I'm a Fat Person in a Skinny Body

Okay, I have this problem. I have been living in Lala Land, otherwise known as the land of cheese, beer, and all fried foods. And I have been living here for probably six years. Now, it hasn't necessarily caught up with me, (I have heard of the freshman fifteen), but still, I am feeling all of that cheese and beer and fried food. I feel it all around my tummy and thighs, to be exact.

See, there was a point in time, (post-break-ups) that I would just drop weight. This had a lot to do with the fact that I would simply stay in bed and watch Grey's Anatomy and listen to Avril Lavigne. But now that I have been officially not seeing anyone since November, I have moved past the break-up-weight-loss, and moved into the I-like-food-and-I-live-by-myself-so-I-can-be-a-pig stage. This basically entailed me buying boxes of my favorite cereal, leaving the boxes in the book shelf, and using the same bowl for a few weeks at a time, whilst watching Grey's Anatomy and listening to Linkin Park.

I then moved into the I-am-going-to-Puerto-Rico stage, and decided I needed to lose some of my "cereal weight." So I stopped eating cereal and went on a wonderful diet I call the yogurt-and-beer diet. It was a wonderful way to lose weight quickly because everything that went in came right out. A quick fix wasn't going to make me feel better overall though.

See, it would be the little things that bothered me, like huffing after three flights of stairs or sweating my face off after a mile of easy strolling. Those things never used to really bother me, but all of a sudden they were. And on top of that, I was feeling more and more lethargic. I hated that. I would sleep for hours and hours and never feel totally rested.

So I decided I had to do something. I asked my mom if she would invest in running shoes for me. I used to run, when I had good shoes, but after I broke them past the point of no return, I stopped running. I wanted to pick it up again. I wanted to feel strong and sweaty and full of endorphins.

She bought me some new shoes, and I broke them in with a vengeance. My current goal of doing a 5k seems very attainable, especially since I have been doing two mile of running and one mile of walking almost every other day.

But the best part is this: I haven't necessarily been losing weight, (and I am not super sure I actually need to) but I am feeling better over all. I wake up and I feel rested and ready. And the best part is that I actually want to run. I want to exercise and feel strong and powerful. And it is incredibly fulfilling.

So, no, I am not going to give up all the food I love like pizza and hamburgers and gyros. I am not going to try to force myself into being model skinny or have a tummy so flat it's concave. I am not going to say, I need to look like her.

I am instead going to say, I feel amazing and healthy and beautiful, and everyone is going to have to deal with it because I can't stop grinning.

I like me the way I am; a fat little kid who wants to feel amazing, not sluggish and squishy. And the past few weeks have made me think that as long as I move the cereal boxes into the kitchen and my running shoes stay nearby, my goal of running a 5k and eating a bucket of hummus is totally within reach.

Apparently I Have a Huge Ass

So, at work today, it was a fucking nice ass day. Therefore, the restaurant was busy as fuck. And because it was warm, I decided to wear shorts. I don't like to get overheated, and recently I have been working these seven and eight hour shift, I get home with a fever and I feel like shit.

Except that today, my lady problems decided it was time to rear their collective ugly head. It started off on a Tuesday. There was this smoking hot guy at the library, and I had an intense urge to throw him onto the closest desk and bang him. I call this stage one of Mother Nature. On Thursday, the sort of mean guy in my English class seemed irresistible. I thought, I want this dude NOW.

Then stage two happened. That was today. I woke up with a little ache-owie in my side. At first, I thought that I had slept funny. But then when I finally did roll out of bed and start getting ready for work, all I felt was chunky and sausagey. I couldn't pull up a pair of pants because they were way too tight around my thighs. And my chin was breaking out. I went and found my looser shorts, put those on, and headed to work.

All day, that pain in my side was there, all sharp and annoying. And at some point; like four o'clock, I realized that it was those annoying ass cramps accompanied with the cycle. I stopped being so annoyed by feeling awkward and large, (the simple explanation: I get bloated.) and started to just focus on getting through the night. Once I got home, I could take some ibuprofen and sleep off the cramps.

Instead, all day today, my mother fucking manager was busy trying to figure out how to tell me that my ass was WAY TOO BIG for my shorts. Instead of just pulling my into the office and being like, "Hey, your shorts are too tight," he told the night manager to give me a heads up.

So, the night manager bumbled around not saying anything all night. Of course, he had to let me know somehow, or the day manager, would be annoyed. So my friend, Ron, the host manager, was leaving for the night and my night manager wrangled him in to tell me.

Now, Ron is gay. And loves to tell me what an amazing ass I have. I have a complex about my amazing ass. It's called "My Ass Is Amazing Complex." I believe that my ass is amazing. So Ron had no qualms with letting me know that my ass had been the topic of discussion all day.

"Manager says you can't wear those shorts anymore," he told me at the end of my shift. I, of course, asked why. Adding that these shorts were short but not super tight. "Well, he thinks there are too tight. I don't. You ass looks great. But her thinks that your ass needs bigger shorts."

"So I have a fat ass." I was really annoyed. I felt bloated and sausagey and oily and pimply and sweaty and gross. And apparently my manager thought the same fucking thing.

"Well, I think it's great. But he doesn't." Or he probably does think my ass looks great and it makes him uncomfortable since he has known me since I was sixteen. What fucking ever.

I was pissed. Not at Ron, of course. He dealt the blow with kind words and a hug. But my manager was obviously a sissy crybaby that couldn't deal with one fat-assed worker. What pissed me off even more was that I know of five other bitches on one hand I could name that wore shorts way tighter and way shorter than mine. And they were always sporting muffin tops and thunder thighs. So why the fuck was he picking on me? I have know idea, but I am basically really mad.

And I get to look forward to the "joys of womanhood" yet again. I will probably only succeed in feeling more fat and bloated and sausagey and like a chunky-freaking-monkey. Yay... stage three.

Fucking A.