Sorry, no pretty photo today. I’ll get back to that eventually. Maybe.
Today I’d like to start something new here chez ro’mama, and I hope you will all stick around for it. Or not. To be perfectly honest, I don’t much care. I’m gonna call my weekly posts “Fat Friday.” Maybe on occasion, I’ll change that to “Fit Friday.”
But the truth is, my dears, that I have had a lifelong problem with weight, fitness, and all those associated self-esteem issues. And since this is, by God, my blog, I figure I can write about the whole mess here. Don’t like it? Don’t read it.
Here’s the deal. Back in high school, I could twirl a baton. Not much of a talent, I know, but it was what I had. The problem was, I weighed 118 lbs, and all the other twirlers were right at or under a hundred pounds. At 16, 18 pounds seems like a ton. I was the fat and ugly one, and you don’t ever really get over that.
Of course, I was 118 lbs of cute, curvy little Southern girl. A few years ago, I went to my class reunion, and they had decorated the room with poster-sized photos from the yearbook. There I was, in my sequined-bathing-suit glory, all 118 lbs of me. I gaped at the photo. My God. I was a freakin goddess of love, and I had no idea.
My friend Sonya said something to the effect of, “nobody could figure out why you were always on a diet .” All I know is, I was completely in shock. So goddam gorgeous, and I never even knew.
But fat, imagined or real, has been a major factor in my life. I am now bigger than I have ever been, than I ever imagined being. Bigger than when I was 9 months pregnant with either daughter.
But I want to do something about that, and I think the first step is to figure out how I got here. So for the foreseeable future, Fridays are gonna be spent talking about fat, fitness, and how I ended up like this.
To quote dear Bette: fasten your seat belts, it’s gonna be a bumpy night. Or two. Or several.
Stick with me. Maybe we’ll all learn something.