WTF I’m Fat?!

Woman's hand holds a melting soft ice cream cone against a backdrop of blue sky and ocean with sandy beach

In retrospect, the button popping off my favourite jeans while I quaffed beer by the pitcher to wash down sweet potato fries should have been a warning sign. But it wasn’t until last week, when I came home from an especially lousy day and my boyfriend’s well-meaning attempt to comfort me consisted of handing me a beer and telling me I could relax and stop sucking my gut in that it hit me. I’m fat.

I wish it were as simple as a stupid comment from a jerk, then I might be dating a douchebag but at least I’d still look great in a bikini. But since Ryan is actually a wonderful guy who was genuinely trying to cheer me up by offering what he assumed was a pleasant suggestion it got me thinking. If I had any doubts they were shattered when I stomped onto our Wii Fit the next day to discover that I’ve gained 10 pounds over the past year. I can blame some of that on a year at a startup where the catered lunches were actually Pizza Hut and greasy (read: delicious) fast food. But my non-conformist beliefs that beer is a meal and ice cream is a totally appropriate breakfast surely played their part as well.

In the past I’ve run into old friends and been shocked to find them much portlier than I remembered. I wondered to myself how they’d let it happen, surely they saw the inches sneaking on and had a chance to reverse the trend. The truth is, it’s a lot easier to ignore it. Jeans a little harder to do up? No problem, good old Lululemon makes accommodatingly stretchy pants that make my ass look so sensational it would be a crime not to wear them instead. Right? Suddenly spilling out of my D cups? Things could be worse!

Except they really can’t. Sure it’s hyperbole to panic about suddenly realizing I weigh a little over 130 pounds, especially living in a culture with serious obesity reaching epidemic levels. But packing on 10 pounds in a single year is a bad sign, no matter what size I am as a result. Today it’s upgrading to medium panties, tomorrow it’s being told I need to get tested for diabetes or realizing I don’t care about shoes since I can’t see my feet.

Not caring about boots is a fate too cruel to consider, so I’ve done what any rational, responsible grown up would do. Once I got over the panic attack that accompanied the realization that I have somehow become a rational, responsible grown up (at least part-time), I signed up to use the free diet and exercise tools at Along with a painfully blunt name, the site came with an awesome Android app (also free).

So far, so good. But then it was time to actually work out. Here’s a little secret I’ll let you in on: exercise sucks. Thinking you put in the 20 minute Pilates DVD only to discover that you’re not stuck in some sort of time flux, but rather it’s the 60 minute turbo sculpting routine… sucks. Being sore from yesterday’s workout before you even begin to pile on a new helping of stiffened muscles? Say it with me: sucks.

On the bright side, epic trots to the off-leash park with my dog are turning out to be incredibly fun now that she’s learned to come back at least half the time when I call her. Plus, I’ve recently discovered that fruit is surprisingly tasty. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not movie theatre nacho tasty, but it’s not as bad as I’d suspected.

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