This post is hopefully not going to end in me crying as hard as I did when I saw the name of this site, but I'm sure it will. If I chase a few rabbits and digress a bit, just hang with me, okay? I might over-rationalize, make excuses and really just tell you more than you'd ever want to know, but geez, it's not like I haven't done that before, right?
Okay.....I'm taking a deep breath and jumping right in ...... We went to Silver Dollar City last Friday. It's a theme park, with more rides each year. I remember back when there were two rides - an indoor, underground rollercoaster and the flume. Now there are kazillions of rides and more coming. I am a roller coaster junkie and have been since I was a kid. The bigger and faster they are, the better. I love a good thrill ride. I am a big girl. I guess if we're gettin' honest today we'll just come right out and say it, I'm fat. I know I am, it's my fault and well, that's that.
I was a chubby kid from about 4th grade till 6th grade. I wore Pretty Plus clothes from Sears and hated it with a passion. I was popular and well-liked, but I was fat. Therefore, boys didn't like me all that much. My maiden name was Bass. "Kristin Bass has a fat ass" was heard more than once on the playground. I don't like sports, I don't like to sweat and I love to read and study and learn. So it was kind of a given that I'd get chunky as a kid at some point, I guess. Plus, well, I like my groceries. Then miraculously before 7th grade I started slimming down. I wasn't skinny, rail thin and gorgeous like the "pretty girls", but I wasn't fat anymore. The women in my family have butts, though - big, round butts. Baby got back? Oh yeah, we got back. The summer before my senior year I had a 27 inch waist and 40 inch hips. I had a flat stomach and small boobs - my gosh, how could I ever have thought I was fat back then? I was round and flat in all the right places, I was voluptuous and cute. Yet I was a cow in my mind and even in the mind of most guys. They wanted my best friend who was a size 2. I lived my Junior and Senior years on carrots stick and SlimFast. My Senior year I did start eating a Snickers bar and a Diet Coke for lunch every day, but the rest of the time I starved myself. My collar bones stuck out freakishly, my cheeks were sunken - my mother thought I was anorexic. In college I was well-liked by the black guys on campus - they appreciated my curves and ooh I enjoyed that attention. Meeting a group of guys and having them turn and watch me as I passed had never happened to me before. It was nice. I ended up dating a good ol' boy from up in Missouri who wanted his women skinny and submissive. I'll never forget the Christmas that he wanted to get me some Rockies jeans and asked what size I wore. Although I weighed barely 120 pounds I wore a size 9 to 11 jeans. When I told him that he laughed and said, "Fatso. You better get out of the double digits, girl, if you wanna be with me." Needless to say, I didn't stay with him. When I met my husband, Paul I weighed 135 and between the time we met and got married - 3 months - I had gained 10 pounds. But I still was thin and looked good, I fit in my tight cowgirl jeans and could scoot a mean boot. He loved my body the way it was and only wished that I had bigger boobs. He was happy and so was I. But I had found my niche, I had achieved my dreams - I was married! I set about being Suzy Homemaker and cooked him three meals a day. I made cakes and cookies and pies and big, hearty, meaty meals. I fried everything we ate because he was 6'1" and weighed 165 pounds and is a redneck - they eat fried foods and can get away with it. He was a beanpole and had the metabolism of a race horse. He ate my greasy food cooked with love and was a happy newlywed. I ate my greasy food cooked with love and got fat. And fatter and fatter and fatter. Then we struggled with infertility and I ate to make myself feel better about being a total failure at giving him a child. Then I got pregnant and ate because well, I was eating for two. Then we lost our baby and I ate to drown my pain and heartache. Then he started noticing that I was gaining more and more weight and I knew he noticed so I ate more. I am a compulsive. I have many compulsions, but eating is my most dangerous. I can alphabetize my canned goods and no one gets hurt. They may laugh, but it doesn't harm anyone or mess up anything. But my compulsion to eat is hurting me. It's killing me, to be honest. But eating makes me so happy, it's something that I can control when the world is spinning in a direction I don't want it to go and can do nothing about. If the kids are whiny, I eat a handful of chips. If Paul is cranky, I hide in the kitchen and down a couple of Twinkies. Bad day at work? Oh that merits a few Oreos. And a few more. Maybe three helpings of mashed potatoes at dinner, too. I can fix anything with food. Except now the food that was my glue, the stuff that stuck my life together for all these years, is clogging my arteries, raising my blood pressure and making my cholesterol do a funky upward conga line to Cardiac Arrestland. I have stretch marks in places I didn't know stretch marks could exist and thrive. That barren wasteland that is on the underside of the upper arm - I had no clue it was stretch mark inhabitable, yet they have formed a colony and it looks like they're not leaving. I ache, my knees hurt, I snore, I huff and I puff. I am the woman they kick off the roller coaster when they can't get the harness buckled. I am now crying, by the way. I told you I would. The name of this site made me cry at first. I never wanted to be a fat mommy. I wanted to be the cute mommy with the cute clothes and the cute hair who had tons of neverending energy to bounce around the park with her kids, have time and energy for tons of kid activities. I am ashamed to admit this, but there were a few fleeting moments where I thought it might be cool to have an outfit that matched my baby's. But they don't make Mommy and Me outfits for fat mommies. They only go up to size 10. Don't get me wrong, I'm still a cool mommy and I know I'm a good mommy, my entire self-esteem as a parent doesn't hinge on my looks, but I'm sure the kids at school talk about how fat Abby's mom is. I remember being a kid. Fat people are funny. And they're so easy to make fun of. I have just been able to tell myself all these years that the babies like snuggling with me becuase I have lots of cushy goodness and they can snuggle into my big, squishy boobs and fall right to sleep. And trust me, they do. But if that is my rationalization, my reason, to stay fat it's a pretty poor one. So after getting kicked off the roller coaster, I ducked my head, gathered my daughter and niece who couldn't ride without me and with cheeks ablaze, I exited Stage Mortified. TotOne was crying. (Abby wasn't - she didn't want to ride that one anyway) I had to squat down on her level, get eye to eye with my 7 year old niece and tell her that Aunt Kiki was too fat to ride the roller coaster and she'd have to wait. That was a moment I never envisioned for myself when I was a teen. But I didn't start crying until after Tater and TotTwo and Sam got back from the ride and Tater took TotOne off to ride. It was then that TotTwo asked why TotOne was getting to ride and TotOne yelled across the walking path, "Because Aunt Kiki's butt was too big to fit and we got kicked off!" That convenient hole that you wish would swallow you up whole was nowhere to be found. Instead I walked down the hill to find my Mom and youngest daughter and burst into tears when I had to tell my mom that I was too fat to ride the roller coaster. Why am I writing all of this to you? I am not sure. Do I want sympathy? Nah. I don't need sympathy. Do I want you to send me all of your low fat, carbless recipes? Nah. I don't want those, thank you very much. I'm not sure why I wrote what I just wrote. Maybe I just needed to sit here and cry awhile. I am on day three of Weight Watchers. I have done this before. I have started, I have stopped. I have drugged my way into two smaller pant sizes. (Legal drugs, not meth, although I hear that, too, is effective. But I do kind of have an attachment to my teeth as well) I have starved myself. I have been tempted to throw up, but I really hate to throw up. I guess the reason I might be writing all of this is to tell you that I'm ready to enjoy life again. I'm ready to run and not feel like my lungs are going to explode. I'm ready to jump and not jiggle for half an hour afterwards. I'm ready to be naked in front of my husband and not wonder if he's secretly turned off and embarrassed of me. I'm ready to feel good again. I'm ready to ride the roller coaster.