Confessions of a Fat Woman

Yes, I have eaten a whole bag of Lays Sour Cream and Onion chips. I have consumed Ben & Jerry's in quantity. I have not exercised enough. Or any at all. But I'm not a bad person. Back in my Army days I vividly recall being summoned for the formal chastisment about my weight by the battalion's commanding officer, a Lieutenant Colonel. However, the unfortunate soul who preceded me, doubtless due to her rank, was a captain. This was back in the eighties and the Army was kicking chubby people out left and right. Well, I was sitting, not doing jumping jacks, outside the LTC's office when the portly captain yelled these infamous words: "I'm NOT a criminal! I'm just FAT!"

Heck, I wish I'd had the balls to do that. Of course, that would require a sex change and talk about making things complicated in my life. Anyway, I liked what the captain had said so much I took it to heart. And believe me, being fat in the Army was exactly like being a criminal. I might as well have been stealing stuff left and right and robbing drug stores at night to make ends meet. I got lectured more about my weight than a group of drunken sailors back from shore leave. Of course, it was all my fault. I wasn't doing enough. I wasn't trying hard enough. I was a horrible, wretched person for being FAT.

Hah. If that's the worst thing a person can cop to, then they haven't done so badly.

I have a friend who recently lost 60 pounds due to her hiring a trainer, IE, a person who follows you around and torments/guilts you into exercise and weight loss. My friend says to me, I should hire a personal trainer, too.

I've got my own personal trainer. (See picture above. Ain't she cute?) She's three years old and won't let me out of her sight for more than two minutes at a time. Also she doesn't eat that much, although she has a definite dislike for vegetables. (Green things- yucky city, baby.)

So in conclusion, I AM NOT A CROOK! I'm just fat. But I try every day not to be.

The D-Word

The D-Word. Lord, how I hate the d-word. I should just go ahead and explain to the d-illiterate that the d-word is, in fact, diet. I hate a lot of things. Bad customer service, medical doctors, burnt coffee, and stinking, dirt-sucking, scuzbutton literary agents who say they're going to sell your book and you don't hear from them for a year. Mostly I hate the d-word. I wish I could say that I'm not obsessed with my weight. Except there's the little problem that I think about it on a daily basis, maybe an hourly basis while I'm awake. Mostly I'm concerned with my health. Oh, and I'd like to fit into those size fourteen blue jeans. And if I hear one more itty-bitty, perky-titted, twentysomething mommy at the park talk about her need to lose those last, irritating three pounds that are plaguing her like locusts in biblical Egypt, well, I think I'll finally succumb to my need to drop kick her 95 pounds into the sandbox. Then I'll explain it to my daughter after my husband bails me out of jail. I am certain, after all, that drop kicking a soccer mommy in size four jeans is probably illegal. I could hope for a fat judge.