Why Being Fat and Miserable keeps us Fat and Miserable

What a scary scale. Please never buy me one of these.

This was my status on Facebook this evening: "Day 1 of sugar/simple carb detox. I feel like poop. My body hates me, but it will thank me in the long run. That is all."

Yep, I'm doing a sugar cleanse. And people probably think I'm nuts. But I'm hoping this will do my body some good - and maybe take off a few pounds, too.


I have pretty good self-esteem for a fat chick. Actually, I think I have pretty good self-esteem for any chick.  This has taken a tremendous amount of work on my part to talk my psyche down from the ledge on a daily basis as it's continuously bombarded by messages telling me I shouldn't like myself very much at all.

Nothing bothers me more than when a woman is down on herself for not looking like an airbrushed, boobatronic supermodel. I want to slap her, and shake her, and tell her she's beautiful. But then I remember that slapping and shaking a woman doesn't help her self-esteem, either. Well, unless she's into that kind of thing. (And then I would charge. Hey, don't judge: inside this meek and mild exterior is an entrepreneurial spirit.)

I am fat, and generally I am okay with that. It's not that I love being overweight, it's just that the adoration I have for myself does not hang in the balance of what dress size I wear. Like most other humpty-dumpties I know, I do dream of fitting into lawn chairs more comfortably (those cheap plastic sides can really dig in - especially when one is wearing shorts), but I don't lie awake at night wondering if I'll ever be pretty. I'm already pretty, thanks. And I don't walk the streets with my head down, feeling inferior to my smaller-sized counterparts. I'm a worthy biatch who smiles wider than her hips, makes plenty of eye contact, has a firm handshake and expects the same level of respect and kindness that everyone else gets.

Okay, fine: I expect a higher level of respect and kindness because I am The Maven and thus somewhat goddess-like. But I digress. 

Nearly everyone I know is trying to lose weight, or talking about losing weight, or at the very least thinking about losing weight. And many people I know - women, especially - are doing it because they "hate" their bodies. Like, cry-in-the-bathroom-mirror-after-a-shower type of hate. This is how I used to feel not too long ago, too.  I figured that accepting myself in my current situation would mean I'd be giving in to being a chubby checker, and I would just get bigger and bigger until I had to sew tablecloths together to make summertime patio party moomoos.

But here's what I learned about trying to do something good for yourself when you're busily self-deprecating:

It. 

Doesn't. 

Work.

Here's an example of my previous way of thinking: I wake up in a good mood and have a shower. When I'm toweling off I have a quick glance in the mirror.

Disgust sets in.

Suddenly I'm thinking about how much I despise the way I look, and why can't I stop being such a slob, and look at my fat ass, and how could anyone find me attractive, and why does Tommy's mom look like she's a size 4 and yet has a fatty latte and a muffin in her hand every time I see her, and why can't I just find the time to exercise, and I suck for being this lazy, and I just totally hate myself and my stupid body and it's not fair.

And then I slap on whatever clothes will cover the parts of me I find the grossest and tell myself that'll do until I have a nice body and can buy nice clothes for it, and I sort of do my hair and I sort of do my makeup, but I don't put a lot of effort in because I'm not going to look good anyway because I'm fat. Belugas with lipstick on are still belugas, right?

By the time I arrive where I'm going, I'm not just fat. I'm fat, un-kept and have a serious case of bitch face because I'm so miserable in my own skin. I've beaten myself up enough that I've made the problem a lot worse.

And yet, in that horrible head space, I will decide I need to eat better and exercise so I can be skinny and happy (note that the two of them are synonymous at this point; more on that later). Here's a newsflash:

That doesn't fucking work, either.

The minute I try to do anything out of negativity it goes awry. If I eat a bunch of carrot sticks I just get angry that I have to eat a bunch of carrot sticks to feed my stupid, sluggish metabolism. I feel deprived. And if I exercise, all I can focus on is how my fat is all jiggly and I probably look like a total idiot in these yoga pants. And when I weigh myself and see I haven't lost, or haven't lost as much as I think I have, it completely negates all the hard work I've been doing and gives my hopes of ever being skinny and happy (See? Those two words again) the beating of a lifetime. Before long, I'm elbow deep in a bag of chips, berating myself for it the next morning, and giving up on exercise because I'm a big, huge failure.

