All Aboard...The Fat Train

Was it not enough to miss every remaining acceptable eating holiday in 2013? Apparently not. Let’s throw in New Year’s Eve (most acceptable drinking holiday ever) and New Year’s Day (the start of “New Me 2014”…who let’s face it looks just like “Old Me 2013” but that’s beside the point)! And just for shits and giggles, let’s add Valentine’s Day (guaranteed sex holiday) and call it the icing on the cake. Because we all know how much I love cake! Yes, my fellow fatties, my Fat Back took all that and more. Most notably my ability to run and consume endless calories thus supporting my “binge eating as a sport” capability. I must say, the SIF surrounded me with love (and food) during my darkest hours. Of course they did. Watching me get fat is a sport in and of itself. One best played with as many fat cells as possible. There were casseroles, cakes, cookies…a full on Fat Train with a whole lotta cabooses to ensure its success! I had no knowledge said trains even existed. Had I known random women would log onto Fatbook and sign up to feed me for weeks on end, I clearly would have thrown myself down the stairs years ago! If there’s one thing you should know about me (commit this to memory post haste)…I can spot fatbotage a mile away. I didn’t fall off the fat wagon yesterday sisters! Queen Fatty knows the deal….keep me fed, fat and flat on my fat back under the cover of helping a fellow fallen fatty all whilst sucking down protein shakes, joining Weight Watchers and lunging your way to “New You 2014.” Consider this train derailed sisters!

Pray you never eat so much you rupture a disc. While not the official diagnosis, I have yet to meet an MD knowledgeable in SIF. That takes like 30 more years of school. Let’s just call me a Fatxpert and be done with it. SIF, MD. I like it. Years of caloric catastrophes quietly collaborating brought down this SIF. Or perhaps it was just years of eating cheap grocery store birthday cake. Who knows? Was it worth it? Yes. I would die for that cheap, spongy lusciousness laced with colored crack handmade by the highly trained employees of Food Lion. Don’t judge me. We all have chicken bones in our closet. You might wanna close your door…a little tighter please. Ughum. In any event, something had to be done. A broken down fatty quickly turns to lard when left unattended. So I called in somebody who knew something about Fat Back. I had to wait a month for an appointment which was less than ideal. The pain was tolerable. The “no drinking” was not, however. I thought myself to be a casual drinker. I often lied on medical forms to arrive at this conclusion. “Do you have more than 3 drinks a week?” Which week? Clearly there were weeks that required more than 3 drinks…as in most of them. But who’s counting. Who are these people that insist on counting drinks and making me feel like 3 bottles of wine a night equals a problem?! Anyway, I’m bad at math…as evidenced by my size. I’ve simply checked “No” for the past 25 years. If Mother does the math, she’ll realize I’ve been drinking since I was 16. It’s a lie. 12 is the number. I was an old 12. Quit judging. Where was I? Oh yeah my drinking problem. I couldn’t drink bcs the pain meds were the only thing keeping me from eating small children. Pain meds are not my friend. I, unlike the rest of the population, do not enjoy a “pill high.” Apparently my addictive personality only applies to things that bring me pain…like binge eating and shopping at Forever 21. So, for one month, whilst I waited to see Dr. Fat, I watched everyone around me whoop it up while I meandered about like Pookie from New Jack City…except the only thing calling me were the SIF…to bring more food. Hussies.

