Disclaimer: If you subscribe to Monique’s beliefs that “Skinny B!tch3s are Evil,” leave now. You will only be upset by what you read below. If you can put our physical differences to the side and see that we really aren’t that different at all, please read further and even leave your 2 cents.
Back in the day, before I was a mommy or had to pay rent and my age still had “teen” at the end of it, I had really good habits. My disdain for most foods left me with a pretty healthy diet – I wasn’t big on sweets and I loved fruits and vegetables. I had an English teacher that had the brilliant idea that all her students should write 24/7, so I was constantly putting feelings and thoughts on paper. And because my mom was worried that I couldn’t defend myself in the event that I got jumped walking from the door of my high school to the door of her car, karate lent itself as a more aggressive way to release any frustrations I may have held. I never had to worry about being a depressive eater because 1. I didn’t like chocolate and 2. I didn’t have much of an appetite when I was upset.
Yup, I had pretty great coping mechanisms to deal with life. And once I moved on my own, I cooked, mostly baked everything. I only ate out for special occasions – holidays, birthday, anniversaries, graduations. I would even cook before I met friends for “drinks.” (When I turned 21, I gave up drinking for two years too…)
Not sure when it happened, but somewhere down the line, all of that went out the window. Situations would frustrate me so much I couldn’t formulate simple four-letter words, let alone a whole page of poetry. I dropped out of karate because it became stagnant and took up running and home workouts. Then the workouts dropped off, then running became a thing of the past. Next thing I knew, I was putting down the baking pan and picking up a box of pizza.
I don’t remember when it started, but I’m pretty sure it happened something like this the first time: someone or something upset me and before I knew it, it was too late to cook and I no longer felt like slaving over a hot stove, so I ordered something.
And now here I am, smashing an oversalted large fry from McD’s and slurping down a root beer (my non-alcoholic adult beverage of choice, preferably in a bottle), contemplating if I want to cook tonight or just grab something. Perhaps Popeye’s, Chipotle, or a pizza. Because I have a hair appointment tonight and it’s gonna be late when I finally get home and I probably won’t feel like cooking.
What used to be so hard for me to do has become so easy. I just need the slightest reason to pig out. And I have about 454,545,498,785,124,854,545,784,567,894,532,182,181,280,094,215,641 reasons. I have always struggled with my weight. Just not like most ppl who say they struggle with their weight. While everyone else was trying to shed pounds, I was trying to gain them. I have high metabolism and I was so sick and tired of hearing “You’re just sticks and bones,” “You need to put some meat on those bones,” “You’re a toothpick,” or my personal favorite “Girl, you need to eat.” Then my freshman 15 came two years late in the form of a freshman 30 and I was so happy.
Then I inadvertently discovered how easy it was for me to lose the weight it had taken over a decade to put on. I went on several fasts for religious reasons when I was going through some difficult times. They were never for longer than a few days, but I managed to lose so much weight in such a short time that one of my friends begged me to let him and his wife cook for me. (Anybody that knows the Mitchells know that they don’t have to beg anybody to eat their food…it practically speaks for itself. My mouth is watering just thinking about their ribs and dirty rice….mmmmmhmmmmm). Anyways, I never managed to get back up to my “ideal” weight. Between stress, moving and slight depression, I managed to lose about 20-25 pounds over the span of a year before I got pregnant. During which, I gained about 35.
Temi was born and I lost a lot of that right there on the table. About 4-5 months into breastfeeding and I was back at my pre-pregnancy weight. A month ago, I went to the doctor for a routine checkup and discovered I was actually smaller than my pre-pregnant self. I knew breastfeeding was going to help me “shed the pounds” but I didn’t think it would be like this. Especially because my eating habits are outrageous. I’m hungry all the time and always snacking on ice cream, chips, cookies. In the past two months, I have eaten out more than I have the entire past year.
And yet, NONE of my clothes fit me. I have the saggy white girl droop in my jeans. My belts are even too big. If I want to feel comfortable and look nice in my clothes, I have to go get a whole new wardrobe. It’s disheartening. So I indulge in the large fry and beer of the root variety way more than I should. I make frequent trips to the bakery down the street (in addition to the ravenous appetite breastfeeding brings on, apparently it packs a mean sweet tooth too).
For right now, it seems that no matter how much I eat, I just can’t seem to gain the weight that I want. I may never gain weight just by looking at food. Or it may hit me after my second child, or in 15 years. But even if the weight never hits me, I’m sure I won’t walk away unscarred. There’s bound to be health issues associated with the eating habits I’ve managed to pick up and if I don’t control them, I could be facing a life of diabetes, high blood pressure, bad kidneys and livers, strokes. All things that run in my family. But when I look in the mirror, all I see is someone that appears to be in good health and shape, so my inner fat girl tells me that I can stand to splurge on some Golden Blast ice cream or a pineapple, jalapeño, Italian sausage pizza.
And now the box of Snickerdoodle cookies I copped at Walmart are crying out to be rescued and retreat to the safe confines of my belly.