You’re about to tune out on this blog, aren’t you? You’re thinking to yourself “Oh hell, another boo-hoo for me I had bad things happen blog”. Well, give me one more entry to prove you wrong. Of course bad things happen to people all the time. But that isn’t what my main focus is here. I mention the bad things, not as an excuse, but simply so that you can see how I got to the “passed out and bleeding” stage. So I’ll make the transitional-bad-thing short and sweet:
After a long battle with AIDS, my Dad died. And then my husband and I both were laid off from our jobs.
So, as our incomes went *poof* and our meager savings dwindled, we discovered the wonders of cheap food. And even better…bulk cheap food. Five burgers for five dollars? Brilliance! Cici’s pizza? Why didn’t I think of that? Oh…and potatoes and pasta week! Oh…and even off-brand foods taste awesome with enough imitation cheese sauce! Cheap and filling, yes? Filling is gooood. Filling makes you happy. More is better, and certainly makes me feel better about having less and less…maybe just a little. There were many swaying bridges crossed and many treacherous mountains climbed over the years after “the bad things”. I will not bore you with the details. It was bad. Food stamps, hospitals and almost homeless bad. Let’s just say we survived, mostly intact…and certainly with more to love.
We eventually got new jobs and started to put it all back together. Having to buy new wardrobes…yet again a bit larger…was a stretch. No more cute clothes for me. Remember, this was before Plus-sizes had made a peep in the mainstream. I shopped with an eye for dropped waists or billowy A-lines for my office job. More and more, when at home, size XXL men’s pajama bottoms and sweats were my attire. “I just don’t like things that bind!”, I would declare, implying that anyone who wore tight-fitting clothes was an idiot. “The dryer is shrinking my clothes again!”, I would shout from the laundry area on the back porch. Actresses and models became the target for my increasingly famous barbed comments. “Nobody is that size by choice!” I would stomp and snort, “They starve themselves to look like that and are in a conspiracy with clothing designers to make women feel bad about themselves!”
I was a joy to be around, I’m certain.
Looking back, the women I was shaking my fist at were simply of normal weight. I wasn’t as mad at the Kate Mosses…as I was at the Jennifer Anistons and Sandra Bullocks. I was secretly mad at my husband’s daughter, who was slim and beautiful. Her mother was suddenly tiny and exotic. How in the hell could I live up to that? This wasn’t rational by any means…but neither was the way I was gaining weight, or what I was doing to cause the gain. Even less rational was my gift for finding multiple targets to blame my fatness on. Thyroid issues (unfounded for most people, duh. Hyperthyroidism causes people to be unable to gain weight). I’m from a Viking background…and part German….so I’m big-boned! My knees/ankles/hips hurt…so I can’t exercise (No surprise there…my ankles were carrying ME around). I’m too tired from working so much (see previous parenthetical remark). My excuse list grew longer and longer as I grew bigger.
Desperate attempts at diets soon became a regular part of life. No carbs. No meat. All meat. All veggies. Miracle pills. Supplements. As Seen On TV sure-things that tasted like battery acid-spiked lime-ade. I tried them all. Every single last one of them. They all were either a hoax, or so strict and complicated that I gave up. But I kept trying and kept throwing my money at each and every item that even suggested easy success. Certainly the regular-sized people in this world didn’t go through this crap! Why in the hell couldn’t I find the trick THEY had?
This…brings us back to me. On the floor. In size 20+ overalls. Dizzy. Bleeding from a coffee-table-induced head wound. And sobbing like all the “bad things” had suddenly come home to roost.
Pretty picture, huh? Pathetic. Right?
Not so fast….