Secrets From A Fat.. SO?!

Archive for the month “April, 2011”

The Road to Hell is Paved With Good Intentions

I’m a writer, and sometimes story-teller, by nature even if I have to work really hard to piece every sentence together. And if you believe in Astrology (it depends with my mood), I’m a Sagittarius. I guess meaning that I am a half-asssed perfectionist who likes to write in detail without realizing when I’m sticking my foot in my mouth from my lack of tack. I’ve never really had much of a problem of people in my real life interchanging with my online life so I’m not really used to having a filter what I say, except for Facebook statuses.

I’m not new to the world of blogging, but knowing there are people I see daily read what I write is as foreign of a concept to me as tooth paste on a burger (thanks Chris for that lovely analogy). I’m trying to find a balance of staying true to myself but still have the people in my life be able to look me in the eye. I want the people in my life to know if I ever write anything in this blog, or anything I say to your face, that bothers or offends, that they can tell me. I am not abashed and I will defend what I write to the absurdly offended but I will take into consideration small or minor concerns. I may, and have, gone back to an article and tweaked it to sedate all parties involved.

More often than not, I appreciate the feedback. The more I write the more I enjoy it. The more I write the more I observe in my life and the faster the little hamster in my head runs on his wheel. The more I write there’s more I have to say. The only problem with that is that I sometimes forget about who my audience is. I’ll let private personal details slip out that everyone just may not want to read. Or visualize. And for that, I apologize. But only to that extent. Even with Chris around to help and be the little editor on my shoulder advising, “Sarah, maybe you should rephrase that!” Things still slip past. If that ever happens, I want people in my life to tell me. Just as I would want people to tell me if I had food stuck in my teeth.

I don’t expect the world to agree with me or to see things as I do. That would be foolishly naive. But I hope we can reach a middle and compromise without losing my integrity. Or simply just don’t read what I write. That’s nothing personal and I won’t hold it against you if you don’t like what I say. You should be you and I’ll be me. As long as I enjoy writing, I plan to write. Like I said in the beginning of this entry, I’m new to blogging with an audience. I’m used to being the marauder who complains about not being noticed when I purposely exclude myself from others. So I hope you’ll bear with me. I can promise I will make mistakes, probably many of them. I promise to try to be myself and still be able to make you laugh. I promise good intentions.


International House of Pancakes

Despite the impression this blog may imply, I am actually a pretty private person with most people in my life. It’s not for lack of wanting to be private, I am actually a very open person who will share any parts about my life if you ask, it’s just very rarely people bother to ask. Very few people choose to talk to everyone simply because they are genuinely friendly. I’m one of those types of people. I might not always not know the right thing to say or have some witty joke pulled out behind my back pocket but I do genuinely like talking to people.

So I’m having a hard time understanding what it is exactly is so strange to hear that I am friends with certain people? My best friend all through middle school and high school, someone I’ve known since Kindergarten, is an one-eighty from me. From our skin color, our taste in music, to our mannerisms all scream we should not be in the same social circle. But she’s someone I consider my sister and want standing as my maid of honor when I someday get married. To me, I don’t care where you came from, what you did or who you are to like you. I don’t care what music you listen to, how you wear your hair, or even if you do drugs. What I care is how you view reality. I care about how you treat others.

I’m moving into an apartment with a couple of coworkers in a few weeks. And I’m having a hard time to not be upset against several co-workers who have not only come up to me, but also the other two soon to be roommates, all with the same surprised expression, “You’re friends with Sarah?!” I know no true malice was meant by the question and if it had just been one or two people, I wouldn’t have been offended. But what about me screams that I’m not a friendly person? Apart of me did wonder, as if they expected some sort of gross retort “Oh, no I’d never be friends with her.” I mean, what reply were they expecting?  Maybe more along the lines of “Yeah, we talk every now and then but I’m not sure you could say we’re friends.” I don’t know? I can’t say I’m surprised about the reactions, nor am I truely offended. I’m just a little disappointed in the people who asked. I just don’t see why it should even matter enough to even ask the question “Your friends with so and so?” The exception being of course you are good friends with all those involved and just found out that two good mutual friends of yours, were also friends. But that isn’t the exception in this case. This isn’t to say that everyone I work with weren’t genuinely happy and supportive and not surprised at all about who I was moving in with.

