When did I resort to "comfort"? When did I give up, so to say? Likely around the time I woke up fat. I'm pretty sure these went hand in hand. I don't think sane or thin people just decide that flannel, fleece or whatever the hell Lululemon is made of, is meant for everyday wear. Actually, not true, it is meant for everyday wear, TO BED or the gym. Baha..like that happens...
It's actually taken on a life of it's own. I've actually developed a systematic approach to the validity of only wearing sweatpants. I grade them on their acceptability in public, the embarrassment of my children, the likely hood of seeing someone I know (not for my own embarrassment, but theirs) and most importantly, their comfort.
Public: Okay, so we all know the sweatpants with the elastics on the ankles. The ones reserved for 8 year old boys, couples over 60 wearing matching sweatsuits, and for scrubbing the shit out of your toilets. I have a few pairs of these. They were black, but now have orange bleach stains. The elastic rides up on my calves, they actually leave red marks in my skin. I hate these pants, but you know what? They are comfortable and they are a guarantee that I can finish my housework without interruptions. No man with an ounce of pride would try to get up on their wife when she's wearing these pants. These are only for in my own home. I change out of these gems into more attractive sweats to go outside.
My Children: They are still young enough, that they're not overtly affected by my choice of attire. But, I do make the conscience decision not to wear any sweats with letters on the ass. I am a Princess, but my ass doesn't need to advertise that I am the Princess of a country the size of Russia. I don't have ones with little paw prints on them either. I am classier than that. HA! But really, I do take into account that I have daughters who are aware of their own fashion choices. Only once has my eldest commented on my sweats. She asked if they were the same ones I wore to bed. I laughed, and told her that would be gross! They were new ones, that look the same. When I like a pair, I go back and get 5.
Other People: I really don't give a rats ass about what other people think of my clothes. Not one bit. But, when I run into people whom I have limited contact with, they seem uncomfortable that I do my banking in sweats. I've actually had people ask if I was sick, or tired. I'm always tired, so that's a pretty redundant question. They seem to think that for some reason I must downtrodden or suffering from some sort of crazy ailment. I've even been snubbed from acquaintances for what I assume would be my attire. (I am sure it's not because I can talk for an hour in the tampon section of the drugstore) They actually can't seem to grasp that I am comfortable doing my errands in grey sweats. I'll tell you something, I am sure as shit getting my stuff done a lot faster than you wearing your "skinny" jeans, heeled boots, 30 lbs of cheap jewelery and your "Snooki" pouf. So for the sake of others, I don't wear the toilet scrubbing pants or the "Diva" assed ones to the bank...anymore.
Comfort: This is an obvious. I don't wear these pants because they are trendy. I wear them because regular clothes don't feel good. Jeans are "hard". The last thing I want is stiff material folding itself, into myself. That's just bad. Belts can kiss my ass. Hard leather digging in. Awesome. I have no need for dress pants. The one pair I have and love, no longer fit. They were my "how fat am I now?" pants. I bought them at one of my biggest times, and they are great.Really nice and comfortable. They are the pants I just can't throw out. When I lose weight, I still wear them, because they are cute when they're baggy. But last week, I put them on and realised for the first time since I bought them, they are too small.
I am not enough of a lady to pull off a skirt or dress. No one wants to see me climbing out of my car flashing my granny panties. Or loading groceries with my cheeks all exposed. Leggings can look good on ladies my size, sure. But I end up looking like a frigging lollipop. My top is far larger than my bottom, so effectively I look like at any moment I could fall over. Like those weeble toys, though the likeliness of me "bouncing" back up, are zero to none. I have "classy" sweats, ie. my Lululemons. I feel like I can wear these anywhere and pull them off. I may even trick a few people into thinking I came from the gym. But little do they know I am sweaty from finishing my cheeseburger before I run into the school, so I won't have to share. And I only wear running shoes, because fancy shoes look stupid with sweats. I have "warm" sweats, which are the staple for our awesome winters. They are thicker, so that's helpful in minimizing my weighty appearance. But they're warm so who gives a shit.
I do own some nice clothes. I do have some trendy stuff in the back of my closet. I just usually reserve these for special occasions or special people. I am willing to sacrifice my comfort for a few hours for friends or family. This is mostly because I have the type of friends and family who will call me out on this. My sister will ask what the hell I am wearing. My mom will ask if I am actually going out in what I have on. It's all in fun...I think.
