I want to donate a kidney, just for the weight loss.
I’ve gained 30 pounds since the birth of my daughter 3 years ago, which is more than I gained during pregnancy. It kills me to know that this food baby won’t be birthed, leaving me with a beach ready body.
(Let’s be real: I am always beach ready. It’s everyone else’s eyes that aren’t).
I support body positivity. I really do. Just not for myself. My belly doesn’t lie flat anymore when I’m on my back. Whenever I’m in motion it jiggles, like a bowlful of jelly. My fat cells get claustrophobic in Spanx. I have a panic attack every time I try to squeeze myself into those ridiculous outfits, so that’s not an option.
I want to be hooked up to a liposuction machine that’s pulling fat out while I stuff cheesecake into my mouth.
If I don’t eat my feelings, what else am I supposed to do with them, pray tell?
I complained to my younger, thinner sister about my weight. She goes, “Have you tried anorexia?”
Oh, yes. I would like to, but that simply doesn’t work for a food motivated individual. The second I think to myself, “I’m never going to eat again! Food is not going control me anymore!” I remember the half dozen chocolate chip cookies I picked up from the bakery. I can’t let those go to waste!
“How about bulimia?” my sister says.
Believe me, I would love that! That is the perfect solution for me. Unfortunately, no matter how far I stick my finger down my throat, my body is not giving up its last meal.
I’ve tried therapy, diet pills, smoothies, cutting out bread, everything! Everything except exercise, that is. It’s exhausting worrying about weight issues. I think I need another cookie.