I know I’m the one who technically started this wild-fire by being so over the top excited and happy about moving into an apartment. There is no excuse for that. When I’m excited over something, it’s hard for me to contain it. If you come to me and tell me that you some happy news about yourself like you just got a job offer/promotion, are going on a trip to well… anywhere, or even just learned how to make a pancake, I’m genuinely happy for you. I might be slightly envious and tease you to take me with you (or ask if you’ll make me a pancake), but I do want you to be happy. And I’m sorry for wanting to receive the same reaction. I don’t publically gloat about myself very often or go advertising all the ways I enjoy finding little ways to brigthen up people’s day. My gestures are small and I try to make them anonymous. Because making other people smile makes me happy. I think I just get overlooked as this nice quiet fat girl, who yeah is friendly but not many really care to take the time to get to know. I admit to not always being a great conversationalist. I have trouble thinking on my feet and I’m usually trying to filter Sarah bluntness to political correctness. I try not to let moments like when asked by a customer where isle six is, by replying, “Next to isle seven,” happen.

Like everyone else on the planet, I can only be me. I have thoughts, ideas and words I want to articulate but don’t usually do and when I try, I usually botch them up so I smile and stay quiet most of the time. But if you peel back the wallpaper even a little bit, you’ll find a kind, a little bit weird, a little bit too talkative, silly, slightly nutty girl who wants to know you. So please don’t ever be surprised again on who I’m friends with.

Once you go big

I’m a cashier, so I see roughly about a hundred different type of people a day. After about five minutes into my shift, most people blend into faceless manikin’s and I couldn’t tell you what their hair color was after about an hour. It’s not for lack of trying and I do recognize a handful of customer faces but chances are unless you deeply upset me, after you leave I will probably never remember you again. But tonight I saw a customer who while in himself did not ignite my anger, what he was wearing did.

An fat middle age man who was a little bit taller than me (I’m five-six) was wearing a black tee-shirt that read, “Once you go big, you don’t go back.” 

At first I was amused and rolled my eyes at the obvious sexual innuendo. But then the more I thought about it, the more angry I became. I understand that it was supposed to be a bad pun about his neither regions (Or at least I’m assuming so). But I read recently that one in five American’s who go on a diet and lose weight, will gain that weight back! Is it to assume then that because I am fat, even if I try to lose weight, that I will inevitably fail? That no matter how hard I try, no matter how hard I struggle, I will always be predeterminedly stay the weight I am because once you already big, you do go back?!

When I look at old photos of myself almost a decade ago of when I was fifteen (I know, I can’t believe it either) in my boot cut size sixteen jeans and knee-length black lace wrap that I practically lived in, I wish I could have made my fifteen year old self believe that I would never look better than I did then. The problem then wasn’t so much my body, for it had already developed into a pear shape, it was my mind. My world was filled with media telling me that I was too fat and that I didn’t look like my kindergarten friend Leah (pictured left). And because of that, I was somehow not worthy of adoration.

A simple phrase, “and you’ll never go back,” brings out some of my deepest insecurities. That shirt stared me in the face with its message. And that message is that I just might be forever be stuck with the body I have.It’s putting my shakenly new “I love my body for what it is” image to the test. Could I really be happy with who I am if I never even lost another single pound?  Or another inch? I giggle how my pants have begun to fall down on their own in public but would I still be smiling if I were to know that I would never be another pant size smaller?

I can’t answer those questions because I don’t know. I like walking by a mirror and the first thing I notice are my eyes, how wide and beautifully full of life they’ve become. I rarely even think of myself as fat anymore, even when flirting. When I am shamelessly flirting with a certain coworker, weight is the last thing on my mind. I’m so focused on just trying to get him to notice me and then how to get next to him that I rarely have time to worry about my appearance.

So yes, maybe I could eventually learn to love my body for what it is, even if it meant that I was forever stuck with the body I have right now. I’ve come as far as I have already by just accepting myself for my imperfections as it is. And while I still have a long way to go before I build the confidence to become my alter ego Lilly, a silly loud mouth outspoken sarcastically loveable goofball, I’ll just have to keep reminding myself that I am amazing, just the way I am.


