Tag: fatty

WTF Wednesdays #16

I have at least three posts sitting in my drafts folder just waiting to be finished. My excuse for not having a polished piece this week is that I’m a teacher and it’s the last week of school.
I’m just feeling lucky that my brain hasn’t melted.
Yesterday was spent out in the sun all day for Field Day. I could barely even.
I silently mouth or say outright, “WTF?!” at least 20 times a day in response to a wide assortment of inconveniences, ridiculous happenstances, strange personal choices, and annoyances. 
It’s basically my go-to response, because I’m a lady like that. 
So, for this week’s installment of #WTFW, I am sharing some WTFs with you. Ready or not, here they come! 
1. How is it that one minute I’m watching a video on how to make strawberry cheesecake macarons, and then, somehow, it’s three hours later and I’m in deep, searching through a rando’s Facebook pictures of their dog? Or, why is it I spend an ungodly amount of time scrolling the comment section of a video on how to fold a shirt? Why do I waste my time like this? I think I need therapy. 
2. When, after walking precisely 20 miles round trip to the work room, staff lounge, admin’s office, back to the work room for the tape I forgot, and back to my classroom, I realize my Fitbit is still charging on my computer. None of those steps counted. Might as well just go home and go to bed. The day is a wash. FML.
3. When one second I am peacefully, albeit horribly, singing to my latest favorite tune in the car, and the next, I am screaming obscenities, that would make a sailor blush, at the idiot who is driving 30 miles an hour on the FUCKING FREEWAY. 
Check out this video on YouTube:

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This is 1,000% me. 
4. Sometimes I start my makeup on the opposite side of my face that I always start with, and I wonder if I’ve somehow entered a parallel universe. Or, I worry I’m losing my mind, because what kind of routine-driven person does that kind of thing?
5. Sometimes (always) I ask my boyfriend really ridiculous, inane questions that, most likely, make him question his undying love for me and are, 100%, why he has more gray hairs and some new wrinkles. I’ve personally aged the poor man. Some examples would be:
“Did you wash your hands?”
“Do you think it’s safe to eat this salami I left in my bag all day?”
“Did you lock the doors (for the 8,563rd time)?”
“Can you smell my breath from over there?”
“Do you think anyone at Panda Express will notice I’m not wearing a bra?”
“What do you think it means when someone’s pee is green? Asking for a friend.”
And, his absolute favorite: “Can you hold my purse while I use the restroom?”
 I don’t know why I’m crazy, I just am.  

6. When I buy my Friday Treat Donut at Starbucks (for $2, might I add) and there are freaking free donuts in the staff lounge. Fatty don’t play. WTF! 


7. This:

So, tell me: What makes you go “WTF”? I need some humor to get me through this last week, people! 

Weight Loss and Body Positivity

I decided to repost this for #fbf, because it’s still relevant, and I’m finally advocating for my health. Yup, I’m finally getting serious about losing some extra weight. What are your views on body positivity? Let me know in the comments. 
I have changed my view so many times on the topic of body positivity in relation to weight loss. I started out thinking body positivity was just another excuse for attention (the very existence of millions of Instagram accounts created for the sole purpose of the vapid need for praise and acceptance from strangers is just one tiny piece of evidence) and just one of the many ways people make it all about looks and appearance. Yes, I really felt this way (and if I am being honest, still feel this way about selfies and Instagram accounts filled to the brim with egocentric pictures). I also had a hard time watching people promote being unhealthy. Then, I changed my tune after learning more about the meaning behind body positivity. After this, I started to believe that being overweight doesn’t always mean being unhealthy. Thus, began my intense eating-everything-streak, simply in the name of being big and beautiful.
Continue reading “Weight Loss and Body Positivity”

