Thursday, April 15, 2010

On the first day, God created chicken salad

Well, I'm back on the wagon. Day 1. Just sitting here with a scoop of chicken salad and a toddy.

Oh yes...toddys. One of the reasons I love LC diets. As long as whatever you mix it with is sugar-free, hard liquor is just fine. Naturally, I have my drink o' choice down to a science: vodka, crystal light (special blend), Ocean Spray Diet Blueberry juice and Diet 7-Up. Sounds sort of pitiful, doesn't it? Or, as my boyfriend (henceforth known as John...exciting I know) said when I offered to make him one last weekend, "That's girly." Twenty minutes later, he was swigging one down, so whatever. Girly my ass.

I'm sitting here watching a documentary called: Fat -- What No One is Telling You. It features a variety of poor bastards who drew the short straw in the genetic pool (I include myself among them, so I'm not being tacky. Yet.) The one that makes me cringe the most is a couple -- both of whom are porkers -- and they're going to a gym together, worked out by thin people who seem to have the personality of a shit pie (which, I bet, is lo carb. Just saying.) The couple: they're trying to cook healthy. They're meeting with nutritionists and doctors to discuss their plan, to talk about what it's like to be fattys.

Are you suddenly getting the feeling that someone is looking at you? Well, you're right. It's me, and I am giving you the biggest fucking side-eye I can muster.

(thank you for demonstrating, Zahara Jolie-Pitt)

I just want to shout it from the rooftops: I've done all this! I've been there, with the listless trainers and the condescending nutritionists (who might, along with dietitians, be the most useless people on the planet), Fat Camp counselors and bored doctors. I've done the rotation in that world since I was a wee lass, and I can tell you: all that shit starts to sound the same after a while.

Being fat is not fun. Unless you're dating a fetishist, in which case, slip me his number would you? (Just kidding. John is the best.) Fattys are the last thing out there that it's still okay to make fun of. You can't say shit about anyone because of their race, religion, gender, sexual orientation, height (midgets, I'm looking at you), mental abilities or anything else. Except for fattys. It's totally okay to rake their cottage cheese asses over the coals (like I just did.) Oh, and Republicans. It's okay to bash them, too. So, don't even get me started on fat Republicans.

(for the record, I really like Chris Christie. and I kinda dig on his Tony Soprano thing, too. Holla.)

Thing is, I have a special contempt for the people associated with the weight-loss industry. Well, except Mr. Atkins, who slipped on the ice (WTF?!!!!) and died. That poor bastard -- he was like the kindly uncle I never had. Anyway, I have been around them all -- doctors, counselors, nutritionists, dietitians, motivational speakers, name it. And they can all go to hell as far as I'm concerned. Other than that, they seem like lovely people.

I guess my problem is -- and the reason it was important for me to start this blog while I'm tubbah-- is because there's a sharp degree of disingenuousness (it's a word, I double-checked) as far as they go. From the way they look and speak, to the idiotic fucking suggestions they make. And more often than not, none of them have ever had to squeeze into a pair of Spanx in order to zip a skirt closed, so they can shut their chocolate creme pie hole as far as I care. They, in my mind, have zero credibility. I was always more interested in picking the brains of the people who'd actually done it. Been a fatty and lost the weight. Whether they kept it off is immaterial to me -- invariably, they had their Oprah-1988-size 10-Calvin Klein jeans moment, so that's what I want to talk about: how in the eff did you get there and what did it feel like?

(I am so glad I wasn't an adult in the 80s)

I remember when I was 21, I went to Fat Camp on the east coast (I'm Southern; I refuse to capitalize that) for the summer. That experience is a post for another day, believe me. But I distinctly remember one of the mousy little counselors they had, giving us a talking-to in a food workshop we all attended. She stood up and squeaked something about putting a few Hershey kisses -- one or two -- in her lunch sack so that when she needed a little something sweet, she could have it. As she said that, I looked over at my best friend from that summer, a fat and sassy El Salvadorian prone to R-rated tirades, and I said, "Bitch, please. She's talking to a group of girls who aren't interested in a Hershey kiss or two. We're the ones who eat the whole bag." My friend rattled something in Spanish and I nodded vacantly. I -- and most of the others there -- definitely felt misunderstood.

That story is exactly why I love LC. (Again, not Lauren Conrad. Or Liz Claiborne.) I can't have two Hershey kisses. I will plot your murder if I think you're withholding the bag from me. I mean it. So my solution is to have NONE. Zero. Nada. I can, however, have as much cream cheese as I can handle, so...I can hardly contain my excitement.

I'm about to keep gulping sipping my toddy and watching this depressing-ass documentary -- and sweet Jesus knows, one is incumbent upon the other. Maybe these poor fat assholes will get to the end of the program and decide that they can stand being fat a lot more than they can stand seeing that sanctimonious trainer every day and sit down with their Zebra Cakes and call it a day.

(I would literally slap a baby for one of these right now.)

As for me, I am trolling through LC casserole recipes to make for John and me this weekend. Poor thing, he might waste away or something while I'm trying to do this. I'll have to fix him a potato or something so he can keep up his energy. Bless his heart.

Stay tuned.

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