It’s alarming to feel a little bulge here and there, to have a little more difficulty pulling up the jeans and fitting in that outfit. Still, you can delude yourself into thinking you aren’t gaining THAT MUCH. You can hide behind the seemingly careless, “Who cares?” facade. You can convince yourself you’re still okay despite all the alarms going off. You can even tilt to the left or right (whichever angle works for you) when a picture’s being taken, just so the painfully truthful image isn’t as round, plump and fat as you fear it to be.

Oh yes, don’t we all fall into the miserable trap of getting way too lax? But when a chance “weigh in” presents you with the ugly truth, you die and realize “I gained the equivalent weight of 2 overweight babies.”

So yes, I  believe I’ve gotten fat.  Scrap that. I  have gotten fat. And I’m no longer sugarcoating or opting for the more politically correct term.

Let the sharpness of my tongue cut the fat out.

It needs to. Or else, let me plunge into further self pity. For those who think this to be too shallow a concern, I don’t care. Maybe it is. Maybe I’m hyperventilating. But after being born fat, growing up fat, being called fat, yoyo-ing and still being fat, quitting ballet because the teacher tells you you’re too fat,  feeling unwanted and unattractive to boys because of the fat,  losing weight, gaining a little confidence only to gain back all the fat, falling for an asshole who calls you fat, weighing yourself for the first time in years and realizing “Holy F-ing Shit, I’m back to being fat.”, it becomes but natural for you and your sponge of a brain to think nothing except. “I’m fat. FAT.”

The brain can only take so much delusional thinking. So can the body. It can only take so much procrastinating and then it morphs itself into a chunk of fat, into granny arms and thunder thighs.

While it’s deemed second nature for girls to worry and whine about weight ALL THE TIME (to the utter disdain of the boy who falls victim to the tantrum), I can’t help but be mortified at the prospect of losing weight. Why? Because of the immense pressure of keeping it and the possibility of disappointing myself if I don’t. And while I’m all for the dawn of a new era, which prides itself in more healthy alternatives and better self-image, I am still desperately frustrated with myself, ashamed that I didn’t see it coming and vicious as this sounds, willing to kill for as long as I lose the weight and gain the confidence back.

I foreshadow an influx of opinions dissuading me from my possibly intense fat camp/starvation project. Then again, the scales don’t lie. And once you start tipping them, it isn’t as easy to believe others when they try to convince you that you’re slim.

So to the daily dose of chocolate, the all too “occasional indulgence” of  the cupcake, donut, brownie, ice cream, bag of chips, happy meal, and everything else, here’s me signing off. I hate you. Goodbye.