Flashback Friday: Seven Minutes in Heaven-Help-Me

Image courtesy of Popsugar Fitness
 
I am, quite possibly, the laziest, weakest bish on this planet. You think you might be the crowning winner of this coveted title? Just wait, you will be voting for this fatty real soon. 
I was sitting at a work training a few weeks ago. As usual, I was eavesdropping. Two super fit women were discussing this free app that follows you through a seven minute workout. Seven minutes. 
Gurrrrrl, that’s so my kind of workout. Forget those hour long, sweat and puke sessions at the yoga studio. Forget the bike rides around the block that take me the rest of the night to recover from. Forget spending my hard-earned Netflix and chill with Ben & Jerry time on being uncomfortable and sweaty. Eff.that.noise. 
So, obviously I downloaded the app and gave it a whirl. 
I imagined myself looking exactly like the fit chick in the video, because in seven minutes I can do anything. 
Anything. 
Actually, seven minutes is a long time. I can’t do anything in seven minutes. 
Well, I did something, but it looked nothing like the stupidly svelte girl in the video. I didn’t look a thing like the girl who didn’t even break a sweat. The girl who doesn’t even need to do seven fucking minutes of fitness. 
This was the breakdown of my seven minutes of shame:
Oh, this is easy!! I can do a million of these over-the-head-body-ball-things.
I can feel my abs growing stronger and stronger. Also, my arms are stupid strong. 
Actually, my arms are limp noodles and I don’t like this. 
My arms are going to fall off and I’m going to die. 
*looks at app timer on phone*
No effing way it’s only been 45 seconds. 
Hold up. 
My timer has to be glitching. *spends 30 seconds checking*
Oh, phew! The next exercise. Thank God. I almost puked. 
Um, I can’t balance on a ball on my side and lift my leg. Like, that’s humanly impossible. 
*awkwardly spends entire time devoted to ball balance exercise trying to get on ball*
What a friggin joke. I’d like to see anyone but Extreme Exercise Girl balance on a ball like that. 
Oooh, a lay down one! I totally rock the socks off lay-down-fitness. 
Ow. These hurt my virgin tailbone. 3 is good. 
Yussss! Another lay down one and all I have to do is lift my legs into the air as I hold myself up, balancing my gut on the ball. 
Simple. 
Not simple. 
OK. That was a barf burp. 
Gross. 
I’m feeling insanely sweaty. I’m gonna skip the push ups to take off my bra. I don’t want to sweat in my bra. I just washed it two months ago. 
*exerts more energy in taking off sweaty bra than in the entire workout*
I’m feeling much better. That break gave me the oomph I needed to get me through. 
I bet I only have a minute or two left. I can do this and finish strong! 
*glances at phone*
It’s been three fucking minutes???? 
I think I’ve given this all I’ve got. Besides, I’ve worked so hard, I’m literally seeing stars. 
I bet it’s not medically safe for me to workout.
Well, I think I’m done. Seven minutes is the maximum amount, and it takes time to get to that level of endurance. 
Exactly. 
I’ll get there eventually. 
Guys, I half-assed my way through three minutes of a seven minute workout. 
I couldn’t even make it through seven minutes of physical activity.
I’m a lost cause. 
Seven minutes of exercise can suck it when there can be s’mores instead (Don’t even start with your, “But, you can have both” BS. Shhh. Let people enjoy things).

The biggest bold-face lie I’ve ever told. My favorite is when I wear this shirt to Cold Stone.