In short, I am my own worst enemy and a self-fulfilling prophecy.

If I don't like myself then I'm not going to want to do good things for myself. Period. Why would you do something for someone you don't like? And if I try to do it for my kids, or my spouse, or whoever else it might be for, I'm going to run out of steam pretty damn quick.

I'm old hat at this. I've played the same games with myself over and over again for years: Either I "don't have time to take care of myself right now" or "I'm so ugly/fat/disgusting/whatever that I have to do something drastic RIGHT NOW." There was very little in-between in my world for many years.

One day, I woke up and I just got really tired of feeling so down all the time. I realized that it wasn't about my weight, it was about my attitude.

Like any good structure, one needs to start from the ground up. A solid foundation is crucial to any success plan. Not too long ago, I started laying that foundation for myself. I stopped doing any exercise I didn't enjoy. I stopped chastising myself for every "unhealthy" thing I put in my mouth. I picked out clothing that compliment the body shape I have today instead of waiting for that magic number on the scale or dress size that would make it okay to look fabulous. I worked hard to remind myself that I am beautiful no matter what they say. Words can't--

Oops. That last part is someone else's mantra. But suffice to say that I tell myself I'm beautiful every day. Having done it for awhile now, I'm starting to believe it. Those old messages can take years to erase, and my worry has always been that if I don't love myself today - for who I am right now - then I'm never going to love myself no matter what size I am. And I refuse to go my entire life disliking the wonderful person I am. That is a life wasted, and I simply won't do it another day.

This has taken a lot of effort and a great deal of time. I've had moments - especially PMS moments - where I feel depleted, tearful, disgusting. But like any kind of cognitive work, I'm slowly reshaping the landscape of my scary little brain; I'm teaching it to filter out all those negative media and social messages so I can focus on one thing: unconditionally loving myself.

Now that I know how much I rock, it's easier to make good choices. I don't like my body feeling sick, so I took out gluten and feel much better. A pleasant side effect is that I dropped a couple of dress sizes, have more energy, less anxiety, far better nails and skin, and my digestive system loves me again.

I didn't like my body feeling sore, so I had my incisional hernia repaired. And now that things are improving - no more hematoma, no more bleeding, staples out - I'll soon be able to exercise again. I'm looking forward to getting my body back into shape so I have more energy. And, of course, the happy side effect to that might be that I lose some weight. And that would be great, but it's no longer an absolute when it comes to feeling good about myself.

Today was my first day cutting out all refined sugar and simple carbs. Why did I decide to do this? For the same reason: health. There's a very good chance that I'll lose weight in the process, and I'm sure this pudgezilla will look ravishing with more of a waistline, but even if I don't lose a pound I'm sure I'll feel better and add years to my life. These seemingly drastic steps are so easy to do when I put myself in a place of honour and respect the hell out of me. I might even slaughter a few goats on my shrine of awesome while I'm at it (goat burgers, anyone?)

Anyway, I guess I just want to see more people think they're as great as I think I am. It's lonely up here with only a handful of celebrities and narcissists to keep me company most of the time. So do me a favour and work on loving you if you don't already, ok? You deserve it. You are deliciously gorgeous right now, just as you are. There is so much more to you than your fat genes - or fat jeans, for that matter. And if a girl like me can look in the mirror and feel great, you can, too. Please don't make me slap you.

Well, at least not until we work out a price. And I might need to go find me a leather outfit or two to really get into the roll. Mistress Maven; I kind of like the sound of that.

In Which The Maven Admits to Feeling Freaked Out

Have I ever mentioned I have an onion allergy?

Not that it's ever been confirmed by an allergist, but raw onions (not well-cooked, for some reason) make my tongue and throat go numb, and make it a little harder for me to breathe. I've been known to vomit after accidentally consuming them, too. My doctor has recommended I get tested and carry around an epi pen just in case, but I have yet to do that. You'd think I have more pressing items on my to-do list, like raising three gremlins and meeting all their medical needs. I'll get to it - eventually. Hopefully before I actually need epinephrin.