Finally. Time to see Dr. Fat. Whilst waiting in the lobby, I dare say I had a seizure. No, not the pain meds. The chairs. They had weight limits. Have you ever heard of such a thing?! Posted right there above each chair was its very own pain threshold! As previously discussed, math is not my strong suit. Each individual chair would hold 350lbs. The double chairs 500lbs. I called upon my mad “Goesintas” skills to make sense of the numbers. I hadn’t weighed myself in a while. Who am I kidding? I get on that damn scale every day! I swear that thing is broken. It only moves in one direction….North. Worst case I could sit in a double, put my purse on the other chair and pretend someone was sitting there. I knew for sure I wasn’t pushing 500lbs…yet. Evil nurse summoned me. I had my posse with me. She wasn’t quite prepared for all that is me and my people. I’m kind of a big deal. Noted. I wasn’t prepared for her to run mad fat tricks and ask me to step on the scale in the presence of said others. Who weighs someone fully clothed? A skinny nurse with no inner fatty to speak of. That’s who. Do you have any idea how much my jeans weigh? Yeah, I thought not! I made the “others” turn their backs. No need for anyone else to fall down and hurt their back. I knew what the Dr. would say. Bla bla I need to cut you. Fine. While you’re at it, shave a little off the sides and find the scraps a new home in what should be my boobs had I come from a stronger gene pool. Thanks again Mother. And she wonders why I started drinking at 12? Not much to do when you are flat chested and fat. Buying clothing is out. Boyfriends out. Drinking…in. I digress. Dr. Fat said I had crabs. Yes, crabs. No, not the kind you get from being a big fat whore. The kind you get from being a big fat fatty. He likened my missing disc matter to crab meat. Yum. I love crab meat. He was making me hungry and I didn’t appreciate it one bit. Apparently said crab meat was running amuck in my back after escaping the disc it belonged to. Awesome. Troubled, runaway crabs on the loose in my back causing me great pain…and a club foot. Not attractive. Dr. Fat would remove the venereal crabs from my back and make me virginal again. Um, ok.

You know what surgery means right? No eating from midnight on the night before the slice and dice. Cruel and inhumane treatment is what it is. I stayed up until the very stroke of midnight eating and drinking everything in sight. I started having visions of not being able to empty my stomach in time for surgery. Everything from losing my bowels on the operating table to death, crossed my mind. Nothing a little valium wouldn’t cure. Luckily said fat removal was early in the morning. Watching people eat is hard enough on a good day much less on a day when I cannot partake in the madness. First stop…surgical prep. Why? Why did the nice young man insist on weighing me 2 seconds into our meet and greet. My sweet was right there with me. Imagine his dismay when he realized I’m not actually the 120lb petite young thing he thought me to be. I’m an overweight 41 year old with crabs who ruptured a disc eating cheap grocery store birthday cake. That wouldn’t even fit on my tombstone! Too big to die… that’s me. Little did I know this nurse had a surprise in store for me…kilograms. They weighed me in Kilos. Yes Lawd! I knew there was a reason I wasn’t a nurse. I can barely get through the “goesintas” much less the conversion from pounds to kilos. However, I noted this trick as one I could use to my fatvantage. As soon as I can get a grip on the math I’m going to start reciting my weight in kilos….except I’m not going to verbalize the kilos part. It’s pure genius. I grilled everyone who attempted to touch me. I wanted them to know I was a very informed patient. I watch Dateline. I know what goes down in these places. After being reassured they would know if I was actually awake whilst under sedation, I allowed them to give me some of the good stuff. Had I thought it through, I would have anticipated this would lead to me revealing my food aggressive nature and aforementioned drinking problem. Nurse: “I’m going to wrap you up like a burrito.” SIF: “I love burritos.” Really? Was that necessary? Apparently. Nurse: “What’s your pick of poison?” SIF: “Shiraz…or Pinot Noir. Russian River Valley preferably.” Can you say lush? Perhaps. I cannot be held responsible for the things said under pre-op sedation. If you want me to lie, make sure I’m awake. I’m quite sure I went on to reveal more, however my witnesses were asked to leave the room. I forgot to ask the Dr. for the crabmeat. What? That shits expensive. If I can harvest it from within and save a buck, I will. A Frugal Fatty is a Forever fatty. I got robbed. That’s all I have to say about that. They stole my meat never to be seen or heard from again. And my boobs were no bigger to account for the loss. There would be no post –op grazing as I had imagined. Beef broth and OJ does not a meal make. I just hit the pain button and pretended I was at the McDonald’s drive through. Much to my dismay, no one showed to supersize my broth.

I was sure the weeks that followed would bring massive weight loss and a whole new me. I would be drugged and in pain. Who could eat under those conditions? Um me. I prayed food would appear dead to me for the first time…ever. People would stop me in the streets to tell me how great I looked. I would never fess up to surgery and drugs. Hell no! I’d just been watching what I ate and exercising. Oh wait, I couldn’t move around very well so that would back fire. Ok…I was hit by a car whilst running and had to be placed in a coma for weeks whilst I healed. That would account for my time away from the general population, random weight loss and score me the ever popular sympathy vote. It might have worked….if “The Train” hadn’t showed up. Destination…fat.