Posts from — January 2009

My eating disordered puppy – I should’ve named her PIA for “pain in the ass” because that’s what she is. It’s not enough that she picks through her food, leaving morsels she deems unacceptable scattered on the floor around her bowl and throughout the house. She also refuses to eat any apple that’s not a Fuji. Forget trying to fool her with a Red Delicious or Granny Smith because her palate is too discerning for such trickery. As much as I love her, I have to admit that getting her to eat is one of the more annoying endeavors of my life. But my husband just laughs because he knows this is karmic justice.

Nothing is worse than short, chubby arms. Unless you’re a midget. That’s worse.

- Emaciated Lady, contemplating the lesser of two evils and refusing to be linguistically constrained by PC terms like “little person” and “short statured.”

The Pope, whose face on my fridge reminds me that, though I’m not a religious person, gluttony is still a sin. Also Spock, who wishes me to live long and prosper.

I threw out a bunch of old Hooter’s uniforms recently, including the x-small shorts which were once the pride of my collection. Admittedly, x-small wasn’t the smallest of the small, but it was the smallest I could get my body to fit into. You see, the first thing a girl gets when she’s hired at Hooters is her uniform. And uniforms start at size small and move down from there. The sizing scheme looks something like this:

• small = start starving
• x-small = you’re average, deal with it
• xx-small = consider yourself among the elite

Woe unto the girl who has to ask for a medium or large. Most girls wore x-small to xx-small. Me? I started at a small and starved my way down a size. But even at the time I knew the whole sizing scheme was idiotic. Why not just call the sizes what they really are: small, medium and large? Fucking assholes. That’s why.

I don’t know what asshole invented the body fat caliper, but whoever it was deserves to die a fat death. The reason I even bring this up is because I received a promotional offer from Bally’s Fitness yesterday, and I have a mind to tell them where to shove it.

It was at Bally’s that I had my first and last body fat measurement – I was 25 and in decent shape given that I was training for a half marathon. Please note that I am somewhere in the ballpark of  5′10”-5′11″ tall, and at the time I weighed 144 lbs. If I weighed that much today, I’d be suicidal but that’s because I’m fucked up, and I blame some of my fucked upness on what happened during my orientation with a douchebag trainer there.

After some pinching, poking, prodding, tape measuring, and a good sizing up and down, he declared his professional opinion: I needed to lose 15 inches and 24 lbs. If I had a spine, I would’ve grabbed the caliper claw of death from his beefcake hand and pinched him where it really matters.

Me: I’ve gained half a pound every day for the past five days. That’s two and a half pounds!                                             

Emaciated Lady: Well, what are you doing differently?                                                              

 Me: Eating.

I was fucked up even at 12, and I know this because I happened across an old journal I kept for English class. Every day the teacher had us journal on a different topic, one of which went something along the lines of – If a genie were to grant you just one wish, what would you wish for?

My answer: I would wish for a flat stomach because then I would be thin and happy.

Many of the world’s greatest minds have wished for the same.

How many times can a person look at before and after weight loss pictures of celebrities? I’ve gone to this site five times today. I have mental problems.