When you said I’d never have to lift a finger if I didn’t want to, it turned out you meant it literally. And now, I almost can’t manage even that much. In all the years we’ve been together, you’ve always been the sweetest, kindest, most attentive partner anyone could ask for. You’ve indulged, even anticipated, my every whim. The hundreds of pounds of blubber I’m buried under are visible proof of that. But I don’t know how much more of your love my body can take.
When we met, I was comparatively skinny. Not fat; barely chubby, even. It didn’t take long for that to stop being true. You doted on me with regular boxes of chocolate, romantic dinners out, late nights staying at the ice cream parlor near my apartment until closing, homemade baked goods and other treats delivered before our dates. I was so taken by all your affection and how much I was enjoying all the treats that I barely noticed what it was doing to my waistline. The new (bigger) clothes you consistently brought me helped with that, too; but there was a part of me that was enjoying it so much that I didn’t want to notice, either.
I won’t say things changed, but they definitely accelerated once we moved in together. With basically a 24/7 opportunity to see me, your flow of affection turned into a torrent. Now, instead of only getting spoiled when we were going on a date or hanging out together, I was the beneficiary of your generosity almost constantly. It went from being a little pastry with my coffee break or a special second dessert, to having something new to eat or drink every couple of hours or less. It started taking conscious effort to finish one treat before you appeared, smiling, with another. I hated to be ungrateful, didn’t want you to think I didn’t appreciate what you were doing for me, and so… I just kept eating.
Eventually, I got used to it. It became a habit to accept your regular round of indulgences without question. And I started looking like someone who was used to it. My belly got too big to fit into our compact car, even doing everything I could to press its pendulous weight down between my legs. My rump and love handles thickened and widened until the armchairs in our living room became impractical, comfortable traps that my girth would fill and overflow and be completely stuck in without help. My elbows and wrists disappeared under puffy sleeves of chub that I could feel wobbling with each swing of my now-weightier arms, trying to counterbalance the movement of my body from walking. I say walking; it quickly came to look more like I was barely picking up each of my blubbery, shapeless legs and putting it down a little ahead of where it had been before repeating the process with the other. Once you told me I’d run out of plus-sizes at our favorite clothing store, and I saw no signs that my ballooning would be slowing down anytime soon, I knew I had to say something
It’s hard to describe the few times I tried to rein you in as anything other than a disaster. Try as I might, I just couldn’t make you understand that wanting to slow down on all the special snacks and desserts and goodies had nothing to do with how I felt about our relationship. You said you did, of course, and tried to put on a good show; but eventually you started to mope and seem listless and look absolutely miserable. You hardly ate anything yourself. And for my part, having gotten used to the constant flow of calories and the dopamine hit with every new treat, there wasn’t much willpower left when I saw how hard it was hitting you. It never took long for me to give in, see the joy return to your face when you got to start filling me up with lavish indulgences again, and go along with it when you made a point of outdoing your past spoiling to make up for lost time.
Now that it’s so hard to move, it’s only gotten worse. You know I can barely get out of bed, and how tired I get those few times a day when I do. You’re always ready to make sure I have what I need so I, literally, never have to lift a finger or even ask for something I might want. It seems like every couple of minutes, you bring me some new treat, something else to snack on, another drink, another meal, another candy. There’s always more, right at hand, to keep shoveling in.
And there’s nowhere to go. These days, I can’t even reach around all the fat on my body. It just about fills the bed that used to be big enough for the both of us. If I could manage to waddle all the way to the front door, I’m not even sure I’d fit through it anymore. I can’t get away; so whatever you bring me, I eat it. And drink it. And chew it. And swallow it.
And enjoy it. And dread it. And crave it. And fear it.
I wish you could see with clear eyes what you’re doing to me and what I really need. I wish you could see that I’m way, way too fat for my own good. That you should be making me move and exercise instead of sit and eat. That I need you to make me diet instead of make me indulge. That every treat is a temptation, every snack a sap to my willpower, every meal a means to make it that much harder to ever go back. You’re loving me to death, and every new pound proves just how completely, thoroughly, smotheringly you love me.
jacobvanloon
prguitarman
gummygunk
areudirty
yousharknotpass
dailybridgerton