Flashback Friday: Whip My Ass Ass

Just today, I thought I’d finally join in on my student’s Just Dance brain break video. They always ask if I’ll dance with them, but I just say, “Oh, I don’t want to scare you.” That seems to make them stop asking, so I can continue to sit like a fat lump, wondering where my childhood energy and zest for sudden movements went to. I don’t know what came over me today, but I wanted to Kung Foo Fight like funky Billy Chin for some reason. 
Well…
It was a terrible idea. When I started “swinging with the hand”, I knocked over a stand, my coffee, and stumbled into the map on the wall, which made it roll up with a deafening, thunderous roar. 
All of my students stopped dead in their ninja tracks. 
Their eyes said it all: My teacher is so not cool.
This is why trying to find my non-existent moves is best when behind closed doors. 
I’m just so glad I didn’t let anyone talk me into joining the teacher talent show group. 
*shudders*
Behold, my last attempt at Just Dance:
So, my boyfriend has been going to personal training kickboxing three times a week (he’ll probably look like a white, mustachioed Oscar de la Hoya in a month-f*%#ing men), and while he’s gone, I hork out on junk and watch Netflix. 
It occurred to me that it’s not really in my best interest to get even fatter while my boyfriend beefs up. It’s one thing if you’re polishing off a package of Oreos, together, in stained, oversized t-shirts, in front of American Horror Story, and a whole other nasty animal to glutton alone, while the other is being punched in the stomach by an MMA fighter. It’s kinda not fair. 
So, I thought- what better time to drag out my dusty yoga mat and bust out a couple sloth-like moves. 
Side note- anyone remember the reason I started this blog-the yoga journey I kicked off like a bat out of hell? Or, more like a fat girl with no real idea that it would require an immense amount of effort I wasn’t ready to give? Yeah…that’s not embarrassing or anything. 
So, my yoga mat wasn’t just dusty from little use, it literally was crusty-hard from old sweat from my last yoga session, 45 years ago. It actually almost cracked in two. 
Well, I promptly threw it back into the closet and about gave up, until I remembered that I’ve always meant to be a breakout dance star, a la Flashdance (or more realistically, MTV’s Made). So, what better idea than to Whip/Nae Nae my way to fitness?
I don’t really have anything to say about my solo dance party, other than if you’re going to sweat it out to Just Dance, and you have as much rhythm as a flag pole, close your blinds, your curtains, and turn your lights off. Ain’t no one ready to see what you think is “dancing”. 
My Whip Nae/Nae looked more like “Quick/Call 911/I Have Whip Lash. 
FYI: flexibility is a prerequisite to whipping your whatever. 
I fear I’ll never be able to turn my head, freely, to the right again. 
This is why eating the rest of my Mom’s cream cheese pumpkin bars was a better idea. 
It’s like I never learn. 


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Flashback Friday: Be Cool, Alright?

I’m re-blogging this post for #fbf, because I almost wrecked my diet the other day with Boston Market Cinnamon Apples and mashed potatoes. Like, it was so.close. Too close. As in, I circled the whole of Boston Market five times, drooling, staring, frothing at the mouth. I can never be seen there again. So, I’ll just live vicariously through my past foodscapades. Is it bad that this post doesn’t make me feel shameful, but hungry for macaroni and cheese, and nostalgic for my bacon grease sweats? 
Dear Boston Market Yeller, 
My boyfriend and I visited your establishment this past Saturday, around 6:00 PM. You greeted us by yelling, “Welcome to Boston Market. What can I help you with?” from behind the counter, at least 15 feet away, before we were even in the door. While the gesture was, thoughtful, semi-courteous, it was a little overwhelming, as every single individual in the restaurant turned to watch us come in. I’m sure realizing it wasn’t the Queen of England entering, but a couple in their fat pants, was quite disappointing. Had I known I would have been welcomed so warmly, I would have worn a more supportive bra and my fancy sweats, the ones without paint and bacon grease stains. 
I want to say I appreciate your tenacity, but it just came off as abrasive. My boyfriend and I ordered the meal for 3, and we really didn’t appreciate your need to repeat this fact no less than 10 times to your coworkers and what appeared to be the lady behind us. Yes, we were two people ordering the meal designed for three people. We had on elastic pants, was that not evidence enough that we were planning on eating heartily? Also, I would like to point out that it was highly probable that we had an adult or two waiting at home. We could have been being thrifty and mindful of our diets. This could have easily been the case. It wasn’t, but it could have been. 
Furthermore, we were taken aback by your method of checking customers out. Instead of doing it yourself, you yelled our order, repeatedly, across the entire kitchen to the young man, who must have been hard of hearing, because Sparks heard what we had for dinner, while he didn’t. After the 3rd time this young man had to ask you to repeat yourself, perhaps it was time to just take over. I’m so glad that our choices, the most fattening sides possible, were repeated for all to hear. Just for future reference, when two people come in, in oversized sweatshirts and they don’t take off their sunglasses, they would like their poor life choices kept between you and them, not shared with the entire restaurant. 
I am only writing this letter to you because you have potential. The passion you have for your product is evident, but I would suggest you work on your voice level and tact. You have zero tact. None. I would like to assume that most people visiting a Boston Market have serious plans of wrecking their diets. These people are already low, don’t assist them with their impending demise. Do you want to be an accessory for death by cookie dough? I don’t think so. Just be cool, alright? Sheesh. 
Signed, 
The Couple Who Bought a Meal For Three, and Ate It ALLLLLL 
***As an aside…
If hearing…
“Mashed with gravy, Mac and cheese, and cinnamon apples for THREE!”
“How many?” 
“THREE!”
“You said, mashed, apples, and spinach?” 
“NO, mashed potatoes, gravy, MACARONI AND CHEESE, and cinnamon apples!” 
“OK, I think I got it. And that was the meal for three?”
“YES, the meal for three”
….doesn’t make you want to reevaluate your life, I don’t know what will. It’s time for a change. My “last resort” pants are tight and I’m certain my fat is trying to suffocate me in my sleep. Help. 

