Flat on my Ass

I haven’t quite been my joyful, optimistic self of late. I’ve been hiding, watching TV and trying to motivate myself to do something, anything. There are a number of reasons for this cloudy disposition, but I will spare you the details, save for one, THE one, THE battle, THE bane of my existence; food.

Over the past couple of weeks, I have been eating between 3,000 and 4,000 calories a day. My weight is up to 421 pounds. Not quite a record (427) but close. It is a mystery of the human mind that I hate the consequences of overeating, but love the act itself. Hence the depression and frustration. I want both to eat and be thin and refuse to accept the empirical evidence of 50 years that it is not possible for me to have both to the degree that I desire.

I needed a kick in the ass.

I got one.

Friday afternoon I went out with friends to get hair and nails done. Color, cut, mani and pedi, we spent hours relaxing and talking girl talk. I was sure that the Vietnamese nail techs were commenting on the horrendous condition of my feet. I could see my tech was working up a sweat trying to scrape months of neglect off the bottom on my feet. Weight and poor circulation had created a barely penetrable armor plating, particularly at the heel. But Jay, not his real name, eventually prevailed so, gorgeous, pampered and light nearly $90 each, we went to the restaurant next door to have dinner and let the polish cure.

It was a lovely evening with a gentle breeze and just a hint of coolness. We decided to dine on the patio. They had checkered table clothes, candle center pieces, umbrellas and those molded plastic chairs. I hate those plastic chairs; they are always too narrow so by the time dinner is over, I have deep gouges on the outside of my thighs and no feeling in my feet. I hate being the killjoy, so I sucked it up and gently squeezed my ten pound ass into that five pound chair.

As is typical with this model, I could feel that I was forcing the chair’s arms apart as I settled all 421 pounds on to the four legs. I could hear the plastic complain under my weight as the legs bowed ever so slightly. I paused for a second, checking my “spidey sense” for trouble. All seemed in order, so I began to sit back when “CRACK” the chair literally exploded into a dozen pieces!

I have been carrying around excess weight for many more years than not and I have thigh and calf muscles to prove it. I reacted immediately and those oversized muscles contracted holding me in mid air, locked in that sitting position mightily poised to lift my substantial bulk to a standing position, avoiding the embarrassment and humiliation of a fall and quite likely cause the half-dozen shocked bystanders to gaze in awe at the strength and agility of this remarkable, if not hugely obese woman.

Alas, estrogen has done its job and my strength isn’t what it used to be. Frozen in time for only a moment, I couldn’t pull up and the table was quickly beyond my reach; not that grabbing it would have helped. Like a pilot in a shattered plane, I realized I was headed to the ground and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. Horrified, I crashed onto the concrete patio with a terrible indelicate “thud.”

Instantly, I was surrounded by people asking if I was OK, reaching out their hands to help me up. I was flat on my ass leaning back on my left hand. I took stock of my vitals and everything seemed in one piece, no blood, no bones, no bruises, except for the massive one direct center of my ego. I swung my right hand over to the outstretched hand of my friend’s daughter, Dana; not her real name. Seconds before we clasped hands, I yanked it back. “Wait!” I said too loudly. “The nails!! Watch the nails!”

I shunned the offers of help, got up on one knee and hoisted myself up using a chair for support. I headed over to one of the patio lights where I could use the bright light to once again check my vitals. The manager came over. “Are you alright,” he asked. Surveying both hands for several more seconds, “Yes, I replied. The nails survived.”

As my friend said to me later, “Thank God you weren’t wearing a dress.” Amen to that!

I tell the story with humor to help block the thoughts that are fighting to get in. The thought that all those witnesses got into their cars and laughed hysterically at the stupid fat woman that fell on her ass. How could she think for even a moment such a chair could support the tonnage being placed upon it? I imagine the story being told to others and praying that no one was at the ready with a cell phone camera. I couldn’t imagine seeing it on YouTube. Humor helps block those thoughts, mostly.

Today I am back on my plan, as I was yesterday. One day at a time.

Take Care,