I'M FAT

I’m fat. I don’t see myself as voluptuous or curvy. I see fat. And I hate it. I’m not a woman who is “comfortable” with her size. The girth, the rolls, and all that damn jiggling like Jell-O, has just about worked my very last nerve. My thighs look like two lumpy, whole hams. My midsection seems to have folks wondering when the baby is due. And I appear to be working my way through the entire alphabet of letters that come after a bra size.

Sucking it all in has become a major chore and spandex has begun to give me a damn rash. I envy my big sisters who wholeheartedly embrace their luscious hills and valleys. I cannot seem to muster the confidence some women have about their fuller figures. As they easily flaunt what I am so desperate to hide I find myself at odds knowing that I know better.

Diet after diet has left me with diet-phobia. I’m suddenly over-indulging to feel better about being morbidly overweight. Exercise is a bitch. I do well for a few weeks then leg lifts and tummy crunches start to poison my spirit. I can think of better things to do with my time and there is absolutely nothing fun about breaking a sweat that doesn’t involve a hard man and a soft bed.

A friend’s brother called me “thick”. I found myself wishing that he was referring to my brain and not my butt. The scale groans every time I step on. I am horrified by what the mirror does when I step in front of it.

A friend told me to embrace my beauty and learn how to love me. Loving me isn’t the issue. Loving me with seventy-five excess pounds, however, is proving to be a challenge.