March 20, 2012
Supposedly 'thick' doesn't mean fat at all, rather it means a woman in good shape with more curvature than the rest of her species.
I disagree.
I think thick is just a nicer way of saying fat. Like 'yeah she kinda thick' translates into 'she's kinda fat' or 'lil mama thick in the right places' translates into 'lil mama fat in the right places.'
Or that's what I think it means. Don't get me to lying, black folks these days don't want to call anybody fat. You can be sitting at two hundred pounds and considered not fat, but 'thick.
"Oh she aint fat, nah she just thick but she got a nice lil big girl shape going on."
Now what in the heck does that mean? How can you have a big girl shape and not be overweight?
Can someone explain that to me? A little bit? Please?
Well I stepped on the scale this morning, right after I got through crying my eyes out because yet another douche bag walked into my life and left, and grimaced at it like a bad omen.
One sixty five is great! I mean it's not one seventy so it's awesome....it's just--
I feel so fat. When I look in the mirror I see four chins instead of two, everything is amplified by two hundred percent and I can't freaking stand it. My thighs look like freaking saddle bags and I have something that resembles a beer belly.
The last time I was this is when I was thirteen/fourteen. I recall feeling all the early teen angst and wishing that God would one day bless me with skinny genes and I'd suddenly be half a hundred pounds lighter like my class mates. Only he didn't bless me with skinny genes, he blessed me with determination and I messed up big time.
I messed up real bad.
One hundred and fifteen sounds nice, but it doesn't look nice on everybody. In my family women tend to gain weight in their hips and thighs, with upper bodies resembling the closest thing to skinny that I'll ever get to. In a nut shell we're disproportionate black women, teeny-tiny upper body's and sumo wrestler style lower bodies.
At one fifteen I looked dead. I looked anorexic, I looked like death had swooped in and sucked my face of it's meat, plucked my tiny arms of it's flesh and pushed my eyes too deeply into their sockets. I looked bad. And worse? I still had saddle bags.
I can't win.
Maybe I should be looking on the bright side. I've been at both extremes, too thin and too fat, but there was some balance before I screwed it up.
Didn't I look great at one forty? And even better at one thirty? So why, why, oh WHY did I go crazy?
For a full year I was anorexic, maybe even borderline bulimic. At one fifteen I thought I looked great and all the strange looks were that of admiration.
I just thought "man, I must look fantastic."
But I didn't.
And even when my mom convinced me to gain ten pounds I still didn't stop. I gained another ten and another and another and ha...here I am today staring at this stupid scale wishing it would drop another five pounds.
I should be happy because honestly I didn't really do anything to lose five pounds. I might have went without eating for a few days due to crying, and lost my appetite and walked aimlessly around the department store thinking, "I never have a Valentine on Valentines Day."
So I'm going to shut up and be grateful. Today is the beginning of the rest of my life.
I'm going to do something about myself. I'm going to lose weight again, the healthy way.
Starting Weight: 170
Current Weight: 165