But the most interesting thing about my allergy - or sensitivity I guess, since we don't know for sure if it's an allergy - is that the smell makes me feel sick. For whatever reason, I get nauseous whenever I'm around a cut up onion. This is why we don't have onions in our house. We don't cook with them. If my husband wants his onion fix, he gets it at work - far away from yours truly. It's been like this pretty much my entire life. The smell is overpowering to my senses and my body goes into revolt. But I can live with that, because my day-to-day isn't terribly affected. 

Recently, I've started getting grossed out by the smell of bread. I've been gluten-free now for almost four months. For the first month I missed the stuff terribly. I would breathe in the delicious smell of something I could not longer taste and pathetically pretend I had just had a bite. Gluten-free bread has nothing on its wheat-filled counterpart. The vast majority of it wants to make me scrape off my taste buds. It's heavy, flavourless and dry. I've found a couple of decent recipes, but they still don't come close to a good french loaf. 

By a couple of months into this whole no-gluten thing, I started dreading going down the bread aisle at the grocery store. The sweet, yeasty smell of hundreds of loaves made me feel a bit sick. I don't like the smell anymore, but I can manage the aisle with only a slight look of disgust on my face. 

But today - oh, today - I was blown away by my body's reaction to, of all things, toast. 

I make kid sandwiches (uh, sandwiches for the kids, not made out of kids - I'm not that burned out, people) every night to pack in their lunches the next day. It's part of my Awesome Mom routine, which is to be expected from me. I've got it going on in all the right places, and stuff.

-- Oh, sorry. What were we talking about? 

Anyway, while I don't love the smell of bread these days, I can still manage to make sandwiches. I wash my hands after, throw the cutting board in the dishwasher (to avoid cross-contamination) and go on about my life. But this morning, the boys decided to switch up their breakfast menu and ask for toast - something they haven't had much of since I went gluten-free. Generally, we don't use a lot of regular bread in the house (see cross-contamination reference above), but we do have a side of the toaster dedicated to wheat bread, so I popped a couple of slices in and left the room to do my makeup.

When I came back in, Geekster was buttering their toast, and I almost hurled all over the kitchen floor. The smell - that sweet, wheaty smell I used to love more than anything - made me turn around and head to the bathroom. 

It's official: my body hates gluten. It onion hates it, even.

I didn't puke, thankfully. But I gagged. And my stomach was in knots for a good half hour after I left the house to drive the gremlins to school. And no, I'm not pregnant. If you read my posts from last week then you know it's not cyclically possible. Besides, my husband got the big V in the Summer of '08 and I am not having a torrid affair with a fertile man (or an infertile man, for the record). But if you've ever been pregnant, then you know the feeling that overcame me. It felt like morning sickness, except I was fine before and am just fine now. That one smell sent my body into chaos. 

Geekster was so concerned that he said we should stop toasting wheat bread from now on. I told him that's silly: The kids should be able to have toast, and I'm 34 for crying out loud. I can handle feeling a bit woozy sometimes. It just took me off guard today, that's all. But then again, just about everything about my body since going gluten-free has caught me off guard.

First of all, I still get the occasional flare-up. It's usually a few hours to a day after I've been to a restaurant or wasn't vigilant about washing surfaces and hands in my own kitchen. I'll start to feel run down, sick, bloated, sore, and the digestive issues will kick in. It's like a mini stomach flu or a mini food poisoning that passes in a few hours. I had one this past Friday and had to cancel my plans. I was too sick to do anything but have a hot bath and sit in my jammies with some tea. These flare ups are rare, but when they happen they yank me out of my happy place and into the pity place of "this is so unfair". I've heard they're pretty common in more sensitive gluten-intolerant/celiac people. I was just sort of hoping I was of the less sensitive variety. Dammit.

