If the “calories in, calories out” model were true, in order to burn off everything I’ve shoveled into my body over the past two weeks, I’d need to run around the earth three times. Maybe with a weighted pack. You know, to err on the sweaty side.
Normally I’m that girl who walks around the perimeter of the store with a hand basket. Because, yes, I’ll just carry the basket, thanks. The heavier it gets, the stronger I get. But please, feel free to push your rolly-wheel cart around the store. I shan’t not judge you… more than I already have.
My basket usually has lettuce or kale, maybe some almond milk. A steak or two (if they’re on sale), on occasion a bag of sweet potato chips. Regardless of vegetable choice, the basket always contains a heaping pile of heath snobbery. It weighs more than you’d think.
Well, Merry Christmas to me, I’m fat now. Okay, “fat” is just a relative term for feeling like Garfield post lasagne binge. Difference is, Garfield is an animated drawing whose lines don’t contain insulin. My lines do. Speaking of lines, my waistline number is rather higher than it once was. In fact, the other day as I was measuring for new pants, I had to reread the instructions on sizing. “Your waistline is the narrowest part of your abdomen, a few inches above the navel,” said the instructions, oozing with condescension. I looked in the mirror. Then back to my waist. Where’s the narrowest part…? Me no see it.
Measuring tapes and “sizes”? Overrated. Sweatpants are life.
How did I morph from my fit self into a hippo, you ask? Easy. I ate all of it. It started with the anticipation of Sees Candies. My best client sent candies last year, and did so again this year. I’d like to tell you my approach to the candies’ arrival was civilized. It wasn’t. It was less like My Fair Lady and more like a nature program where lions encounter an injured wildebeest.
But as all of us first-world dwellers know, Christmas Coma comes but once a year. Sure there were the candies, but then there were the gingerbread men. Then the cinnamon rolls my sister makes for Christmas. She burdened me with nine of the little bastards. Finally the entire pumpkin pie my mother gave me. She claims to love me, but obviously she hates my guts. She wants to see mine explode.
The fat cells in my body have formed a union. Over the past several days, they collectively bargained for my hands to keep shoving bags of sugar into my face. They tricked my normally healthy brain into liking it. A lot. Too much. Heaven above, way too much. Well, tonight I had to call it. The remaining pie and cinnamon rolls will be given away. I can’t do it anymore. I’m firing the fat cells. Negotiations are over.
This little piggy wants to go back to the market. She wants her vegetables. She wants her meat. She wants to carry the handcart. She hopes she can squeeze herself into normal pants.