So, looks like I’m going to be chubby for a while. Again. I’ve been going over and over it in my head – hating the way my gooey belly strains against the waist band of my uncomfortable jeans, plotting the low carb diet, the weight watchers, the calorie counting, the being blissfully skinny and really, I can’t do it. I can’t! Not anymore, not again, not at all. There’s this girl at work. She’s cute and funny and smart. And a little chubby. And I think she’s great. And then I think – why can’t I be like her and buy cute clothes in my size and eat lunch in front of other people without wondering what they’re thinking of me?  Because, in all honesty, they’re probably more worried about how they look in their own uncomfortable pants than in how much weight I’ve gained in the last year. I mean, when I see them looking me up and down – you know that look, the casual once over that really isn’t so casual– I try try TRY to think to myself that they’re just checking out my stylish sweater, but what I really think they’re thinking is Jesus Christ is she ever going to stop growing? Or, they want to pat the belly and say “how far along are you?” because see I gain weight in my belly and my boobs first, and then eventually other places too, but because of the location of the gain, people assume I’m pregnant – and yes, I actually know this for a fact because a while back this douche bag I was dating told me that when he first saw me, he assumed I was pg. By the way, he’s an actual douche bag, not just an ex that I call a douche bag because of a bad breakup. Some other day, perhaps, I’ll tell you that story.

Dieting makes me fat. I’m a binge eater. In case you don’t know what that is, I googled it for you – go check it out. I diet, for a week, or 2 days, sometimes 15 minutes, and then I binge. It’s not pretty. I don’t want to describe it because you might hate me, but it’s true. I binge. Jesus it’s disgusting. And I can’t control it. I think I can, I think I’m shoving candy and ice cream and cheese into my mouth while ignoring the face that I’m uncomfortably full because I’m going to go back on a diet  and then everything will be okay (the experts call this last supper eating).  The last time I was in this cycle I gained 75 pounds. SEVENTY FIVE FUCKING POUNDS. That’s a lot. Then, I read a book called Intuitive Eating, started taking Wellbutrin, and dropped it all (to be fair, the actual process was long and arduous and that last sentence definitely trivialized it). All of it, without dieting, and barely even exercising. So now, I’ve gotta do it again. I can see that. In this phase of “dieting” (brought on by an I’m getting married I’ve gotta be skinny panic) I’ve gained almost 30 pounds. It wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to find the other 45 again, and then my husband might leave me. Sometimes I want him too (shhh – we’ve only been married for 2 months), I mean, let’s face it – marriage is hard. It’s not all like it is in the beginning of a relationship where you can’t keep your hands off of each other and his little grammatical errors are cute – it’s being together for 2 years so now you’ve both gained a little weight, you fart all the time, you fight because he wants to fuck and you don’t and you start thinking to yourself “nobody will care if we get divorced, we don’t have any kids, maybe it was a big mistake?” but then, right in the middle of a big fucking fight (on Christmas for Chrissakes!) he drops the “of course I still want to be married to you, I love you” thing and you’re all like “don’t you ever wonder if we fucked up and we’re not really supposed to be together?” and he’s all like “sure, but, I mean, we got married”.   Anyway – maybe the weight gain is part of a desperate ploy to see if he’ll leave me. And he’s not going to. He likes my giant tits (I hate them, by the way, they’re fucking ridiculous and I hate hauling them around), he still wants to do it all the time, and he manages to tell me that I’m pretty a lot. So this is my problem, not his, you dig? Sorry – I know this is kind of all over the place. I’m at work, typing an email to myself to post later, and it’s hard to concentrate. I keep having to toggle back to my screen to make it look like I’m working. It’s a little suspicious if I’m just typety typing at the speed of light, since my job doesn’t really entail that. Luckily, I am The World’s Quickest Toggler – I’ve got this toggling down to an art – anyway, *Homer keeps telling his Christmas machete story to everyone who’ll listen – pouncing on them before they’ve even had a chance to get their goddamn jacket off and punch in and it’s very distracting. What was I saying? Oh yeah, this is my problem, not his (my husband, not Homer). I’m the binge eater with the body image problem. The other day when we were fighting (on Christmas for Chrissakes!) he said something like “why don’t you just go make the food you’ve been obsessing about since 5:30 this morning” – oh that was a low blow. Sometimes when we’re fighting with the folks we love, we think it’s okay to use their vulnerabilities against them. I do it too, so I bear him no grudge. But still, it got me thinking – I do obsess about food, and I’m doing it again, and gaining aforementioned 30lbs. So, I gotta stop. I gotta buy some clothes that fit instead of wearing the same tight jeans every day, stubbornly clinging to the idea that when I go off carbs I’ll be back in my skinny jeans anyway. I gotta learn to be hungry and eat real food and not binge. And I might need to go back on my meds, but that’s a different blog for a different day. For right now, I’m gonna be chubby for a while. And I’m hungry.

*not his real name, on the off chance that anybody from work reads this. the odds are slim, and if they did, they’d recognize him straight away because, let’s be honest, how many people talk about machetes in real life? but still, I kinda like the ruse.