Secondly, I am losing weight. And, while I'm happy about it, I'm also a little freaked out. Anyone who's lost weight after being heavy for a long time (in my case that would be my entire adult life) knows what I'm talking about: It's fucking scary. It's exciting, but terrifying. The Fat Activists are going to hate me for this comment, but I don't know what I look like under my fat suit. My cellulite-filled self is changing by the day. The jeans I got two weeks ago are already far less snug than when I tried them on, and not because my M&Ms-filled belly is stretching them (it really is full of M&Ms of the peanut variety right now. Mmmm, candy lunch.) 

For the first time in a long while, I'm not trying to lose weight. I still eat chocolate and chips when I feel like it. I still unflinchingly put butter on my air-popped corn. I eat when I'm hungry and stop when I'm satisfied, as I always have. I do a minimal amount of exercise - nothing like I used to when I was trying to shed pounds - and yet I'm watching my waistline shrink every week. I've discovered that I do have cheekbones after all; they were just taking an extended vacation in Blubberville, USA. My chin is a little lonely now that there's only one of her, but she's seeking a bit of comfort in her long-distance relationship with this thing called a "neck" that we found hiding under my head.

In short, I have no idea who this person is that's emerging from the archeological dig that is my body's weight purge. I have no clue if she's pretty, what her bone structure is like, what size her hips will eventually be. Thankfully it's a slow process, so we're getting to know each other without a lot of pressure. I have always identified myself as overweight; it's become part of who I am. My weight, as much as I have loathed it and worried about its repercussions over time, has been a shield of comfort, of protection from the world. And now it's leaving. After all the times I tried to get rid of it, how often I cried over it, I didn't realize I might actually miss it. 

And if you didn't think I was crazy before, I've now written an entire post to convince you otherwise. The Maven has a psychosomatic gag reaction to onions and toast, and is mourning her fat.  I may be nuts enough to warrant my own psychology study. Please send money to the following address. Thank you. 

Jamie Oliver and Fat Acceptance

Celebrity chef Jamie Oliver has been getting some bad press lately and I honestly don't know why.

First of all, the fact that he's terribly adorable should earn him some points: A foul-mouthed British boy with awesome culinary skills and a love of good food, Jamie has that special something that makes you want to get busy in the kitchen.

You know, cooking. Get your mind out of the gutter!

(Well, I won't lie. I'd play "stuff the turkey" with the guy any day.)

Recently, Jamie used all his charm, influence, and serious wok skills to try and do some good in Huntington, West Virginia, which, according to the CDC, is home to the most unhealthy people in the USA. He attempted to revamp the school lunch menus, increase the use of fresh foods, and teach the town how to cook from scratch.

And what does he get for his efforts? A lot of bitching.

The internet is awash with folk who have something bad to say about the celebrity chef's efforts. There are those who think he sensationalized the town and its health concerns, those who defend the country's lunch programs, those who resent a foreigner coming into their country telling them how to eat, and those who think he's shaming fat people for their fatness.

I gotta tell you, I'm just not seeing it that way.

I've been following the Food Revolution for the last few weeks and am beyond impressed with Mr. Oliver's attempts at creating a healthier generation of people.

First of all, there is no sensationalism needed when it comes to the stats on Huntington, or most of the western world for that matter. We, in the richer countries, have access to the best food, the best medicine, and more money than people in the majority of the world could ever imagine, and yet far less healthy than we should be. Worse still, a good deal of our major killers are directly linked to poor diet and a sedentary lifestyle.

What, exactly, was sensational about Jamie Oliver's Food Revolution? All the talk about how our kids are the first generation in recorded history to likely live shorter lives than their parents? That said lives are being cut short due, in large part, to our bad choices at the grocery store? He may have shown an oversize coffin at a funeral home, but it wasn't a prop to attract ratings. He was simply making a very serious point: It's time to step out of this sea of denial we've all been living in and make some positive changes.

