I am a fat girl. Plump, chubby, heavy, whatever you want to call it. I am overweight. Obese.
Let’s just get that out there right now. I’m not proud of it, but there it is. I am in the shape I am in because I love, love, love food, especially the really decadent stuff like chocolate-covered anything, and because I have always been a major klutz that sucks at any and all forms of physical exercise.
Hell, I can’t even waddle a straight line.
But I am trying to drop a few pounds. OK, more like 100. Big number. But I started Weight Watchers last year and lost 40. No shit. So, I am already like 40 percent of the way there. Yeah, I have mad math skills. Be amazed.
But lately I kind of stopped following WW’s nearly impossible balancing act and have been indulging in food that, you know, tastes good. Hmm…I think we all know where this is going.
So before I have to go out and scrounge the Goodwill for the fat clothes I gave away a few months ago, I figured I should get busy again and start trying to work my way down the scale again. Hence the name of this blog.
The problem with that is that I love to cook and I love to eat. Food is like porn to me. I am inexplicably drawn to it, crave it, sneak it in at work, don’t feel like my day is complete without it. I watch endless hours of Food Network shows, I buy cookbooks, and I swear I have a loyal following of readers of my weekend Facebook status updates about my dinner menus.
But I can’t go on like this forever or I will be one of those pathetic people that stresses the shock absorbers on their electric scooters, can’t go anywhere without a strap on oxygen tank, and starts Internet shopping for extra large caskets before the age of 50.
Fuck. That. Shit.
I have no illusions about being thin. Who the hell would I be kidding. But I can be a little better than I am. I can remain mobile. I can live a little longer, unassisted. And I am going to try like hell to find a way to do that and still eat and drink like life is worth living.
I am a fat bitch with a goal.