No, no, before you say, "Oh Rae, stop it! No, you're not!" I'll just own it. I've been a size 14, 16 or 18 my entire adult life. I was a size 16 my high school graduation. I was cool with it then; I'm cool with it now.
Look, I'm fighting genetics. I never really fluctuate in my weight. I always stay within about 20 pounds. And yes, I weigh myself everyday. I think I always surprise people when I am cool with myself. I have tits, I have an ass. I have a shape. I like me.
The way I see it, I totally identify with Oprah. No one would call Oprah fat. (Well, maybe like super mean paparazzi would but you really never even see that.) People don't call Oprah fat because....well....she is Fucking Oprah. (Pardon my cussing. There is no equivalent for "Fucking Oprah." See.)
Moving on. No one has ever called me fat. It's true. Well, no one who matters has. My friends and family have never once called me fat. I was at the Doctor two weeks ago and she puts me on a scale. One of those old metal totally accurate scales. The type of scale that you move that huge 50 pound block then the tiny little one pound block slides over.
And when the doctor sighs and reeks of judgement and moves that 50 pound block over I know you're like me and think, "awe fuck" in your head. (Again, sorry for the profanity. But when we're talking about weight and if you've been there, that 50 pound block sucks.)
I digress. Doctor. Scale. Two weeks ago. She finally arrives at my weight and I say, "SHAZAM! I'm 22 pounds lighter since I moved to Florida!"
To which my doctor says to me, "Yes, but you're still technically obese."
So, I let it roll but she doesn't stop. She is harping on and on. Then tells me to join Weight Watchers. Uh, ok...I tell her I'm a lifetime member. To which she replies, "It only works if you go."
Well well, looks like someone remembered to take her bitchy pills this morning.
Well, it's cool. I get it. She's just doing her job. Then she brings it up again, telling me at my weight DF and I could have a hard time getting pregnant. Blah blah blah, squawk, squawk, squawk.
To which I say, "Look lady, do you have a treadmill in the next room so I can get started?"
I mean, seriously! What did she want me to do right then and there?
Which brings me full circle. I'm fat, but ok with it. I run up and down 3 flights of stairs about 15 times a day at work. I can do an hour aerobics class no prob. What am I supposed to do? Starve myself? For what? I'm not going to eat tree bark just to lose weight. I am not a bunnie. I cannot live on lettuce.
Here is the thing: I do not want to be a fat bride. I would like to be a size 12. Just a 12 on my wedding day. Not a 2 or a 4. Just an average size 12. And on my wedding day I do not want to be"fat" with a "ph" like... "phat." Ridiculous. Suck on it Mo'Nique. FAT IS FAT. Just freakin' own it!
Now what? DF is so active and is always pestering me to go for a walk with him....gulp...out in nature. Yes, nature. I went once. It was brutal. Bugs, dirt, the works. I'm a city girl. I just can't rough it.
So now, I need to find something to help me take about 25 pounds of my already bangin' body. I get home from work around 7PM...so I miss jazzercise at 5PM. Guess I should join the Y.
I'm going to see if I can get a Y membership under the name "Oprah." Maybe then no one will bug me.
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