Unfortunately, for many older, overweight women, that just isn't how it works. (Note to self: Journal entry #488. Must talk to the Big Mysogynist in the Sky about why he hates women so much...)
On The Biggest Loser, the male contestants sweat and groan and cry like babies and lose 10 pounds a week. The female contestants sweat and groan and cry like babies and lose 1 pound, or do not lose any weight, or...drum roll please! Like yours truly, actually gain weight.
How is this fair?
It's not fair, my child.
Okay, Big Mysogynist in the Sky (hereafter known as b-mits). No one was talking to...
um, err...heh-heh-heh!
I didn't really mean that, not at all, just the old proverbial "slip of the tongue," so you can hold off on the lightning bolt, b-mits. You really can, unless you arrange it to burn just the fat off my ass and thighs.
I am just SO FRUSTRATED today. Yes, I am down .8 pounds from yesterday to a more moderate 204.0, but there were days last week when I weighed 202.0 pounds, so how and why am I back here at 204?
I'll tell you why. It's the genetic lottery. Even though I am descended from aristocracy (no kidding) it was Polish aristocracy and there has to be a field hand or two stuck in there somewhere, a little slap and tickle in the green Polish verge whilst Mamá was at prayers. Otherwise, how do explain my delicate, aristocratic turn of feature, the high cheekbones, the noble forehead creased with selfless thoughts, stacked on top of the Pillars of Hercules? How do you correlate the baby-fine blond hair with hands any NFL quarterback would be proud to own?
How do you?
You don't.
There is this woman at work. I will call her Madame X. She is not only the single most exquisitely beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes upon, she is also the nicest, the kindest, the sweetest. I want to hate her, but in good conscious, I cannot. The men all swoon around her. A friend of mine says she looks like she's carved out of cream cheese, just that luscious. I do not feel such thoughts when I see her; I feel envy.
She recently had her second baby, and three minutes later, she was back in her size one jeans. She is the same height as I am, but weighs almost a hundred pounds less. She is NOT anorexic, she is NOT scrawny or skinny, she is willowy. And why? Because she won the genetic lottery. She was standing at the front of the line for the best teeth, best eyes, best skin, best hair, best body...heck, even her toes, which are frequently on display and painted to match her outfit...even her toes are cute. And lest you be making some stereotypical assumption that all that beauty must come at a price and she is perforce, dumb, you would be wrong. She is also smart. She was also in the front of the brains line.
I know. It hardly seems fair. Couldn't I have been near the front for at least one of the lines?
Oh wait! I forgot. I was at the front of the lines for "Fat Ass" and "Thunder Thighs." I also think I was first in the "Knows the meaning of the word, 'irony' and can use it in a complete sentence" line.
Thanks, b-mits, but next time, can I please have big ta-tas, a vapid stare and a minuscule brain? Then I wouldn't have to work for a living.
Anyway, my dear little Piggie, who seems quite fussy this morning, was also at the front of several lines...looks, brains, personality. But he was so used to the world falling at his feet, at it so often does for attractive people, that he simply can't get used to the loss of adulation now that he's packing some extra pounds.
Have no fear, Pigassus. It is on, and together we will scale Mount Mashed Potato and plant the flag of skinny victory upon its summit.
Or roll down the hill inhaling as much mashed potato as we can before we crash into lardiferous heaps at the bottom, whichever comes first.
Fat Cat
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