I don’t know what to tell you at this point.
You got fat.
Like really fat.
I can no longer provide comforting words like “It’s not that noticeable” or “you just need to be a little stricter with your eating habits, you’ll lose it in no time.”
We have to be honest: you’re. not. losing. the. weight.
Ever.
When the first stretchmarks appeared, half your wardrobe still fit you. I thought that might be a wake up call. You still had time to reverse course, dial back the greediness and save your closet filled with cute, cropped, tight clothes you used to so proudly display on your trim, petite body.
Those stretchmarks on your stomach meant your body was starting to permanently change to accommodate your weight, tearing at the seams because you couldn’t stop consuming fatty, sugary, carb-packed foods. Sometimes you had the resolve to eat a salad for lunch so I really thought you might turn it around.
You didn’t.
Your complaints of losing your favorite outfits and feeling out of shape and having to withstand the shame of doctor’s visits every time you stepped on the scale all started to sound hollow.
I think you like this, don’t you?
You enjoy giving up that idealized, thin-but-curvy, disciplined image of yourself. You love the feeling of indulging yourself anytime, any place without worrying how it will impact your waistline. You are addicted to going to bed stuffed to the brim every single night, knowing full well your clothes will be tighter and tighter and tighter the next morning. You secretly get off to the idea of becoming a pig, knowing everyone around is watching you blimp into that shameless, greedy, stuffed pig.
Those first stretchmarks were not signals to turnaround — they were green lights to accelerate into unrepentant obesity, weren’t they?
The damage was done, the fuse was lit, the bimbo was set to blow. And blow up you did. It was honestly impressive how you somehow increased your rate of fattening and commitment to losing weight at the same time. I played along, offering you support in your weight loss journey, urged you to keep your crop tops and outgrown dresses because, I said, “you’ll feel confident enough to wear those again.”
I was right but not because you lost the weight.
As you sit there in a crop top and unbuttoned shorts, stuffing your pudgy face with Ben and Jerry’s ice cream like a desperate hog, your swollen, doughy gut wrapped hip to hip with furious stretchmarks, I feel immense gratitude that we’re both being honest finally.
You’re fucking fat and there’s no going back.
