Monday, January 13, 2020

Sage Advice for 2020

In my attempt to be a more well-rounded fatty (bcs apparently I’m not…well… round enough), I practically killed myself in the span of 24 hours. Somehow I managed to OD on Sage, attempt unauthorized movements of my fatty appendages via hot yoga and cool down with a frozen peppermint patty that took a chunk out of my lip. Not ideal. And before you get all judgmental about Peppermint Patties playing for the wrong team….I move to strike that sort of nonsensical talk. Anything that’s minty and less than 100 calories qualifies as a verging food. Bite me. I’d like to once again point out being fat is much easier and far less dangerous to my health than whatever version of “New Me” I conjure up. It is a new year and that’s Stranger Danger territory right there. I’ve never seen this person called “New Me.” I have no idea who she is or what she looks like. She some sort of skinny creepster lurking behind dumpsters luring me into her skinny soulless existence. Could 2020 be the year of the Soulless Creepster? God help me…

New Year New Me….talk amongst yourselves. Why is it every year we insist on torturing ourselves with a so called better version. I can’t be sure. For exactly 47 years I’ve tried to start the new year off with visions of some sort of “New Me” I have yet to make acquaintance with. She’s thin, devastatingly attractive and makes “good” choices. And you wonder why she hasn’t been seen? I’m not sure this person exists or can survive in the world as we know it. …full of judgment and unrealistic expectations. Today my local guru told me I am only responsible to be the best version of me. I fear that version is slightly chubby, makes poor choices and is super hot. So I’m 2 for 3. Almost 70%...I can live with that. If this version wasn’t so socially unacceptable I’d be putting the sage in my soup, swearing off yoga and sipping on peppermint patty milkshakes (far less dangerous than frozen discs of Heaven). So once again I started the new year conforming to the mainstream and their shit show plan for my life. Um….stop right there if you think I’m buying into one second of that craptasticness. That is in fact a word. Urban Dictionary people. Unless someone is sending Dr. “Now” (random My 600lb Life reference) to my home to threaten me with no weight loss surgery unless I miraculously lose 30lbs this month, not a lot is going to change here at 607. You don’t take 47 years of using food as a drug, a boyfriend, a counselor and anything else that suits me and expect me to change just bcs we’ve bounced into double 20’s. I need far more motivation than that. Perhaps a call from Brad Pitt…..heading my way in February for a shag….quick 30lbs gone right there.

Let’s backup to dysfunction 101. Sage overdosing. It’s all the rage. Not really. I made that up to suit my agenda. It’s what non- cool non hippie people such as myself do when trying to blame bad spirits for a sudden spike in dress size. It’s always the spirits. Evil fuckers. And to be clear there was nothing sudden about the spike in my dress size. It’s been steadily increasing. Since 1972. So I bought a bundle of sage like any normal demon possessed fatty and went about burning my house down. For the record, It would be really hard to burn your house down with a sage bundle. I know this bcs I tried. I lit up, blew the flames down to smoke out the evil fatty spirits and smudged away the chocolate remnants from my woman cave. As with most people of sizeable proportions (PC fatty) I overdid it. I really enjoyed the smell. Except it kept going out. So I lit it again. And again. And again. Then I had visions of sage incense dancing in my head. Surely, they make such a thing. I consulted my local witch Dr. and she assured me the sage bundle would accomplish this. I think people don’t “get” I need instructions with everything. Right down to pouring a glass of water. I can’t be trusted. Not with your children, your Little Debbie treats and clearly not your hippie demon smoke. I started to cough. As in I’ve smoked 20 packs a day for 20 years burning lungs kind of cough. I assumed this to be the evil spirits leaving me. However, they did not leave. My man lover (prefer this to domestic partner as it’s cause for confusion) opened the door and asked me if I was smoking weed. Interesting. Not yet. I told him I was warding off evil fat spirits with sage. Was it working? Nope. I was hungry, had a massive headache and couldn’t get the smell of smoking sage out of my nostrils. Not part of the plan.

Moving right along…..I decided I would take hot yoga. Not just any old yoga…hot yoga. Why? I can’t be sure. Part of me thought it might “unsage’ my nostrils- heat n all. I know as much about yoga as I do about sage. Frightening. I know people fart and breathe loudly whilst yogaing. So I figured it was a lot like watching a movie at my house and I sure love to do that. Sans the buttery popcorn of course. I fear the crunchies wouldn’t appreciate my bringing Orville Redenbacher to yoga and munching my way through the downward dog. See I do know a word or two about yoga. I found it very confusing. And hot. One half of the room was curled up like pretzels and the other half (me) couldn’t see their toes much less have any hope in hell of skin on skin contact with my digits. So I spent most of the hour sweating and saying “Namaste.” That’s what they do over there at hot yoga…..namaste. I think it’s code for your nasty but I can’t be sure. There were strange noises everywhere. Blabla Chattanooga (was yoga founded in Tennessee? So much to learn…) and some long words that could have used a sprinkling of vowels. I didn’t know I had to be bilingual to take yoga. I tried but fat people aren’t made to bend. We are made for caloric consumption. Other than fork to mouth there’s not a lot of bending going on. And mother taught me not to talk with my mouth full so I’m thinking I’ll leave yoga to the fine people of Tennessee.

I bring you to the treat phase of my hippy life. Because anytime fatty exits  her comfort zone there has to be a treat. And I’m not talking hippy treats better known as Chai pudding. What the actual fuck is that shit?! It looks like eyeballs floating in brain matter. #scarredforlife. I went back to my people to claim my reward. A good old fashion peppermint patty….or 12. Frozen. The only acceptable way to eat one. If you haven’t tried this you should be throat punched immediately if not sooner. I have strong feelings on the subject. As with any extrafatacular activity, you should approach with caution. Frozen can equal danger if one were overly food aggressive. Which “one” is or “one” wouldn’t be in this predicament. As soon as my body temperature came down from 170 degrees of Namaste, I dove in the freezer for said treat. I told myself I was having heat stroke and death was eminent. So yeh….when you all but inhale a frozen patty and attempt to bite into it prior to at least some of the frozen loveliness getting a mild thaw….bad things happen. In this case, I had a nice dental mold of my front 3 teeth implanted in my lip. You cannot hope to seek care for such an injury. What would you say? I overdosed on sage, went to hot yoga, got overheated and stuck my entire head in the freezer and clamped down too hard on a peppermint patty. I think calling CPS is mandated even for adults in this compromising situation. Or perhaps Dr. Now shows up and shames you into stiches and rehab. I can’t be sure bcs I called no one. I marveled at my glorious injury in the mirror until even I couldn’t believe I was free to walk amongst humans.

What have I learned from my day as a hippy? I can’t be sure. For starters sage is not your friend. Stick to soups and roasted chickens. They are both delicious and mask the evilness of this potent herb of the devil. Yoga. Hot yoga. Cold Yoga. No Yoga. All that is me may not be ready to be roasted at 170 degrees and served hot as a pretzel. Clearly I need the yoga Cliff Notes and time to study up on Tennessee’s involvement in the matter. I have nothing but love for the frozen peppermint patty. Beat me, leave marks and make me scream. I am your bitch. You never disappoint. There’s no threat of overdose, your love language is mint (shedding a tear) and nothing could be cooler.