While diamonds are still a girl’s best friend, for the twenty-first century woman, Spanx are a close second. For those of you unfamiliar with what Spanx actually are, they are made out of the same material as panty hose (I know who would have figured) in undergarment form intended to give the wearer a more slender appearance. I’ll just say it, I love Spanx.

The great thing about Spanx is actually not that they’re just for fat women. They can help hide any imperfection on any type of body. Some will hide your cellulite or give you a booty boost. For me, my kryptonite is my belly, and therefore am always looking for Spanx to hide the muffin top. And believe me, while I am proud of the weight loss I’ve achieved so far (nearly twenty pounds!), I wouldn’t dream of leaving the house without my Spanx. Maybe because my stomach is right out there in front of me, that it bothers me more than any other body part on me like say my butt or cellulite.

My stomach often makes me feel like Santa, with a very overflowing bowl of jelly. Or sometimes I feel like I could grab a sharpie magic marker, draw a face on my belly and make it talk. Don’t get me wrong, I actually have come a long way to loving my body for what it is. I’ve come along way to liking what I see in the mirror despite the flaws. I used to be unjustly harsh on my body for every flaw, every dimple, every zit, every crinkle and every wobbly bit upon my body. Chris would litterally have to pinch me and teasingly say, “pick” everytime I started to nag.

I can’t tell you what changed, or why I like what I see in the mirror more than I did then but I know Spanx was apart of it. Like training wheels on a bike, I hope to someday take them off and ride free, feeling sexy in my big girl pants, so to speak. But I know I will never completely never not have spanx in my wardrobe, even if they are tucked away in a dressor drawer on call. They have the right enough va-va-voom to make me turn around in the mirror and go, heeeyyy! lol ^_^

So whatever anyone’s opinions are about Spanx, good or bad, they are simply this. Spanx are an illusion. An illusion to make you feel better about yourself,  but an illusion none the less. They might beable to make you feel better about yourself but the magic that’s created is all about you. So I will wear my big girl undies with pride, as I constantly remind reassure myself that I am enough too.

Things Mother Taught Me

Deep down, I love my mother. I just don’t like her very much. We don’t agree on many of the same issues and our tastes vary from night to day. It used to be, we set aside our differences and came together anyway. But for the past few years or so, it seems like more and more lately that I’m the one who has to cast the first stone for reconcile and she doesn’t even care if she has a relationship with me. But I digress. As many mean, and truthful, nasty things I could admit to the whole wide world web about my mother, instead I think I will take the high road. Despite everything, they either knowingly or unknowingly taught me many strong core values that have shaped me into who I am today. I of course have to remind myself of all the followings from time to time and it’s good to be reminded.

Always be aware that no matter what you say or do, you will always be a hypocrite. Eventually you will go or do something that contradicts whatever you said or did. If you say you never litter and then spit your gum out on the side-walk, you just littered. When you say you have an open mind but find yourself bias to only certain people’s opinions. Congratulations, you’ve just became a hypocrite. There are few non-hypocrities so it’s just best to just accept you are one and try to catch yourself either before or mid action.

Life is too short to sweat the small stuff. With all bad things comes the good and the quicker you release any negative attitude the faster the good will happen. If you let people’s negative attitudes slip off you like a duck in water, your day will become a lot more enjoyable. So what if Susie in HR doesn’t like you? Don’t let other people’s problems become your own. When you get in a fight with someone, take some time out for yourself but don’t let it ruin your entire day and remember to move on. I know this can be hard to do but it helps when… *points to number three*

Find something positive in every situation and more importantly, laugh at yourself! This coincides with number two. The sooner you learn that life isn’t fair and you can’t control everything, the easier life will become for you. Focus on what you can control and find something positive out of it. It’s harder to do when your angry but once you’ve calmed down think of everything you can do to change your current problem.

Accept your past with all its flaws and don’t dwell on them. Learn from your mistakes. The more time you spend obsessing on something the more time you are wasting right now to put things right. If you can’t make things right, right now, then have the self satisfying notion that you have done everything you could and the rest is out of your hands. Focus on what you can do for your own personal health and focus on how you can change yourself for the future so you don’t fall into familiar bad habits.