All kidding aside, it's like this because I'm fat. It's hard to want to shop when "average" size, isn't so average. It's hard when 99% of the stores in the mall don't carry clothes that fit, and if they do, they are cut for someone without boobs, hips, or an ass. The "plus size" stores are shit. I don't want to look like a 50 year old book keeper (no offence to any of you out there, but I'm not 50 and I hate math) There's a huge disparity in styles available. Mainstream fashion isn't accessible. Size 14 is often the largest available, which is really like a size 10. Some stores have made an effort, don't get me wrong. But an article of clothing that's available in a size 0 isn't necessarily going to look as cute, or fit as well when expanded to a size 18. Sorry, it doesn't really work. Fashion retailers have under educated their staff in sizing and fit. I once (when I was down to a 10) asked an associate for a larger size in a shirt. She looked me up and down and said "We don't carry plus size." All I wanted was a size large. Scrawny cow.
So in an effort to avoid the insurmountable anguish involved in shopping, I've decided for the time being to take a stand against clothes. I will pledge allegiance to the cotton makers of the world and support them whole heartedly by living exclusively in sweats. I will be the leader of the sweat pant mafia. We are strong willed women who can get shit done. And don't mess with us, or our cheeseburgers, because we rule to world. And by world I mean the parent council and drive thrus.
Wednesday 9 November 2011
Friday 28 October 2011
I woke up fat
Hey friends,
You are all so lovely! I want to give you all a big shout out for the positive feedback on my first post! Makes it feel a little less intimidating sharing everything.
I woke up fat. Just like the title indicates. One misty, magical morning I awoke and BAM! The damn fat fairy had come and gave me love handles. And a "gunt". I hate that skinny bitch. Now, this isn't entirely true. But in my mind, it eases the pain. (But so does Ben & Jerry's, but that's a little counter intuitive).
A brief history of my fat:
I wasn't always fat. Not entirely. Growing up, I was an active, athletic kid. I played competitive sports, swam and spent countless hours outside. I was always a little bigger than my friends, but not enough that I felt any discomfort. I was never teased, or ridiculed. I have an amazing family, and it was never an issue. I watched my Mom and aunts try every new "fat fad" out there during the 80's and 90's. I watched and never felt any sort of connection to my own waist line.
In high school, it became a part of me. But I suspect, that it did for most teenage girls. I remember knowing I didn't quite look like all my friends. First of all, I didn't have long blond hair. I didn't go to the tanning beds (Anyone who knows me, knows that I am nearly transparent. My radiation like glow can cause small aircraft to suddenly veer off course). And I most certainly didn't go to the gym. Some of my closest friends during those days worked at a local gym, and participated in "weight loss challenges" I didn't dress like them either. I had a very unique look and style. I can see now that it was out of necessity. I wore vintage garb, bright colours and whatever made me feel comfortable. I didn't "look good" in the stuff from Le Chateau and I didn't like showing my ass crack in $100 jeans. I often looked a little androgynous, and was rumoured to be a lesbian at one time. I always had hair that was a bit cutting edge and it became "my thing."
After high school, I partied. We all did. And the weight began to creep up. I worked as a waitress, which was also a great way to get fat. I never had food at my house, I would just grab something to eat at work. Have you ever seen 6 hungover waitresses devour a plate of poutine? It makes a lion tearing apart a gazelle look PG. I drank lots of Coke (which was and is an addiction I struggle with, but that too is another post). Cocktails, beer and shots of Jagermeister were often meal replacements after a busy weekend shift. 3 am pizza orders, or McDonald were always a given, then a secondary trip a few hours later to help get over the hangover. I still didn't feel "fat". I felt good (when I wasn't sick from thinking triples for a $1 is a good idea) and I thought I looked good. I was proud of my boobs. I always had big boobs, which was a crowning achievement giving the history of my family. "A" cups were common, but by 16 I was a "D".
It was during these times that I met and fell in love with my husband. We worked together, and what began as a friendship, quickly became more. Soon, we were expecting our first baby. I will spare you all the details of that time for another day. But I can tell you that during my pregnancy, I gained a whopping 60 lbs, and topped the scale at 199 lbs. I was happy because I hadn't hit 200. When my first daughter was 6 months old, we found out we were expecting baby #2. Now, I hadn't lost nearly any of my baby weight and was sitting at 175 lbs the day I found out I was with child. By the end of pregnancy 2, I was 218 lbs.