Cup O' Crack 

For this week’s #fbf, I decided to re-post my Cup O’ Crack craziness. Currently, I’m on spring break and steadily eating my way to This-Isn’t-Even-Funny-Anymore-Get-a-Grip town. On my way home from brunch yesterday, I almost stopped at the store to get the ingredients for Cup O’ Crack. Thinking it wasn’t wise to have more than one serving of Cup O’ Crack in the house, I got a king-sized Reese’s and a bag of BBQ sunflower seeds. When I got home, I ate my loot, fell asleep on the couch, and woke up an hour later to sunflower seed shells everywhere. EVERYWHERE. I can’t even right now. So, how about I just wrap this up and get on with it…
When I’m stressed, worried, tired, happy, celebrating, mourning, or basically, whenever I’m breathing, I eat. I eat in a big way. I’m not proud of this, but it is what it is. Until I figure out how to separate my emotions from food, I’ll continue digging into a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Peanut Buttah Core after a shitty day.
Sidebar: If you like peanut butter, you must go, right now, and buy this. I’m not shitting you. Slap on your wrinkly jeans, get your coat, car keys, and get your ass to 7-11. It’s that good.
So, I’ve recently taken to enjoying nightly, almost-instant microwaved marshmallow heaven, and its mind blowing. 
Let me tell you just how fucking fat I am.
Are you ready?
OK, I pour enough mini marshmallows to fill a large mug about halfway. Then, I get my Chex Mix ready (I’ve thought about using something far tastier, like Fruity Pebbles, but those would most assuredly send me into a diabetic coma. So, I go with the healthier, smarter, er…least ridiculous option of plain corn cereal).
Pro tip: Only microwave the marshmallows for about 30 seconds. Any more than that and you will have a sticky, gooey explosion of epic proportions. Then, your boyfriend will attempt to microwave his leftovers and there will be an altercation. Apparently, marshmallow and spaghetti don’t pair well.
Once the sweet, sugary, pillowy clouds of fluff are nicely melted, I pour in about a 1/2 cup of Chex Mix and mix carefully. Gotta get those little tasteless shits covered in goodness.
Then, I eat that shit.
It’s sticky, sweet, crunchy, warm, satisfying. It satiates Martha*.
Oh, didn’t I tell you I’ve named my stomach fat? Her name is Martha. The fucking bitch.
When I’m eating this Cup O’ Crack, I’m in another world. I’m riding technicolor stripper boot-wearing unicorns. The sky is dotted with cupcake clouds and cotton candy snow floats down around me.
No, that’s crazy.
I’m actually sitting on the couch in my stretched out skull-print pajama pants, watching Drop Dead Diva, with marshmallow strings hanging from my chin.
Such a glamorous life I lead.
Jealous?

I wasn’t even playing. THIS is Cup O’ Crack!