Let your freak flag fly. As far as I know, there are no normal people on the planet. There are always people who think they are normal, people who only think they are cool, badass or “gangster” but not do they fall under rule number one of being a hypocrite, but are delusional. Each and every one of those people has a kryptonite. No doubt one of them used to wet the bed, are afraid of spiders, or have a song they would be deeply embarrassed to be caught hearing. And while these types of people still might be able to wear their label, they are not normal! Accept your freak for who she, or he, are and don’t let anyone embarrass you for it. For instance, when I know I do something dorky or weird, I’ll laugh at myself, shake my head and say, “Man I’m such a dork.” But I’m not embarrassed for it. It’s where I derive most of my confidence from.

Be open to new experiences and don’t let fear paralyze you from stepping outside your comfort zone. You never know what you’re missing out on so instead of sitting on the couch or computer screen, when your invited out to do something, unless you have serious good reasons, GO~! And not, oh I have to wash my hair. You never know who you will meet or see a side of someone you thought you new. You might see something you once thought as boring, now fun. I am the worst at accepting this one but I am trying.

Love unconditionally. Love like you’ll never see them again because you never know what tomorrow brings. Never be afraid to say words of love or fear hold you back from going for what you want. This coincides with six and going out side your comfort zone.

Nobody makes change happen but you. Don’t rely on other people to accomplish what you want. If you are unhappy with where you are in life there is always a way to get there, even if takes the super incredibly long windy, fifteen miles in snow, up hill road. Perseverance is everything. I am not the best to talk about this one, for which I know I am a slight hypocrite, but I am always falling and picking myself back up. I will get to where I want to be eventually, as long as I don’t quit.

Find any way to celebrate. Tomorrow is never guaranteed and you should make as many memories as you can. Who cares if a holiday is built on lies? Find the essence of what makes that holiday good and share it.

Surround yourself with the best of things. I don’t just mean material objects but people you care for. Quality matters in material things as well tho but as my momma always said, you better shop around! Don’t accept the first offer you recieve and do your homework but when you find a gem, don’t hesitate.

Writing About Me

I love to write… but I have a hard time expressing my jumbled up thoughts into coherent sentences.

I have a hard enough time just speaking to people. I never know what to say. I never know if I come off genuine or fake. I work hard to make myself heard clearly instead of constantly having to reexplain my thoughts. I mull words over in my mouth like a wine snob. The words will float and swirl and sometimes I’ll gargle. But most of the time, the words get swallowed and only the hint of after taste of thought remains that I have trouble sharing.

You could say I have a hard time letting go of control. I want things to come out right the first time. And I have trouble writing and coming up with topics about the thing most people find easiest to talk about, yourself.

I found when I was trying to not write about men, that was the only thing I could write about. While my writing wasn’t anywhere near perfect, I found when I went to read old entries every now and then I’d find phrases I wrote that as a writer, would make me proudly smile. But I find the hardest thing for me to do it seems, is to write about me. Since writing about being fat, almost every entry has been a long hard struggle to finish. I write a few sentences, maybe a paragraph before saving the draft for another few days.

The hardest challenge I am having is coming up with topics to write about being fat. Yes, I’ll write about men too and how it affected me with my weight. But pinpointing specific topics, stories is becoming increasingly difficult for me. I don’t know what to do or where to turn for inspiration. Plus men aren’t the only concern I would like to write about. I’m utterly clueless. Help.


Here’s an entry to placate many nosy (but loving) friends and family. Chris knows I blog, and sometimes helps me edit, and as long as I don’t destroy all of his atomity by linking his photo or Facebook page onto here, he doesn’t mind if I use his real name (versus a nickname. And any nicknames I have given him are personal ones and shall remain so)

Simply put, Chris is a man I unconditionally love. His arms are ones I look forward rushing into after a long day at workI look forward to his monologue rants about nothing, half tuning them in while I surf the web but following along enough to show I’m listening. I love it when he randomly picks me up (not an easy thing to do) and twirls me around or how we will randomly waltz really badly without music in his kitchen. I love his jittery leg that never stays still, and his many impersonations that make me giggle till my sides hurt. I love how he attempts to teach me things like how to make a paper airplane or how to cook even if he has yet to successfully teach me either of those things. And yet, my heart is torn because while there are many, many, many more wonderful reasons why I love this man, I cannot make my heart fall in love with him.

