Monday, May 19, 2008
InFATuATE-it - A preponderance of Portliness
This weekend, somewhere sandwiched between a freshly discovered crop of oddities known by overpriced dermatologists as 'cherries' sprouting in tiny red abandon on both arms - and the stark reptilian wrinkly veneer gracing my once lithe hands my maligned spirit reared up on tissue wings and whispered in my ears: "Tammy, clutch, brake, reverse...." I scratched that expanse of ever expanding petal pink scalp where slivers of silver bristle in place of rich titian locks of my youth...Ok it was a scraggly rat brown mess of incorrigible hair - but at least it wasn't gray, and thinning...and I wondered what my spirit meant.
After much cogitation and the inhalation of a Quizno's Dip - generously slathered with artery hardening onion sauce I concluded in my frontal lobe that my winsome spirit's plaintive warning was only confirmation of what I already knew: The Tamster is not aging well. And it shows. Perhaps I cannot stem the encroaching warts, wrinkles and age spots and maybe I should wear my silver coiffed like the crown of experience it conveys, but I simply cannot stand idle as my once svelte figure balloons from desert tadpole to southern BULLFROG, one moment longer. I must reverse the expansion of my girth...
And so it must commence before Cirque De Soleil sends another clown with a velvet rope for my neck - mistaking me again for their missing pachyderm. I hand back the red flag from my pocket. I remove the yellow "Wide Load" banner from my ample backside and I set off in pursuit of diminishing digits on my scale. I seek the Holy Grail of "buying size 12 straight from the rack." I desire nodding with no extra chins echoing my sentiment. I want the line between my breasts to in no way resemble the line between my buttocks. And while I am discussing those items that contribute to my feminine silohuette, I want them above my knees and bigger than my stomach.
Why now you might ask, between snickers and revulsion, am I easing my corpulent self ever so carefully on the already stressed fatwagon that seems to be lurching round Writers Cafe? I can tell you without hesitation that for once this shallow gal is considering something outside of her self, and judging by the size of the inside of her self, that doesn't happen often. His name is Fred. His senior year of High School starts in August. When he turns that tassle, and I wipe tears of joy from my face, I want those Kodak moments captured without the aid of a wide angle lens.
So today I revel in an ooey gooey styrofoam container of random chicken parts, lard laced tortillas and happy melty orange cheesy chicken enchilada casserole hot and fresh from the local 'roach coach' while I map out my plan for corpulence conquest and cellulite domination. The stomach does not know yet, and the brain is only beginning to sense the pending events....oh the horror of leafy naked salad. Spare me please the sweaty anguish found in the repetitive motion of that tortuous device called a "Gazelle" (notice the slick marketing technique...its a Gazelle people. Not a rhino, or hippo...or even wart hog...but Gazelle) and finally the nightmare of seeing Mari Winsor before the sun trickles in the living room window. (Squeeze your tushy....Get ready to roll like a ball. - uh, duh. That's why I bought your tape of torment. Because I already DO roll like a ball. A POX on Pilates!)
I have not stepped on the scale yet. Its hiding under the end table...daring me to actually bend over and reach for it. In due time I will wrest it from its lair, set it on a flat surface, strip, and place one toe on it carefully before I burst into tears. And I will share the fatness with you. Perhaps public humiliation will spur me on. But today its enough shock to the system just considering the mammoth undertaking. Wondering what my feet really look like...imagining buying a belt....a fitted shirt...jiggling only in specific places when I walk...and never reminding anyone in the house of any scenes from Jurassic Park if I break into a run....
Its gonna be a long sweaty summer.
A special thank you to my dear friends: Siobhan MacIntyre and Fantasy Fairy. I support you in your efforts and I thank you for the inspiration to write about it. I'm posting the links to your stories below....because you were first:
http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/Fantasyfairy/248371/">The Diet Diary