*Apparently, my fat used to be called Martha. I must have forgotten I’d already named her. Eh. Martha…Bertha…pretty much the same name.

In Case There Was Any Question…


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I don’t know about you, but I sped right on out of 2016 in my cupcake delivery truck from Glutton hell, high on rocky road fudge and bleu cheese biscuits and crashed right into 2017 in a carb-induced coma, complete with egg nog dried into the corners of my mouth.
Whew. What a ride.
I spent most of my winter break carb-loading and comatose, covered in powdered sugar, next to an empty cookie tin. Cookie Monster doesn’t have shit on me. 
The result? 
Other than a blotchy, puffy face, I really couldn’t tell.
Thanks to my latest obsession of wearing leggings literally everyday, I never had to have the usual after-the-Holidays-can’t-fit-into-my-pants-crying-fit. 
My boyfriend would like to say that he’s eternally grateful to LuLaRoe and their leggings that keep his fat girlfriend half sane. 

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And, because I’d rather just not know, I don’t weigh myself. Even when I go to the doctor, I say, “Don’t tell me!”, as I anxiously get on the scale. I think they have, “Doesn’t want to know the extent of her fatness” written on my chart, because I don’t usually have to remind them. 
Normally, the way I can tell that I’ve overdone it and thus gained some weight is that some of my fat comes back up when I bend over to tie my shoes. 
Gross, I know. 
I’m just being honest. 
Because I’ve been the height of laziness over the last few weeks, I haven’t even put on real shoes. 
So, all of this to say- I couldn’t tell how much holiday weight I had gained. 
It was actually really refreshing at first to live blindly unaware of how much more stress I was putting on my overworked couch. 
I felt lighter, with each step to the refrigerator, thinking the damage couldn’t be that catastrophic.
However, behind my new lighthearted, unaware approach to my fatness was a nagging feeling that something would show me the truth. 
I figured my new leggings would finally give in to the pressure and the seams would come undone.
Or, while leaning on the door of the refrigerator, the whole thing would come crashing forward with the weight of my shitty food choices and my massive body. 
But…
No signs. Nothing.
That is, until I went to the bathroom at the salon where my masseuse rents a massage room. 
I was just sitting there, like any other normal person, doing their business. I was probably noticing the appalling state of my holey underwear or picking at my cuticles. 
Until.
Until I looked up and into the mirror directly in front of me. 
How I didn’t die of shock right then and there is a profound mystery to me. 
If at any point you feel the need to be slapped in the face with the reality of your fatness, just sit on a toilet in front of a fucking mirror.
After that terrible shock to my heart, it’s been green beans and chicken broth every day.
No, I’m lying. 
After my massage, I went straight to the store and bought a 12 pack of cupcakes and drowned my sorrow in frosting. 
Here’s my Yelp review of the salon and their asshole mirror:

So, in case any of you really need to know how far your weight gain has gotten out of control, or you’re a masochist, just get naked and sit down on a toilet in front of a full length mirror. 
#dead 💀
I’d like to thank one of my Facebook friends, followers, and old high school classmate for giving me the idea to turn my Yelp review into a blog post. Thanks, girl! 

A Fatty's Dream-LuLaRoe

You guys! Have ya’ll heard of LuLaRoe yet? If not, you’re super late to the Fatty Pants Party! 
I am not crazy, therefore, I do not sell LuLaRoe (I personally know almost all of the consultants I buy from, and they are all lovely ladies. They are not really crazy at all, other than the fact that they actively choose to sell clothes to cerifiably crazy women, i.e., MOI). So, this is not a paid review or any of that shite. 
I’m just genuinely obsessed. 
What I like most about LuLaRoe is the fact that I now wear leggings seven days a week. That’s all the days, yo.
The day my principal walked into my classroom donning unicorn LuLaRoe leggings, it was game on. 
I don’t even know what jeans are anymore. Since discovering the obsession-worthy patterns and unreal buttery softness of LLR leggings, I refuse to wear anything that constricts my fat and makes me breathless when I lean over to tie my shoes. 
No more, jeans! No.more. 
Not only have the leggings replaced all other leg coverings I used to wear, the other styles LuLaRoe offers are MAGIC FOR FATTIES.
I currently own eight pairs of leggings (waiting on a pair I just bought today). I also own seven other pieces that aren’t leggings. This is my favorite skirt of all time:

I’m a cheapskate. So, for me to buy clothing that starts at $25 a piece, LLR must be pretty magical. 
Maybe I’m delusional, and I really look like Bertha the elephant clad in seafoam and gray arrows. Or… I LOOK FUCKING AMAZING! 