Around this time last year, I once made a list shortly after I had my heart-broken about who my ideal dream guy was. I spent hours creating in detail, having many categories of qualities I wanted my dream man to possess. I found this list again, unseen, for the first time since I wrote it out a year ago. And I shocked myself at how Chris fit nearly every quality, even the silly ones like wanting a guy who knew lots of random useless trivia facts.

So what’s the problem? If he’s so perfect then why can’t I make myself fall? Good question. It’s complicated. A lot of it has to rest on the fact over my frustration over his depression and the fact that he relies on other people to support him. This is where most girls would be kicking him to the curb. But I’m not most girls. Like I said, it’s complicated. On the one hand he was my very best friend who understands me, plays with me, and emotionally cares for me. On the other I am trying to be supportive, encouraging and taking care of him the way a mother would. I feel while as hard as the later was for me, it out weighed all the positive joys he brought into my life.

So what changed that we decided to date? He got a job. He was working hard and sticking with it. I no longer felt obligated about making sure he had enough food and toilet paper for the both of us for the week because I know he could pick some up. I knew he would start picking up the check more frequently when we ate out, because I knew he felt bad about the burden he was placing. And he did start doing all of those things and more. I started thinking of us as an, us. But imagine my frustration six weeks later when I heard he was fired from this new job! I was furious at his work for out and about lying why they fired him, then I was furious at Chris for not fighting back!

And I was furious at myself. Because I knew Chris would go right back into this self-defeatist attitude, and he has. I feel so helpless on how to help him and I feel very stuck. While our money issues are not nearly as bad as my eight year relationship with my ex, money has become an extremely sensitive subject between me and men. I feel as if I have signed a contract even though there is no break up clause, and I’m free to leave anytime I choose, I’m not ready to quite give up. I want to be in love with this man, I want to make my heart do backflips over him. I just don’t want to feel like his mother, or his wife.

Another part of it too is that I’m scared. I’m scared I’ll end up in a relationship again like with my ex Tony, silently resenting him each time a money crises popped up. I’m afraid that money will wedge in and replace all the qualities I love most about Chris. For once in my life I would like a relationship, where until things got serious, I don’t have to stress about money. Where my money’s mine and his money’s his and we treat each other as we go, or go dutch, because we want to. Not because we’re stressed over the very last nickel we can squeeze together. That’s what I feel marriage is for.

I do love Chris though and how he makes me happy. In less than a minute he can turn my entire day around by making me smile and laugh. Something as simple as watching TV for instance. The TV could get stuck (and did) on Charlie Sheen’s face and Chris crying out “Oh god! Please!! Nooooo!” And I could get stuck in a fitful of giggles while Chris goes outside to fix the satellite. For now, this is enough of a reason to stay. But for some reason, it’s not enough of a reason to make my heart race, tongue roll outta my mouth or howl. I’m not banging my head against a tree or finding a horn that honks oooh-oogah. Okay, so I’m exaggerating like a Hannah-Barbara cartoon character just a little bit but I digress.

Is it a little nieve to want the whole package? To want someone I not only want to sexually assault every time I see his face but have a partner financially as well as emotionally & physically? I feel as if I have half the package. I feel as if I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. I’m trying to be patient, by not rushing things and let things happen “naturally”, but it’s hard. (That’s what she said lol!) It’s hard when you have that sexual lust for someone else. (Another blog entry for another time.) It’s hard when you feel like you have people staring at you saying, “Chris is perfect for you.” and wanting to answer, “Yeah I know but…”

Nobody’s perfect. Even I’m not anywhere near perfect. I have my flaws, insecurities and annoying habbits that would drive anyone nuts. But theres always a light to the dark which is how I feel about Chris. I have faith in him even he has little faith in himself. What I need is more faith in myself. Faith to trust that this won’t turn out like my ex did. I need to trust myself to make the right decisions for me and not to please others. I need to start putting my own needs first before trying to take on others, and I am trying to do so. Chris is my best friend and I love him dearly. I’m just waiting on that other shoe to drop. And if it doesn’t, then I guess life will go on. I hope Chris will still be in my life because he’s someone I always want to be in it.

I Can Cook Anything!

