Fat Fat The Water Rat

Today I had MathMan take a "Before" photo of me.  I took one look at it, put down the chocolate bunny I'd been nibbling and wailed.  Really, really wailed.

Oh my fucking goodness. "I look like that?"

Okay, so a while ago, a long while ago I may have mentioned here that I was going to try to lose weight and get into shape. I'd have been better off if I'd simply said I was going to take up smoking while developing a meth habit as back up because the counting calories and working out thing wasn't quite working out the way I'd hoped.

Part of the problem was that on that whole counting calories thing, I was missing the point.  I was supposed to count up to a certain number and then stop eating.  Oh.

Then I got sick with the real influenza.  The 1918 or whatever kind, not the one that we all call the flu, but is really some kind of intestinal bug.  No, this was the cough up a lung, get all feverish and feel like you've been run over by a truck influenza.  Although I suppose in 1918 the survivors must have said they felt like they'd been run over by a fast moving wagon.

So for two weeks, I stopped exercising because I couldn't breathe and I find breathing to be highly critical to exercise.  I realize this doesn't make me special. Instead, I did just as the doctor ordered.  I rested.  I sat, reclined, lay about and generally moved as little as possible because I just felt so meh.  It was like depression without the fun parts.

Then, there was that confusion over the Starve a Cold, Feed a Fever or was it the other way around.  I went with feeding.  A lot.  And often.  My fever was hungry and I took care of its every need.  Popsicles.  Ice cream.  Cream cheese on white toast with a smear of strawberry jam.  Ham sandwiches.  Cool Whip straight from the container.  That fever invoked cravings I never knew I had.

My weight increased.  I could feel myself ballooning.  Paint me blue and I'd be just like Violet in Charlie and Chocolate Factory. And may I just tell you, it's fucking uncomfortable.  I hate this.

So last week I went to the library and took out Bill Phillips' Body for Life.  In 12 weeks I'm going to transform my body and mind.  If I don't I'm going to kill myself.  Seriously.  It will be slow, painful to watch and my clothes still won't fit, but I assure you it will be suicide.  I'm too damn fat.  And it will kill me.

So here we go again.  I have my plan.  I have my goals - they're written down.  I know what I'm to do and I better fucking do it because nothing fits.  I'm sick of waking up with a sore back.  I hate it that I flinch when MathMan reaches his loving arm across me in bed because I'm ashamed of my belly fat.  I am sickened at the notion that the kids probably look at me and wonder why I can't be svelte and pretty like the other moms they know.  Even the cats look at me with disdain when I apologize to them in the morning because I can't bend over to pick up their food bowls without groaning.

I mean just this morning, MathMan and I were watching a dvd and one of the characters was described by a couple of the other characters as a "little tub of lard."  I cringed because I was thinking that compared to me, he didn't look fat.

Simply put - I don't want to be this person anymore, buried under killing fat, hiding under pounds of flesh that are the result of bad choices and a bit of genetic trickery. Damn genetics.  What?  It would be too much trouble to make me either tall or naturally thin?  I don't require both.

So here we go again. No way in hell am I posting my before picture.  I'd rather run nude through the neighborhood at noon being chased by bees.  Just rest assured that it's enough to make me want - out of sheer vanity - to follow through this time.  Because if I don't, the disappointment in myself might kill me before the disease does.