According to reports, some of Jamie's lunches on the new menu don't meet US federal requirements. That's because, as far as I can tell, the federal requirements are laughable. When a government considers french fries to be a vegetable, their program becomes a rather unfunny joke. That's like saying gummies that say 'contain fruit juice' on the box count as a fruit serving. (Sadly, I know that somewhere out there, someone is reading this and thinking 'well, don't they?' and I want to swat that person with something - maybe a cookbook)

Look, processed foods are bad for us. I'm not saying we should never eat them, although that would probably be ideal. I'm no biologist, but from what I understand, the more additives, preservatives and artificial everythings we put into our stomachs in the name of convenience, the more work our liver has to do to process it, the more confusion our body has over how to handle the "food" we just gave it, and the more health problems we can potentially create.

And what is one of the major symptoms of being nutritionally unhealthy? Being overweight. Sorry, but that's the truth.

I roll my eyes at all the declarations of "fat shaming" Jamie and the producers supposedly did during the six part series. I say this as a beautiful, intelligent, proud woman who just happens to be fat. I'm not ashamed of my body, I don't hate myself, I don't cry in front of the mirror. Do I want to lose weight? Only if it comes naturally by making good choices in my life. I no longer diet, I no longer exercise to the point of exhaustion in the name of the almighty calorie burn. I don't feel less than people who are thinner than I am, nor do I chastise myself for eating chocolate or chips or even french fries - now my new favourite vegetable.

But I'd be lying if I said I didn't worry about what this extra weight is doing to my heart, my pancreas, my blood vessels. But instead of hating myself and worrying myself sick, I've spent several years learning to love and accept myself for who I am at this moment, in this, my only body. Funny thing is, the more I love myself, the better I want to take care of myself. And maybe that's why I'm so open to the concept of this series.

I have seen fat shaming. I cringe when I hear a fat joke - and that's quite often, as they're so prominent in today's society. I shudder when I see a fat person who obviously loathes their body. I think it's wrong and hurtful to put someone down for how they look.

However, I do not think it's wrong to point out that obesity often precedes a higher incidence of preventable health problems. We need to cut through the political correctness bullshit and look at the facts. Jamie Oliver isn't against fat people, he's simply against ignorance.

And believe me: thinking it's okay to serve pizza and sugary milk as a school breakfast is ignorant.

From what I've seen, the show aims to educate a population that has lost its way. Because, let's face it, America, when it comes to food, you have definitely lost your way. But you're not alone. Many a wealthy nation has forgotten how to care for itself in the name of time-saving and cost-reduction. We get lazy; we get complacent; we forget how to do basic things for ourselves, like cooking.

When I saw the show, I didn't look down at my fat rolls and cry. I didn't feel like anyone was judging me or the town of Huntington. I didn't want to chain myself to the local Weight Watchers building so someone could teach me how to eat myself skinny.

What I did feel was relieved that someone would have the guts to go into the most powerful country in the world and speak the truth: Your children are getting sick. You need to change the way you eat. You need to cook with wholesome foods so that you can live longer, healthier lives and keep your spot as the nation to watch. Because right now, you're heading down a very dark path. Your people are dying too soon.

Now is the time to step up your game, America.

(And he did the same thing in his own country the year before, so there's no need to feel singled out, Americans. Like I said, you're not the only ones lost down that dark path.)

What I also felt was inspired. An urge rose in me to clear the counter and start whipping up meals made from whole foods again. Like many other families, we've become the victims of an overwhelmed life: packed schedules, fighting children, bills piling up. Sometimes, the last thing on my mind is mustering up enough time and energy to cook a decent meal.

The last few weeks, I've been making cooking more of a priority. Is it pricier to buy whole foods? Yes, it is. Is it more expensive to pay the price for not doing it? Absolutely. Time off work or school, medical and dental bills, the cost of losing out on life due to illness -- all those things are expensive in their own way, too.

Do I think poverty is an issue holding back a full scale food revolution? Definitely. But then again, there are kids in some of the poorest countries eating far more nutrient-rich food than many kids in western societies. They might eat less of it, but then again, we could probably stand to eat less, too. And since the typical household discards about 30% of the food they buy, maybe we could stretch the budget by choosing quality over quantity more often.

Jamie Oliver doesn't have all the answers and neither do I. But at least he's doing something to break people out of an unhealthy reality. There is a different way to eat, to cook, to live. And this fat chick wholeheartedly supports it.