When I was a little kid, I thought the only thing you needed to be able to cook was any two ingredients. How quickly I learned otherwise. I blame the Easy Bake Oven. It gave me false hope that by mixing little bags of instant goo and sticking it an “oven” aka lightbulb, it meant I could be a master chief! When in reality I was anything but.

As a kid, my mom encouraged any interest I had. When I wanted to learn how to cook, she sent me to the Ritz Carlton cooking class where we spent an afternoon making a gourmet lunch. Needless to say, I don’t remember a damn thing about that day except for feeling very proud and accomplished of myself.

Then there were other times as a child when I attempted to cook. My mom bought me a childrend’s cookbook that my nose was glued into whenever I remembered to get my sticky little fingers hold of it. For a child’s cook book, it had well over a hundred recipies and something for every occasion. And I remember wistfully sighing and pleading to my mother if I could make this or that and always recieving the same answer, no! I don’t ever remember why it was no, but it was good enough to stop my protestings till I picked the book back up again. Maybe if I had been more insistant she would have finally said yes. Instead, when I was alone and on whims, I would find my own ways of creating what I needed.

I can only remember creating three things out of that entire book, all of them utter and complete failures. I’ve never been good at following or understanding instructions no matter how hard I try, and you’ll see why shortly. The first thing I can admitedly remember cooking outside the easy bake oven were brownies. It started out with a box. I don’t remember if my mom was with me or not but I remember the proud warm glow of accomplisment I felt after the brownies were pulled out of the oven. Then I did it again, and then again. Sometimes I took matters into my own hands, mostly as a surprise for my mom, and sometimes not. Then one day, bored, home alone while my mother worked and brownie box free, I pulled out my cookbook. I saw a recipie for brownies from scratch and as I checked off the list of all must have ingredients, I thought, I can do this! Won’t my mother be proud of me?!

Little be known to me, I read the opposite page and thought it called for three cups of salt and three cups of sugar! They were the only ingredient misinterpreted but never the less, they were the wrong ones to make! My mother says she remembers the brownies having a slightly white frosting but I remember them as perfect, till I took a knife and cut into them. There was an inch of nothing but pure white and a qurater inch toping of chocolate. Tears wielded up in my eyes and I bawled out, I don’t understand! I followed the directions! My mother just flipped through the book till we figured out how I could have strayed so far from the original recipie.

I’d like to say that my cooking has improved since then, but I can’t. I haven’t made the same mistake but then again I haven’t tried to make brownies from scratch again either. I know that I will never be the next Iron Chef or even Paula Deen. But I dream that someday I will beable to cook deliciously beautiful food. I dream of serving Martha Stewart looking brownies on doiley’s, as long as the brownies didn’t come out of a box. And maybe someday I will. Who knows. But this girl knows how to dream. And not to mix salt with brownies.

Meet My Alter Ego, Lilly

Before Beyoncé admitted to the world about her alter ego, Sasha Fierce, I used to come up with alter ego names’ for myself. For instance, Elizabeth Henry was the pen name I wanted to write with if I ever became published (online blog not counting). It’s a combination of my middle name and my father’s last name. I loved how old-fashioned (and very British) it sounded. I used to think that it would bring more credibility than my own name ever would. But my favourite alter ego name I created for myself has to be Lilly Adams.

Lilly Adams was a persona I created when I was sixteen and watching America’s Next Top Model. Like most sixteen year old girls, I was obsessed with fashion. Most of the time, Lilly looked like model/actress Lily Cole but her looks changed depending on my mood. So after playing around with names I liked, I swore that if I ever lost the massive amount of weight it would take for me walk down a runway, that this two hundred twenty pound sixteen year old would want her model name to be known as Lilly Adams.

It started mostly as an absurd thought. I never really thought that I’d ever really be a model so, I put it on the back burner for years as a silly idea. In fact, I never really told many people about my fake model name. I could already imagine the eye rolls, the chuckles and blank stares I would receive. ‘So, you want to be a model?’ was the voices I heard in my head, mocking me. And honestly, it wasn’t so much I wanted to be a model. I was just a cliché teenager who wanted a beautiful photograph to help validate her ever wavering confidence.

