Fatty, Fatty, Two-by-Four

Here I sit, literally ripping on my hair wondering if I actually have the balls to document this journey. Weight loss. How tired and worn out. Flip on any channel on TV and see some chubby person sweating profusely, gagging up bile or being squeezed into Spanx to look skinnier. Yo-yo dieting is an American profession with Oprah as CEO. But yet, here I am trying adamantly to lose “baby weight” that most people think refers to my eight-month old son, but really refers to this fat little imp in my brain that I was born with. The one that tells you you can’t do it, that you’re too fat, that you’ll look like a deflated elephant even if you were to lose the weight, that you’re husband doesn’t deserve your cellulite and saggy skin, that your kids are going to get teased because their mom is Fatty, Fatty Two-By-Four…Oh, I have thought it all.

So, bottom line? I am going to be honest with myself through this blog. I am going to document the ugly parts, the funny parts, the embarrassing parts, the parts that most women think they are alone on (at least I hope there’s more people like me out there!).

Here are the Stats to date:

Starting weight as of January 1st: 325 pounds (I am literally about to breathe into a bag I am near hyperventilation just typing that)

Weight today: 310 pounds (achieved my first goal of being at the weight I was before I got pregnant)

Next goal: 299 (not only because it gets me out of the ugliest number imaginable, but because that was the weight I was at in college when I started Weight Watchers and lost 75 pounds)

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The Fat (Little) Blogger that Could

A mom writing a blog about losing weight and trying to be cheeky? Come ON now.

‘Tis true, I am definitely not going to be paving any trails with this blog. But, it just might be enough to hold myself in check long enough to avoid McDonald’s drive-thru for the sixth…or seventh time this week. That being said, I am not going to try and paint with a wide brush and talk about myself like a chunky, yet adorable Bridget Jones. Regardless, this isn’t going to be a blog where obese women come to cut themselves.

I’m going to go for right in the middle…

So, what better place to start than the beginning? 

Oh, child, you will never believe how many Spanx you will own one day


Every woman remembers that first instant she thought she was fat. That millisecond where she became convinced the world is disgusted with her. “Why is she wearing that? Doesn’t she have a mirror at home? Doesn’t she know we can see her cellulite? Do you think she knows she’s fat? Why does she even leave her house? Do you think she is crane lifted out of bed to get to work in the morning?” Hey, we have all been there. Women are constantly worried they will be the fattest in any situation. No one wants to go out to the bars when they’re single with a bunch of Victoria’s Secret models. I did my time as single lady going out with skinny friends and 99.9% of the time it ended up with me sitting on a curb with mascara and snot smeared across my blotchy, drunken face while I called my little brother and told him he is the only man who would ever love me. Gosh, I am glad I am married now. Not as glad that my brother told this same story during his speech at said wedding.


But anyway, back to the moment my inner fatty kicked in…


I was about six years old. Yes, six. My dad had stuck my butt in a bucket and was lifting me up and laughing at the situation. The whole time I remember thinking gosh, how strong is my dad. He must finally be realizing how his genes have mutated into a human blob. How can he keep holding me up? What do I weigh, 40, 50 pounds? Is he Hercules? Look at everyone stare at how fat my butt is to be stuck in a bucket…


Now, I would be glad if I sat on a bucket and didn’t feel like it was going to explode into enough confetti for the Macy’s Day Parade.

But, Six years old?

How does this happen?

Mind you, I still have a picture of this Easter that my inner fatty personified. I would have been lucky if I had a pinch of fat on my knobby-kneed little body, yet, I was convinced I was enormous.

From that point on, it was like this symptom of well, they think I’m fat now, I will REALLY show them how fat I am. I was a tiny self-fulfilling prophecy. There was no stopping me. I remember hiding boxes of Girl Scout cookies behind my dresser as a little girl and binging as fast and hard as I could before anyone could find them. I remember being in 8th grade and a little snot-faced twit that I had a crush on asked me how much I weighed. I laughed and said “None of your business!” To which he responded, “Come on, is it like 200 pounds?” The look on my face was probably an easy tell, but I laughed hysterically like he just ate a bag of mushrooms and responded, “My GOD, gross!!! No WAY!” Of course, that was exactly how much I weighed. To the ounce. Maybe even a couple ounces more.

Me a couple awkward years later at Junior Prom

So, here I go again. And this time, I am taking down all of my barriers. I am not going to pretend I weigh even within Spanx range of my driver’s license. I am not going to sit here and get offended when my fellow fat friends lump me into the “fat girl” group. I am not going professionally fish for compliments from my husband (who I am sure has run dry of different ways of saying you’re sexy-curvy). I am airing out that dirty laundry for the world to see, and by God, if I don’t beat this thing, I will die trying!