Disclaimer: If you subscribe to Monique’s
beliefs that “Skinny B!tch3s are Evil,” leave now. You will only be upset by
what you read below. If you can put our physical differences to the side and
see that we really aren’t that different at all, please read further and even
leave your 2 cents.
Back in the
day, before I was a mommy or had to pay rent and my age still had “teen” at the
end of it, I had really good habits. My disdain for most foods left me with a
pretty healthy diet – I wasn’t big on sweets and I loved fruits and vegetables.
I had an English teacher that had the brilliant idea that all her students
should write 24/7, so I was constantly putting feelings and thoughts on paper.
And because my mom was worried that I couldn’t defend myself in the event that
I got jumped walking from the door of my high school to the door of her car,
karate lent itself as a more aggressive way to release any frustrations I may
have held. I never had to worry about being a depressive eater because 1. I
didn’t like chocolate and 2. I didn’t have much of an appetite when I was upset.
Yup, I had
pretty great coping mechanisms to deal with life. And once I moved on my own, I
cooked, mostly baked everything. I only ate out for special occasions –
holidays, birthday, anniversaries, graduations. I would even cook before I met
friends for “drinks.” (When I turned 21, I gave up drinking for two years too…)
Not sure
when it happened, but somewhere down the line, all of that went out the window.
Situations would frustrate me so much I couldn’t formulate simple four-letter
words, let alone a whole page of poetry. I dropped out of karate because it
became stagnant and took up running and home workouts. Then the workouts
dropped off, then running became a thing of the past. Next thing I knew, I was
putting down the baking pan and picking up a box of pizza.
I don’t
remember when it started, but I’m pretty sure it happened something like this
the first time: someone or something upset me and before I knew it, it was too
late to cook and I no longer felt like slaving over a hot stove, so I ordered
something.
And now here
I am, smashing an oversalted large fry from McD’s and slurping down a root beer
(my non-alcoholic adult beverage of choice, preferably in a bottle),
contemplating if I want to cook tonight or just grab something. Perhaps Popeye’s,
Chipotle, or a pizza. Because I have a hair appointment tonight and it’s gonna
be late when I finally get home and I probably won’t feel like cooking.
What used to
be so hard for me to do has become so easy. I just need the slightest reason to pig out. And I have
about 454,545,498,785,124,854,545,784,567,894,532,182,181,280,094,215,641
reasons. I have always struggled with my weight. Just not like most ppl who say
they struggle with their weight. While everyone else was trying to shed pounds,
I was trying to gain them. I have high metabolism and I was so sick and tired
of hearing “You’re just sticks and bones,” “You need to put some meat on those
bones,” “You’re a toothpick,” or my personal favorite “Girl, you need to eat.”
Then my freshman 15 came two years late in the form of a freshman 30 and I was
so happy.
Then I inadvertently
discovered how easy it was for me to lose the weight it had taken over a decade
to put on. I went on several fasts for religious reasons when I was going
through some difficult times. They were never for longer than a few days, but I
managed to lose so much weight in such a short time that one of my friends begged me to let him and his wife cook
for me. (Anybody that knows the Mitchells know that they don’t have to beg anybody to eat their food…it practically
speaks for itself. My mouth is watering just thinking about their ribs and
dirty rice….mmmmmhmmmmm). Anyways, I never managed to get back up to my “ideal”
weight. Between stress, moving and slight depression, I managed to lose about
20-25 pounds over the span of a year before I got pregnant. During which, I
gained about 35.
Temi was
born and I lost a lot of that right there on the table. About 4-5 months into
breastfeeding and I was back at my pre-pregnancy weight. A month ago, I went to
the doctor for a routine checkup and discovered I was actually smaller than my
pre-pregnant self. I knew breastfeeding was going to help me “shed the pounds”
but I didn’t think it would be like this. Especially because my eating habits
are outrageous. I’m hungry all the time and always snacking on ice cream,
chips, cookies. In the past two months, I have eaten out more than I have the
entire past year.
And yet, NONE of my clothes fit me. I have the
saggy white girl droop in my jeans. My belts are even too big. If I want to
feel comfortable and look nice in my clothes, I have to go get a whole new
wardrobe. It’s disheartening. So I indulge in the large fry and beer of the
root variety way more than I should. I make frequent trips to the bakery down
the street (in addition to the ravenous appetite breastfeeding brings on,
apparently it packs a mean sweet
tooth too).
For right
now, it seems that no matter how much I eat, I just can’t seem to gain the
weight that I want. I may never gain weight just by looking at food. Or it may
hit me after my second child, or in 15 years. But even if the weight never hits
me, I’m sure I won’t walk away unscarred. There’s bound to be health issues
associated with the eating habits I’ve managed to pick up and if I don’t
control them, I could be facing a life of diabetes, high blood pressure, bad
kidneys and livers, strokes. All things that run in my family. But when I look
in the mirror, all I see is someone that appears to be in good health and shape,
so my inner fat girl tells me that I can stand to splurge on some Golden Blast
ice cream or a pineapple, jalapeño, Italian sausage pizza.
And now the box of Snickerdoodle cookies I copped
at Walmart are crying out to be rescued and retreat to the safe confines of my
belly.
