Fatty fatty-boom-bah

I'm determined not to pick on any of my family members in this blog, so they are relatively safe. For now. 

In light of a comment made by a 'well-meaning' friend who suggested, as he regarded me from head to toe, that 'life must be treating me well - a little bit too well', I thought I would lay part of my heart that hasn't yet turned black on your computer screen.

Yes, I am a big fat podgy butter-ball fatty-boom-bah fatso. Thanks soooo much for pointing that out. I don't know how I missed it.

Yes, I do know I've become a little more than Rubenesque. 

Rubens, Venus at a Mirror, c1615
If only my arse was this small. 

No, I didn't actually set out to put on weight.

And no, again, I'm not happy about that.

But for the last few years, I have been constantly thinking of food.

The more I think of dieting, the more I think of food. 

I never had this problem when I was younger. 
I was fit, sporty and fashionable (well...I thought so, anyway) and food was just the thing Mum put on a plate at the end of the day and you ate it whether you liked it or not.

Up until 13 years ago, I was playing competition tennis in Melbourne and country Victoria. I wore my little white tennis skirt and didn't think twice about putting on a tight top. I shopped in cool shops with other cool customers while cool sales staff were more than happy to take my money. 

I remember thinking if I ever went up a dress size how devastated I would be.

A baby and 26 extra kilos put me up more than a dress size. 
Baby number 2 and 20 extra kilos increased that (do you see a pattern here?)
I still ate like I was pregnant during my eight year baby hiatus until I was pregnant with the Wondertwins. I didn't eat for 3. I ate for 10.

             

With twins

   

With Scarlett

I'm more than a dress size bigger.

Now I hate with a passion shopping for clothes, and shopping for food.

And I hate myself for all the times I looked at a larger person and thought 'Why aren't they doing something about that?'

Now that I am that larger person, I think about being a larger person constantly. That and food. Bloody hell. Now I'm thinking of the left overs in the fridge. Excuse me for a moment...

So, in case you're reading this, and still don't get why I haven't just got off my fat arse and done something about it, here are some things I know and you don't have to tell me:

I know I am twice the size I should be.
I know I am at risk for heart disease, heart attack, diabetes, early death.
I know I am not a good role model for my children.
I know I need to lose weight.
I would like to be around for many many more years so that my feral children can continue with their constant and unrealistic demands on my sanity.

I recently went to my doctor to talk to him about losing weight. I went there already with a chip on my shoulder (mmmm chips...) and was prepared to shove my souvlaki up deep within him where the sun doesn't shine if he suggested I should simply eat less and exercise more. My last doctor would at least pump me full of a higher dose of fluid retaining antidepressants so I couldn't care less about my increasing girth. But, to my surprise, my 'new' doctor was great. He looked at my lifestyle, my husband's long work hours, my eating habits, my psychological health, my support network. We talked about the idea of eating less and exercising more and the possibility of gastric banding, and related my food addiction to the notion of telling an alcoholic to only have a sip of a drink three times a day. In other words - it ain't gonna happen.

Despite the self-loathing and desperation to lose the weight, I still have that ever-present magnetic pull to food.

When I was in the Mother-Baby Unit with depression, we shared the ward with people with eating disorders. I couldn't understand how some of the girls believed that you could get fat by looking at food or touching it's packaging. Sometimes I think I can't add anymore weight if I finish off my kids' meals. After all, if I didn't ask for it, then it doesn't count, right?

I've stepped into many different people's shoes, shoes I never in a million years thought I'd wear. Shoes of people who have walked through depression, IVF, infertility, weight gain, miscarriage and death. I've learned a lot and cursed the universe for involving me in these lessons. Dammit. I'm tired.

Under this thick pudding skin is a hot sexy MILF screaming to paint on some skintight jeans, pull on her knee high boots, flash a bit of boob and head out to the kindergarten with her designer nappy bag.

Until then, I'll do a few laps in this tub of ice-cream.

Rant over.
x

PS: I promise not to deviate again from my usual rantings of life with my five precious evil children in the future.


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