But hey, what do I know? I'm just a Canadian.

My Late Night Pharmacy 'Aha!' Moment

Yesterday was not only Geekster's birthday, but the day I got a wicked migraine that wouldn't go away. It started just after lunch and carried through until this morning. It was annoying and intrusive upon my day, much like the summer those Jehovah's Witnesses kept coming by with pamphlets during nap time.

Mr. Migraine lingered through my mandatory last-minute dash to the grocery store, the nearly catastrophic layered cake experiment, my thirty minute workout, and homemade pizza-making. He stuck around and poked at the left side of my head when we sang happy birthday to my darling husband, when we cut the cake, when I cleared the dishes. He throbbed at my temple during Obama's State of the Union address, and throbbed even more as I snorted with laughter at the Republican's Response ("Best healthcare system in the world"? Can Republicans read? Ever see the multitude of studies done on US health care cost and overall life expectancy?)

Finally, around 10:30, I just couldn't take it anymore. I had tried Advil twice during the day and it had done absolutely nothing to stop the pounding bass drum in my forehead. I peeled myself off the couch and made my way to the 24hr pharmacy, hoping something a wee bit stronger would kick the it for good.

I asked to see the pharmacist, and started describing the pain. I told him what I had taken, and that it hadn't worked like it usually does. 'Is there something stronger I could take?' I asked, rubbing my head.

It was then I realized where I was: an urban pharmacy in the middle of the night, asking about stronger painkillers. I wondered if I looked like those pill-popping housewives Oprah has on every other month. Maybe if I twitched a little and got a desperate look in my eye, I could really freak some people out...

At thirty-three, I still like to rebel a little.

Disappointingly, I don't behave enough like a junkie to get any kind of uncomfortable look from a pharmacist. He asked me to describe the pain, so I did. When I told him it hurts more when I'm up and doing things, he asked me if I had recently checked my blood pressure.

Well, no, obviously. Because denial is pretty awesome and I liked it there. Why burst my bubble? He pointed me to the blood pressure machine. I took it three times, and the last and lowest reading I got was 141/85.

Not good.

For those readers who are not familiar with blood pressure, that was a really shitty score. It's not a 'run, sobbing, to your nearest heart clinic' score, or a 'time to find a pig with a strong ticker and hope you have the same blood type' score, but it's not exactly great, either. It means my blood pressure is too high, and bad things could eventually happen.

Now, Denial Maven would like to point out the following:

- It had been a busy day
- I was stressed out
- I was in pain
- It was late at night, and I was tired
- Pharmacy blood pressure equipment can be flaky

Thank you, Denial Maven. Now kindly shut up, and let's talk to Realistic Maven. She doesn't come out to play very often, but we still need to include her in the group, ok?

Denial Maven says:

- I am obese
- I am stressed far too often, and stress kills
- This is a wake-up call

It's funny, because I've sort of come full-circle: First, I hated my body because I'm fat. Then, I accepted it for what it is. Next, I began to love it as much as I love other aspects of myself (which is a lot, in case you hadn't noticed). Now, I love myself enough to want to get healthier. I can accept my body, but I can't accept my blood pressure, because that can- and likely will - cause major damage to the body I now love.

The simple fact is that being this overweight is not good for my health. On top of that, the amount of stress I've been under isn't helping, either. it's time for some big lifestyle changes: more exercise, better food, more relaxation techniques, more time for play. I owe it to myself, my kids, my spouse, and of course my countless minions who rely on me to brighten their days with my blog posts. The blood pressure readings I took last night worried me. I've known for a while that I'm heading down a scary path if I don't make some significant changes.

It's time.

Wow. The determination in that last sentence was so badass! I'm going to try it again, but with more emphasis on the last word:

It's time.

I just got all tingly. I might have just turned myself on.

For his birthday - the sixteenth we've celebrated as a couple - my husband got a homemade cake, homemade pizza, and a pretty decent gift he'd been eying for a while. On his next birthday, I hope he has a wife who is a lot healthier. He loves me, and I know wants me to stick around for a while. Not only do I put out, but I make great pizza crust.