I still didn't feel fat. I felt as though I had earned my weight carrying 2 babies. I justified it in saying I hadn't lost enough weight from one, before 2 came along. I still believed the weight would just come off on it's own.Now, this isn't to say I was in denial. I knew I was bigger, and I didn't like it. I just didn't however think the gunt was here to stay. I had hope. Foolish me!
When #2 was 6 months old or so, I took a job serving again. I made new friends, and began walking nearly every night. I was looking and feeling great. My husband and I were finally able to take our first ever vacation together. We were going to Toronto, and I was thrilled. SHOPPING! Woo Hoo! I couldn't wait to go and get all sorts of fantastic things. I busted my ass that summer and managed to lose 27 lbs, and was in a size 10/12. I had just front boob. No secondary armpit boob reaching around to the back. I was on a roll!
We had a great vacation, and upon my return to work , I was feeling wicked in my newly purchased H&M black skirt and a new white wrap shirt. It was that night my image of myself crumbled. A fellow co-worker was introducing me to a friend of hers. A young man, younger than myself, that was new to town. As my friend was doing introductions, the young man asked if I was married. I went to tell him I was indeed, and that had 2 small children. He looked me up and down once, then said "Wow! You look really good for having two kids." Now, that may not seem like an insult to anyone but me, but it struck a cord. At first I just thought what an ass. This young man must not have any idea how to behave socially. His mother must be ashamed. Then I replayed what he said over and over. Sure, there had been other times where people said things (Like...when is your baby due? I'm not preggo ASSHOLE!) but this time it hurt. I had been feeling so accomplished in my success, that I thought I did look good. Not good for having had 2 kids,but normal good. Good like the other girls I worked with. Good like the ladies in grocery store. I kept thinking "That's like telling a someone they look good for being a burn victim." or "Wow, you sure are looking good considering your horribly disfigured." Thus began the never ending battle for weight loss and that feeling. The one you get when you know you have given it your all and that no one, or any comment can take that from you.
So what is different this time you say? What makes my journey special? Why do I need this? Because, I don't want to pee my pants. You read that correctly in case you are wondering. I want to be able to sneeze without wearing a diaper.I want to laugh without needing to change my pants. I want to jump on a trampoline. No...actually that's a lie. I don't ever want to jump on a trampoline, I just want to know that if I did, I could do it without leaving a "snail trail."
I went for my dreaded yearly physical last week. The whole kit and caboodle. After I let the doctor cop a feel of my boobs, and check out my lady junk, I inquired about the surgery to repair my busted bladder. My children had wreaked havoc on it, and up until this year, I had been told to just keep doing those kegel exercises. Well, enough of that crap. Just go in and fix the damn thing already.SO we sat down and discussed the procedure. I know lots of family and other women who have had it done, and was prepared to hear it could take months to get in. But what I hadn't prepared for was the "You need to lose some weight" conversation. Now, this conversation has happened every year since I gave birth to #2. I am no stranger to the doom-agedon like "reality check" that the Dr. spews. Heart disease, diabetes, blah blah blah! Not to minimize the danger of these, but I've heard it, I get it. My Dr. treads lightly and explains that at my current weight, I could have the surgery, but if my previous weight yo-yo act is any indication, it won't be nearly as effective. With significant gain or loss, the procedure isn't as effective and would require a second, or third operation. So with the sweetest voice he can muster, he delivers the facts. I am 5'6" and weigh 221 lbs. That means I have a BMI of 35.5. According to the WHO, I am obese and by other standards, I am level 1, morbidly obese. Yup...AWESOME!
So in an attempt to stop pissing myself, I need to lose some weight. A woman of my height should weigh any where between 120- 159 lbs, depending on where you look. So I can stand to lose between 60-100 lbs. Oh crap. A daunting order indeed. I am not going to put a "goal weight" right now. That's depressing! I don't want to screw it up this time. But, I feel different about this journey. By sharing, I feel a sense of responsibility. I like thinking there are other women out there cheering me on, sharing in the same challenges. And peeing themselves in the process
You are all so lovely! I want to give you all a big shout out for the positive feedback on my first post! Makes it feel a little less intimidating sharing everything.
I woke up fat. Just like the title indicates. One misty, magical morning I awoke and BAM! The damn fat fairy had come and gave me love handles. And a "gunt". I hate that skinny bitch. Now, this isn't entirely true. But in my mind, it eases the pain. (But so does Ben & Jerry's, but that's a little counter intuitive).