So Lilly just became this idea I would think about when I would watch Top Model. Somehow over the years, I developed Lilly into an alter ego. When Top Model would come on, I would wonder, who is Lilly and what makes her so different from me? Lilly is brave, she is fearless.  She is silly, confidant, flirtatious and radiant; she’s the type of girl who lights up a room simply by entering it. And while I have many qualities that pride myself for, all of those qualities are not ones I naturally posses.

I tease myself that when I am being naturally flirtatious or extra boisterous, that Lilly has come out to play. When I’m listening to music with my headphones and have the sudden urge to sing or dance, instead of dancing myself per say, I imagine Lilly singing perfectly on tune to whatever song I’m listening to and dancing in the middle of the street. Lilly is apart of me now and she’s not. I try to emulate her as best I can everyday, to be fearless while being utterly loveable.

I think we all have a little bit of Lilly inside of us. Someone who we hide within us most of the time but can be seen within the twinkle of your eye without even realizing it. Maybe it’s the face you put on before you go to work, or the courage you have to sum up to do something scary. Like for Beyoncé, sing in front of millions of fans while having to look utterly perfect. We all have them and I declare it’s time to start giving them names! Maybe yours is named Paula Deen, John Doe or maybe even Larry Tate. Who knows. I think once we recognize these personalities within us, it helps encourage that specific behavior. Or at the very least recognize traits we want to avoid. Maybe Jerkface Jerry comes out when you’ve had too much to drink. That way, you can warn people ahead of time. “Look if I accidentally have too much to drink tonight, just know whatever I say is not me, it’s Jerkface Jerry.”

So hello and meet Lilly. If you catch me singing randomly, or being a little extra flirty or silly, it’s probably because Lilly decided to come out and play.

Lilly comes when you stop to call her
Lilly runs when you look away
Lilly leaves kisses on your collar
Lilly, Lilly, Lilly, Lilly, stay!

The Secret Scale

I have a secret relationship with my scale. I don’t personally own one but, my mother does! In fact, I convinced her to buy the one she has now knowing I could secretly borrow it.

A little untold secret of fat girls is that we’re not supposed to really care about our weight. Oh, we all know fat girls stuff their faces either behind skinny people’s back or when we’re with a large group of people at a restaurant. But heaven forbid we actually know our own weight! How big our chin rolls are, how many stomachs close to a cows we have, and the way we waddle walk are supposed to dictate exactly how fat we are. From chubby, to kinda over weight, to plus size, to yeah she needs to lose weight to morbidly obese. Weight is supposed to be a number too scary for us fat girls to handle. And for some, perhaps it is. But for me, I get a higher rush, secretly undressing in my mother’s bathroom to see if I lost so much as a pound.

And if I have, I’ll over analyze my body in the mirror, wondering what part of my body is now that much closer to being skinny. I’ll hold my tummy with both hands, check out my butt, and turn my face to either side just to see if I can notice any difference. I’ll test my pants when they’re back on to try and see how close to a pants size I am to losing and I’ll sway side to side once my shirt is on again to see how much my muffin top has shrunk. I do all of this privately, and nakedly.

I’m not vain, at least I’m pretty sure I’m not. I like to make sure before I leave the house I took passably decent and sometimes I will spend a couple of hours “dolling myself up” but I don’t think this makes me vain. Nor do I think I have an eating disorder. When the scale goes up a couple, or a few, pounds from what I was hoping, I won’t lie and say that I’m not slightly disappointed in myself. But instead of beating myself up I remind myself to just be more conscious of how much and what I’m eating. 

My mother’s scale gives me hope and the urge to keep pushing myself to keep trying. I usually fail but I never let it defeat me. I hope to someday soon be at least a couple of clothes size smaller. Everytime I look at that scale and see a smaller number, it fills me with pride for myself and confidence that I can one day reach my dream of being in between a size ten or twelve. I always want to look in the mirror and think yeah, I’ve still got some curve but still be healthy.

I just want to take a moment and say, Thank you scale. Without you I wouldn’t know I’ve lost a pant size or that I’ve  become seventeen pounds closer the weight on my state id. I would probably be less confident and still be beating myself up. I would probably revert to over eating and not changing. So while you usually get blamed for playing the bad guy for letting us know our true selves, thank you scale for making me grow (No pun intended) into the ever more confident, and beautiful woman I am starting to finally feel.

From A Fatso

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