Four score and seventy pounds ago, I was quite an eyesore.
So much so, that the mirror hissed back at me when I looked at my reflection. Frankly, there was fat everywhere, and I mean everywhere.
Fat cheeks. People would pinch them when I was young because they were so cute and fat. My uncle gave me the nickname “cheeks” because they were so monstrous. His big hands would come diving toward my face to get a big chunk of ’em every time he saw me. I hated people touching my face.
Fat arms. I had gained so much weight I was developing this little flap of fat just above my elbow and it looked like my arm was melting off. Gross.
Fat stomach. Not the round kind of stomach you can rub for good luck. The fat kind of stomach you can pick up and throw across your shoulder. The kind that giggled when you sneezed and I had to wear spanks even with my tee shirt and jeans. It was the only way I felt normal. At least as normal as I could feel.
Fat back. Many many folds in my back and the spanks I wore to keep in my stomach made a special roll where the spanks ended (BONUS) and there’s always the fat spilling out from the top and bottom of my bra. How come the girls on the spanks commercials don’t have these issues? I must be fatter than fat. The fattest of the fat. I would grab at it, give it a good angry shake and drop my hands in defeat and frustration when the fat didn’t just rip off.
Fat legs. They were fine from the knee down I guess. My calves weren’t bad. But this cellulite! Sweet lover of bubbling cheese!! You can recognize me by this stuff half a block away! Is that who I think it is? That’s Lea’s cellulite – I recognize that jiggle anywhere. Yep, I was right that’s her here she comes. How humiliating. Shorts? Forget about it. Every time I walk they will start to create a “V” in between my legs as the fabric moved its way to my crotch and when I sit down I’d look like bread in twine as the seams cut into my thighs.
And don’t get me started on this stupid fucking ponytail.
I’m just all wrong.
A picture:
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Wait. . . an eyesore? Really?
This picture is literally saved in my folders as “fatness.jpg.” I mean I was big, way bigger than I am now, but certainly not an eyesore. Where the hell did I get that from?
I remember that night. I remember spending hours trying to look “smooth.” I remember picking and fussing as I always did, so drained just by trying to look small that by the time we went out I wanted to leave.
I remember we went to this cool place with cool people and I was with my friend who I thought was (and still is) absolutely perfect. I remember standing next to her and feeling like disgusting scum. I hated going out with her. She got so much attention and I always had to be the rescue girl when she didn’t want to talk to some guy who wanted to take her out and wouldn’t leave her alone.
She never knew it but I hated that job. It made me feel like the Hunchback of Notre Dame being sent out to scare away the obnoxious boys. But she always admired my courage to be bold and I was just being a good friend and did it anyways.
The smile was there but I was unhappy. I remember trying to get drunk because that was the only way I could “come out of my shell” and the only way I could have fun. It was the only way I didn’t think about how much I hated my fat body in this stupid outfit.
It was my birthday.
Was that my breaking point? No. Hell, that was just another day in the life. I’m not sure I ever had one but eventually I had enough and lost the weight. Hurray no more hating my body right?
Now I’m training for a women’s figure competition in June. Frankly there is flab everywhere, and I mean everywhere.
Arm flab. I put in all this work to lose all this weight and there’s still that melting elbow thing happening. What the hell?!?! Am I going to have to walk around for eternity with my elbow bent?
Stomach flab. Ugh. The lose skin. I hate it! It looks like my belly button is always sad. Is this ever going to go away? The show is 11 weeks away for crying out loud!
Boob flab. What is going on with my boobs? They’re more like upside down teardrops now. I’m sure at least 15 of the 70 pounds was boob. They are obliterated. Gone with the wind and flat as paper.
Wait. . . is that still cellulite I see? I haven’t had dessert in months! It should be starved off by now! I stick my thigh out like a dog taking a wiz and give it a good shake, then plop it back down to the ground with a exhausted sigh, heartbroken that the cellulite didn’t just fly away.
I’m older and wiser now, so I’ve been down this self-loathing path before. I know how stupid and damaging it is but I can’t help but see nothing but flaws as the mirror hisses back at me.
I’m such an eyesore. There’s always something. And when does it end?
Five years ago I just knew that my weight was causing all this self-hatred. I felt as though all I had to do was break myself out of my fat cage and I would be home free to the land of self-esteem.
But the problem wasn’t the pounds, it was definitely me. Always has been, always will be.
I try and make myself “feel better” by doing my hair or putting on nice clothes. Now bad hair turns into bad days so I can never leave the house without perfect hair. I still need something else to make me feel good so I up the ante with new makeup or shoes.
Maybe nails too.
You know what, a breast lift would take care of these saggy boobs.
It’s an endless cycle of raising the bar on your “good days” and before you know it, you have to get up an hour earlier just to get dressed; just to walk outside looking and feeling good, whatever that means.
And it’s still never enough. There is still something so appetizing about tearing yourself down to nothing more than a walking sack of meat.
I’m obviously and hopelessly nuts, but aren’t we all?
Honestly I’m tired of playing this game. I want out of this race. I’ve been playing since I was in the single digit age bracket and after all these years I realize you just can’t win.
So I’ll go find something else to obsess about.
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