Being The Fat Friend

I wanted to thank everyone for the overwhelming response to my last post. I would thank each and every one of you individually, but I'm too lazy. It's summer, it's raining, I have my period and I'd rather write something new with what little energy I have on seven hours of very, very broken sleep. I'm sure you understand.

I will say that Gutsy and I are starting to get along significantly better the last few days. I haven't finished reading the book yet, but I have come up with two techniques that really seem to help: keeping my cool even when he's not, and defusing the situation by making him laugh. This creativity is another shining example of what makes me so great.

My awesomeness: it's visible nearly everywhere you look.

Notice I said 'nearly'. That's my lead-in to today's topic (writers like lead-ins).

I've come to the conclusion that I may very well always be The Fat Friend, or some variation thereof. It seems that, no matter what group I'm with, I'm the heaviest of the bunch. I forget that fact sometimes because I like myself so much that it's easy for me to overlook the lack of skinny in my jeans. I only tend to really notice it when pictures of me emerge that are not cropped at the neck. These sometimes make me sad for a few hours. If I were a queen, I would simply order a ban of all such pictures and demand that those in existence be burned in the town square. Then I would do some random flogging, but only because I like the word 'flog' and also enjoy abusing power.

But I digress.

I'm not a self-hater. I'm really not. There are aspects of me I don't enjoy - like my genetics - but I actually think I'm pretty great overall. About the only time I start to question myself is when I'm around a group of women who are significantly smaller than I am and go on and on about how fat they are (and they're not fat - not even close - which is so infuriating). It's apparent that, if they were my size, they would carve the fat off their bodies with a kitchen knife before going out in public. That type of poor body image is contagious, and so I attempt to fill my friend basket at least 75% full of women who care about their health but not necessarily the number on their scales (these friends tend to have the least amount of weight problems - imagine that!) Those women don't see my weight and don't really care too much about theirs; they take notice of how their pants are fitting, try to eat reasonably healthy and get a bit of exercise, but that's where it ends. That's where I want to be: healthy, but not obsessive. I admire that trait and I think I'm nearly there.

Being The Fat Friend is also hard when you happen to surround yourself with very beautiful people, like I do. I don't purposely invite them into my circle, but rather they flock to me like moths to a flame; a chubby little flame that bounces light off their elegant wings.

I know my friends like me because I'm cool and funny and talented and positive and terribly smart. But I also wonder if I'm more approachable because I'm not a threat to anyone's ego. I mean, who's going to look better in a summer dress? There's so little competition. Heck, I don't even own a summer dress. I haven't had one since I was about sixteen. That's over half a lifetime ago.

It's not like I'm feeling sorry for myself or anything. I have been gifted with many great things in my life; addictions and cellulite balance me out nicely. I can't be too perfect or no one would hang out with me, right? That's why I have to keep this jogging thing to a moderate level and not go all crazy with the weight loss. If I hit Skinnyville I've gone too far, and my Facebook event invites will drop dramatically. By maintaining a certain level of pudge on my frame I pretty much ensure my continued success as a popular girl.

As with everything else in life, fat is what you make of it. If I can take enough off that my heart will want to keep beating for another 50 years, yet not take enough off that I get snubbed at the park for having great legs and great hair (there's a fine line between admiration and jealousy, ladies), that would be perfect.

But in all seriousness, I'm likely never going to be a very small person. I just don't care enough about what other people think and I like food too much not to eat it, or to barf it up afterwards. If I hover in the early teens in dress sizes that will be perfectly acceptable. As it is, I've lost a full size in my first few weeks of running, and it feels damn good. I'm still The Fat Friend, but I may put in for a name change so I can be known as the Slightly Less Obese Friend. With any luck I'll be The Borderline Healthy Weight Friend in a few months. I don't care to be much more than that, as I can still enjoy pastry and whole fat lattes without worrying about gaining 8 pounds in a sitting.

And, if I ever have a Fat Friend of my very own, I'm going to take her out shopping for a stunning summer dress so she can feel like she's rockin' the park instead of hiding her blindingly white legs in those capris. Maybe I'll get one of my own little dresses then, too.