Do you think she’s happy?
I mean, really.
How can she actually be happy?
She hasn’t eaten in like 3 years. She can’t be happy.
Fuck, how can anyone be happy that hasn’t had anything to eat?
I’m a bitch after 3 hours, that skinny-thing must be down right angry. A total douche. I mean, Derek Jeter must hate her. I don’t care what she looks like, or how amazing her breasts are…or if her stomach looks like an ice rink. Fuck. That woman must be evil. Give her a slice of pizza and a box of fucking King Dons, and let’s get this party started! I can just see it now, we find Hannah (that’s her name) hiding in the corner of a room, crouched down…stuffing her face with Twinkies. Awwww, poor thing. You found the Twinkies I left on the table. Damn. Get up, let me help you. Wipe that cream filling off your mouth, sweetie. Ohhhh, its good, isn’t it? It’s a CARB. Can you say, CARB? Don’t worry about Derek. I’m sure he will still love you when you’re FAT.
He will still love you when you are fat.
Those famous last words. Kinda like “Until death do us part”. Or, “In sickness and in health“. They really should add, “Still love you when you’re fat“. Shit. What a joke. You do know, guys do not love us when we are fat, right? Now, they might love us when we are pregnant, sure. Pregnant is “cute”. Oh, it’s endearing, and sweet…downright beautiful. But the minute that kid crosses the vaginal threshold, forget it. That poundage better come off, and quick. Or it’s the little blond bimbo at the club. We have like five minutes to get back to our “fighting weight”. I swear, I can remember Mark looking at me like “Who the fuck ate my wife?” Jeez. I was hungry ok? It was my chance to eat anything I wanted! So I did. What? It’s not normal to double-fist a Blizzard, and a McDonalds Shake? My stomach was big. My ass was bigger, and my lips were the biggest. I have no idea why. But they were blown up. Puffy. I was the most bloated pregnant girl in the world. Even AFTER I had Jonah, I gained 10 lbs. Shit. Who gains weight after you give birth? I had post-eclampsia. Figures. I wanted to punch the nurse at the hospital in the face. She’s like, “Omg, honey. I’m so sorry. You are 10 lbs heavier than when you delivered last week.” Bitch, please. I pictured myself knocking her out. And I felt Mark holding me back…
Then I clutched the bottle of Zoloft in my purse. Praise Jesus.
Which only made me gain more weight. What the fuck was that? They give a fat girl, an anti-depressant that makes her fatter? Come on! I was miserable. I hated how I looked, and felt. I was yucky, and I hated my new fat-suit. I was like this person that wasn’t even me. And I never wanted to have sex. I mean, who wants to get naked when you feel like a pig? And you think your husband doesn’t want you. And guess what? You’re right. He pretends to want you, sure. But he doesn’t, believe me. Sad. Depressing. And what do most women do when they are depressed? Bingo! They eat. They eat their emotions. It’s a big, vicious cycle. And then, next thing you know… you are sitting on the couch every night, eating a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Chubby Hubby, and watching General Hospital. You are downstairs. He is upstairs. Both fucking miserable. Ugh.
You get up everyday, and you think about your weight. It consumes you. And you try every fad diet. The Metabolife. And the SlimFast. The Weight Watchers. Shit. You try it all. Except exercising, because you are too fat. And it’s embarrassing going to the gym with all those anorexic, hot chicks. So, when all else fails, you go under the knife. Let’s just cut the blubber out! And you look at the anesthesiologist, and you beg him to just wake you up. For the love of all things holy, just wake my selfish-ass up! Don’t let me die on this table getting a fucking tummy tuck. How embarrassing for my kids! I would never live that one down. Of course, I would be dead. So vain, but I just couldn’t take it anymore. I needed to do take drastic measures. I would have done just about anything to feel pretty, or wanted again. You get it. And I got it, the tummy tuck. And the boob job. And I lost every single pound. I lived on salsa with a fork, and coffee. I was thin. And hungry…
And a flipping bitch.
And as skinny as I was… I realized, I wasn’t any happier. In fact, I was much lonelier. Mark hated me. He said he actually liked me better when I was fat. Yup. I guess I was sweeter, and not as selfish. I didn’t spend hours giving a shit about what I looked like. Instead, I concentrated on what was really important…our family. But there has to be a happy medium. A middle ground, where a mom can do both. Feel good, look good…and not compromise her family in the process. Everyone wants to be wanted. And feel loved. We want our partners to find us attractive, and sexy. No matter what we look like. For richer, for poorer. In sickness, and in health….Until death do us part.
Oh, and if my ass gets really fucking fat. Or I get in a fire, and my face burns off. You better still love me, asshole. I know, I am so not right. On so many levels. Now, pass the salsa…and the CHIPS! Life is too dang short to starve. This girl needs to eat! But only carbs on the weekends. Ha. ;)