Friday, May 06, 2005

The Fat Girl

Men. Security. Sex. Money. Babies.
Our obsessions. Each us of has one. That thing that invades our minds at any given moment of the day. A temptation far greater than even Diane Lane felt in "Unfaithful." The other man. Or woman. Whichever you prefer.My own affair is with food. This love/hate relationship has existed as far as I can remember. It has seen me through heartache, celebration, boredom and intoxication. It has nurished my body and corrupted my mind. Food is my passion and my enemy. Taunting me through the day until I finally give in to my desire.

Food is almost better than sex. Almost. Okay, food is almost better than Good sex. It is definitely better than mediocre-but-he-almost-got-me-there sex. And, frankly, I would rather patron a fabulous restaurant than lay in missionary, refusing to fake it, for the entire 10 seconds of bad sex. Give me a loaf of fresh baked bread and a vibrator, thank you, good night, get out.

I diet all the time. Avoiding foods I love like I avoid 465 during rush hour. I paw through menus during my free time, thinking about what I would order, "if I was eating that." I take at least 20 minutes to order at dinner, making sure I have read every item and every discription- I don't want to make a mistake. Don't want to waste my eating on something that is sub par.

In my dieting and obsessing, I fall short of perfection 90% of the time. It's like going out drinking with the "but he's just a friend now" friend. No matter how hard you might try to avoid the inevitable- it happens. A few drinks and laughs and then somehow it becomes a good idea to go back to his place for another glass of wine. Or, in my case, an order of BW3 chicken wings.

When alcohol enters the mix, all rules are off. Foods that are truly not appealing suddenly become decadent. A turkey sandwich becomes heaven and don't get my started on a bowl of Lucky Charms. I have beer goggles for food. All the while knowing that "I will be better tomorrow." Tomorrow is hungover and therefore, deserving of a McDonalds bacon, egg and cheese biscuit and damn did they forget my hashbrown?! Suddenly my jeans are tighter, my stomach loose instead of tone and my face has a disgusting fullness to it. And I remember that I, like an alcoholic to alcohol, have to learn to avoid food or else I turn into... the fat girl.

The fat girl is who I am inside. Like Princess Fiona in Shrek, I harbor an ugliness inside of me, all decked out in flab and fat and extra Ranch dressing please. The fat girl is always there to remind me that one more fry could mean a trip to Lane Bryant. And although I have grown into a slim woman, the fat girl is the real me.

Please spare me all of your "but that's not what you are now"s. The truth is the truth. Although I might appear slim on the outside, isn't it what's on the inside that counts? Or does this phrase only apply to homely girls who's mothers are trying to make them feel better? Sort of like all the "what's meant to happen will happen"s, but don't get my started on those.

I will always be the fat girl. I have spent all my life trying to rid myself of her, trying to be skinny and stuff her back down in her bowl of ice cream (with extra whipped cream). But I am the fat girl. She is where I get my humor. She is from where I draw my compassion. She is the voice inside me that makes me stand up for the underdog. The other fat kids.

No matter how I look on the outside, the fat girl will always be a part of my life. And try as I might to keep her from rearing her chubby face again, I don't know that I can forever keep her away from her true love: food. And that has to be okay, because it's the way it is. But for now I think I will end this article with that.

Besides, it's almost lunch time.
posted by Kellie @ 11:00 AM |

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