A brief history of my fat:
I wasn't always fat. Not entirely. Growing up, I was an active, athletic kid. I played competitive sports, swam and spent countless hours outside. I was always a little bigger than my friends, but not enough that I felt any discomfort. I was never teased, or ridiculed. I have an amazing family, and it was never an issue. I watched my Mom and aunts try every new "fat fad" out there during the 80's and 90's. I watched and never felt any sort of connection to my own waist line.
In high school, it became a part of me. But I suspect, that it did for most teenage girls. I remember knowing I didn't quite look like all my friends. First of all, I didn't have long blond hair. I didn't go to the tanning beds (Anyone who knows me, knows that I am nearly transparent. My radiation like glow can cause small aircraft to suddenly veer off course). And I most certainly didn't go to the gym. Some of my closest friends during those days worked at a local gym, and participated in "weight loss challenges" I didn't dress like them either. I had a very unique look and style. I can see now that it was out of necessity. I wore vintage garb, bright colours and whatever made me feel comfortable. I didn't "look good" in the stuff from Le Chateau and I didn't like showing my ass crack in $100 jeans. I often looked a little androgynous, and was rumoured to be a lesbian at one time. I always had hair that was a bit cutting edge and it became "my thing."
After high school, I partied. We all did. And the weight began to creep up. I worked as a waitress, which was also a great way to get fat. I never had food at my house, I would just grab something to eat at work. Have you ever seen 6 hungover waitresses devour a plate of poutine? It makes a lion tearing apart a gazelle look PG. I drank lots of Coke (which was and is an addiction I struggle with, but that too is another post). Cocktails, beer and shots of Jagermeister were often meal replacements after a busy weekend shift. 3 am pizza orders, or McDonald were always a given, then a secondary trip a few hours later to help get over the hangover. I still didn't feel "fat". I felt good (when I wasn't sick from thinking triples for a $1 is a good idea) and I thought I looked good. I was proud of my boobs. I always had big boobs, which was a crowning achievement giving the history of my family. "A" cups were common, but by 16 I was a "D".
It was during these times that I met and fell in love with my husband. We worked together, and what began as a friendship, quickly became more. Soon, we were expecting our first baby. I will spare you all the details of that time for another day. But I can tell you that during my pregnancy, I gained a whopping 60 lbs, and topped the scale at 199 lbs. I was happy because I hadn't hit 200. When my first daughter was 6 months old, we found out we were expecting baby #2. Now, I hadn't lost nearly any of my baby weight and was sitting at 175 lbs the day I found out I was with child. By the end of pregnancy 2, I was 218 lbs.
I still didn't feel fat. I felt as though I had earned my weight carrying 2 babies. I justified it in saying I hadn't lost enough weight from one, before 2 came along. I still believed the weight would just come off on it's own.Now, this isn't to say I was in denial. I knew I was bigger, and I didn't like it. I just didn't however think the gunt was here to stay. I had hope. Foolish me!
When #2 was 6 months old or so, I took a job serving again. I made new friends, and began walking nearly every night. I was looking and feeling great. My husband and I were finally able to take our first ever vacation together. We were going to Toronto, and I was thrilled. SHOPPING! Woo Hoo! I couldn't wait to go and get all sorts of fantastic things. I busted my ass that summer and managed to lose 27 lbs, and was in a size 10/12. I had just front boob. No secondary armpit boob reaching around to the back. I was on a roll!
We had a great vacation, and upon my return to work , I was feeling wicked in my newly purchased H&M black skirt and a new white wrap shirt. It was that night my image of myself crumbled. A fellow co-worker was introducing me to a friend of hers. A young man, younger than myself, that was new to town. As my friend was doing introductions, the young man asked if I was married. I went to tell him I was indeed, and that had 2 small children. He looked me up and down once, then said "Wow! You look really good for having two kids." Now, that may not seem like an insult to anyone but me, but it struck a cord. At first I just thought what an ass. This young man must not have any idea how to behave socially. His mother must be ashamed. Then I replayed what he said over and over. Sure, there had been other times where people said things (Like...when is your baby due? I'm not preggo ASSHOLE!) but this time it hurt. I had been feeling so accomplished in my success, that I thought I did look good. Not good for having had 2 kids,but normal good. Good like the other girls I worked with. Good like the ladies in grocery store. I kept thinking "That's like telling a someone they look good for being a burn victim." or "Wow, you sure are looking good considering your horribly disfigured." Thus began the never ending battle for weight loss and that feeling. The one you get when you know you have given it your all and that no one, or any comment can take that from you.