Here I am in my striped Carly and my super sweet cassette tape leggings (the boyfriend calls these the “Cosby sweater ones” 😂).


For OBVIOUS reasons I HAD to have these!


Yes, I walk out of the house with these wild things on.


It was hard to capture the true green of the shirt. I really do know how to match. I promise!


This was me limbering up for Thanksgiving. In LuLaRoe, of course #duh.


I really ought to be working for LuLaRoe’s advertising department. This crazy town collage was to show how utterly stretchy and giving the leggings are. They also don’t look too bad on my second butt. Winning!


Dudes, I even voted in my LLR! I like to stray away from the norm, and I felt there were already too many face selfies with the ubiquitous “I voted” sticker.


Treatin my babies right 👍


My fat loves my LuLaRoe. Since I stopped trying to suck my fat into too tight jeans, I’ve been surprisingly happier and more relaxed. Everyone who knows me in real life ought to stop hating and be thankful my new obsession benefits those around me. 
You’re welcome. 
#leggingsarelife #leggingsarepants #yestheyareasshole

Fat Pants 

In honor of my favorite eating day ever, I thought I’d reblog this post. Stay tuned for an all new Thanksgiving-I’m-fat-so-fuck-it post!  

I need this in my life! Seriously, though!
 
Believe it or not, I’m new to the marvel that is fat pants. Of course, I’ve always participated in the “fat pants” life, but God forbid I give my holey flannel pants, that I’ve had since middle school, a name that explains why the elastic has been stretched out for 5 years, but they stay on, because the band fits snugly between two fat rolls. God forbid. 
I can’t wait to get into my elastic waistbands everyday. Erryday. I can hardly wait to get inside the privacy of my own home before I start disrobing. My pants are unbuttoned and the bra strap has been unhooked before I even park my car. As I make my way up to the door, I’m removing said bra under my shirt. It’s a fucking art form, getting prepared for fat-pants-time. If you don’t know, you’re not doing it right. 
Speaking of…
People who lounge in jeans and say they are comfortable are straight up liars or completely delusional. Ain’t no one comfortable in denim. No one. Put on some damn sweatpants like the rest of us-your jeans-lounging is making my fat hurt. 
Now, when I said before that I am new to fat pants, it’s essentially true when it comes to the holidays. Just recently I’ve discovered that you don’t have to bust the buttons off your pants after Thanksgiving dinner, because you can wear fucking sweats to dinner. 
Who am I trying to impress with my sausage casing tights and LBD, anyway? No one in my family gives one crap what anyone is wearing. All we are concerned with is, “Where dat gravy at?” I mean, really. 
 
Pinterest always knows just what to say
 
I have spent far too many years being positively miserable after a smorgasbord of regret to even comprehend. 
No more skinny jeans that leave impressions, from the band and seams, in my skin for a week. 
No more dresses that require sucking it in, because after dinner it’s physically impossible to suck in an 8 pound food baby. 
No more fashion tights, because the band always gives way, rolls down my stomach, and doesn’t stop until it’s obvious “One Size Fits All” is a damn, filthy lie. 
NO MORE
Tomorrow I am doing Thanksgiving the Fat Girl way, the Champion Eater way. I’m going to dinner like I mean business. 
Sweatpants=no pain, all gain. 
Thanksgiving is the one day that it’s OK to eat your weight in food. I want to enjoy it, dammit. 
#teamfatpants
 
Courtesy of Buzzfeed