Longest Intro Post Ever Created...

I have always been a big person. Back in grade school, when I was very young, chubby kids were cute. Puberty hit early and my breasts became large and heavy. I gained more weight to take the attention off them. By 9th grade, I was a D cup and probably weighed 200 lbs.

High school came, I was active, enjoyed spending time with my friends, was in track and worked part-time. I was in lots of clubs and groups. I was also still fat. I didn’t have a date until I was almost done with college. He was a friend. It really wasn’t too romantic.

My mom taught me from the time I was young to comfort with food. Someone was mean to me, hurt my feelings? Have a cookie. Celebration time? Let’s go to dinner. Lonely, have a snack. I never learned to grow out of it.

After college, I got a job where I worked on my feet for 10 hours a day. I had great leg tone, nice muscles. But I still topped the scale at an easy 250. It became a shield to me. A way to protect myself from the mean people of the world. If I were heavy, I wouldn’t have to leave my comfort zone. People won’t approach me because everyone knows that fat people are no fun to be around. Men might make passes at girls with glasses, but you can pretty much forget about those with big, flabby asses.

When I was in my late 20’s, I lost the job that had a nice amount of physicality to it. After a period of unemployment I found what might be the death of me: the desk job. Nowadays, I sit in my chair from eight until noon, go to a fast food place with coworkers where I sit and stuff, then return by 1…ok 1:30 and sit again until 5. There is little movement and snacking is frequent.

I have probably gained 50 lbs. since starting this job. Of course, I don’t know for sure since I refuse to weigh myself and actually avert my eyes when they weigh me at the doctor office.

My life at home is actually much worse. I get home by 5:30, feed the dog then start that full-evening binge that is TV time. I start with dinner, move my way to desert, stop for an hour or so, then move on to snack. I love my carbs. And candy. And baked goods. And potato chips. Butter. Chicken Parmesan. Cream soups. Noodles. Popcorn with real butter, salt and chocolate chips.

I am sedentary and solitary. I like to be alone. At least that is what I tell myself. Only my dog, Sami knows for sure. Exercise is one of the few 4-letter words that I won’t let slip from my mouth. Shit, damn, fuck, even the occasional c-bomb? Totally acceptable. But sweat, exercise, gym…forget about it.

Even with all this, I sometimes wonder why I’m fat.

I can be a dumbass sometimes.

So, what turned everything around? My answer came in the form of a well-intentioned co-worker.

L is heavy like me but is quite a bit shorter. She tells me that she weighs 318. I don’t think I weigh 318. But who knows? She is a married mom to two girls. They are in their teens. They too are heavy. B, the older of the two is around 280. L’s husband tops 350.

Recently they went on a diet as a family. They are doing Atkins. L has lost 10 lbs. and has now decided to be the spokesman for fat folk everywhere. I was her first target.

I was in her office for something and she decided it was time to give me "the talk". Anyone who has ever been overweight knows that that means. It starts like this…

Them: "I really care about you. You have such a pretty face." Too bad about that big, fatty gut hanging out otherwise.

Me: "Uh-huh." Knowing in my head where this is going and damning my mother’s good job at raising children that prevents me from walking away.

Them: "My new diet is really working. I feel so much better. Have YOU thought of doing something?" You really should, fatass. You really need it.

Me: "Uh-huh." How do I get out of this now? In my head at this point, I’m thinking, shut up, shut up, SHUT up, I don’t want to hear any more!

Them: "I worry that my daughter is going to turn out like you. Oh, crap! That’s not what I meant. I don’t mean that I worry that she will end up fat and alone and over 30. You have such a pretty face."

Me: "It’s ok, I know what you mean." FUCK mom for these damn manners.

Them: Now trying vigilantly to dig themselves out of the hole they are creating… "You know, everyone talks about how big your belly is. Maybe you should wear shirts that fall below your thighs to cover it up. I have a catalog if you would like. Not that I think you need to, of course. It’s just that… Maybe you should have that surgery. You know the one where they make your stomach smaller."

Me: "I have to go." Bitch.

Them: "You have such a pretty face! I just hate that everyone calls you the fat lady with the big belly."

Then, in what is one of my weaker moments in life, I break in to tears. TEARS! I don't cry. It's not one of my things.

I feel like shit. I don’t want to be known as the fat lady. Hell, no one does. No one wants to be known for what makes them different. For what makes them a freak. I want to be thin. I want to be pretty. I want to fall in love and make babies.

I’m just not sure how to do it.

I do know that something needs to be done. I’m tired of feeling sad. Tired of feeling lonely. Tired of hiding myself under a layer of fat.

Today, when I got home from work, I had a choice to make. Do I comfort myself in the manner that has worked for the past 33 years or do I decide today is the day to make a change? Do I go and stuff my face with sugar or salt? Or do I make myself a sensible dinner and call it a night? My first reaction when I opened the door was to throw myself on the bed and have a nice sob. Since I spent my lunch hour doing that, I decide to pour some feelings out instead. It may be cathartic, it may just be a stopgap until I can have another good cry, or it may be the start of something new. Guess I’ll just have to wait and see.