So what is different this time you say? What makes my journey special? Why do I need this? Because, I don't want to pee my pants. You read that correctly in case you are wondering. I want to be able to sneeze without wearing a diaper.I want to laugh without needing to change my pants. I want to jump on a trampoline. No...actually that's a lie. I don't ever want to jump on a trampoline, I just want to know that if I did, I could do it without leaving a "snail trail."
I went for my dreaded yearly physical last week. The whole kit and caboodle. After I let the doctor cop a feel of my boobs, and check out my lady junk, I inquired about the surgery to repair my busted bladder. My children had wreaked havoc on it, and up until this year, I had been told to just keep doing those kegel exercises. Well, enough of that crap. Just go in and fix the damn thing already.SO we sat down and discussed the procedure. I know lots of family and other women who have had it done, and was prepared to hear it could take months to get in. But what I hadn't prepared for was the "You need to lose some weight" conversation. Now, this conversation has happened every year since I gave birth to #2. I am no stranger to the doom-agedon like "reality check" that the Dr. spews. Heart disease, diabetes, blah blah blah! Not to minimize the danger of these, but I've heard it, I get it. My Dr. treads lightly and explains that at my current weight, I could have the surgery, but if my previous weight yo-yo act is any indication, it won't be nearly as effective. With significant gain or loss, the procedure isn't as effective and would require a second, or third operation. So with the sweetest voice he can muster, he delivers the facts. I am 5'6" and weigh 221 lbs. That means I have a BMI of 35.5. According to the WHO, I am obese and by other standards, I am level 1, morbidly obese. Yup...AWESOME!
So in an attempt to stop pissing myself, I need to lose some weight. A woman of my height should weigh any where between 120- 159 lbs, depending on where you look. So I can stand to lose between 60-100 lbs. Oh crap. A daunting order indeed. I am not going to put a "goal weight" right now. That's depressing! I don't want to screw it up this time. But, I feel different about this journey. By sharing, I feel a sense of responsibility. I like thinking there are other women out there cheering me on, sharing in the same challenges. And peeing themselves in the process
Thursday 27 October 2011
The weight on my shoulders
Hey!
Another weight loss blog...yup, that's what this is. I know there are a million out there, and some better than others. Some humorous, some preachy, some down right depressing! I've been told a million times I'm funny (defense mechanism, but that's another post!) and I want to share with all the other Chubby Mammas (and maybe Chubby Papas too!) out there, the endless struggle and hilarity in this ongoing journey. I want to find a way to share stories of the things that go on. Simple as that.
But it is more than just weight loss. I am a stay at home mom, volunteer and wife. Everyday is a new journey, a gift. And sometimes those gifts are similar to bags of flaming dog poo on your door step. And other times, all I can do is stand in awe of my life.
So welcome. Welcome to my little corner (who am I kidding, 220 lbs isn't a little corner). I am not writting this to invite some sort of pity or sympathy. I am going to take a very honest approach to sharing my stories. Sometimes it can sound self depreciating or "debbie downer" ish. This is not my intention.
So come along for the ride. I promise an open insight into the life of a fat, white, nearly 30 mamma struggling to lift the weight off my shoulders. (And my ass.)
Another weight loss blog...yup, that's what this is. I know there are a million out there, and some better than others. Some humorous, some preachy, some down right depressing! I've been told a million times I'm funny (defense mechanism, but that's another post!) and I want to share with all the other Chubby Mammas (and maybe Chubby Papas too!) out there, the endless struggle and hilarity in this ongoing journey. I want to find a way to share stories of the things that go on. Simple as that.
But it is more than just weight loss. I am a stay at home mom, volunteer and wife. Everyday is a new journey, a gift. And sometimes those gifts are similar to bags of flaming dog poo on your door step. And other times, all I can do is stand in awe of my life.
So welcome. Welcome to my little corner (who am I kidding, 220 lbs isn't a little corner). I am not writting this to invite some sort of pity or sympathy. I am going to take a very honest approach to sharing my stories. Sometimes it can sound self depreciating or "debbie downer" ish. This is not my intention.
So come along for the ride. I promise an open insight into the life of a fat, white, nearly 30 mamma struggling to lift the weight off my shoulders. (And my ass.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)