to sniff him repeatedly. It may creep him out.

2. Please have gotten a Big Mac. Maybe if he did, he'll still smell like the special sauce by the time he gets here.

3. Would it be rude to ask if he would bring me a Big Mac? I don't need the french fries. Just the beef and special sauce and bread part.

4. Could I ask him that without sounding like one of those creepos that does the heavy breathing on the phone?

5. Probably not.

6. I love those little cheeseburgers. They're so good!

7. Crap! I should be paying attention. I think the food talk has finished.

So here we are. Well at least I am. I'm now angry with people because they're eating what I cannot. I find myself opining for people's dinners and suppers. Strangely not their snacks though. I have sunk to a new low. It's pathetic. But I'll get up tomorrow and pack my lunch and it will include brussel sprouts or green beans (and maybe a lean pocket. I'm out of ravioli.) and I'll be happy about it. I'll put on a brave front and smile. I'll even chat myself up about how much I love brussel sprouts. I will even go so far as to use visualization techniques of me being all svelte in my new dress to convince myself that I enjoy my healthy lunch.

But on the inside my soul will be withering away into nothingness. My will to live will be sputtering out. I'll always be that little girl who just wants to be loved, to be accepted, and to swim in a giant vat of ranch dressing while eating pizza and drinking Mt. Dew by the gallon.