Extra Large Man congratulating me and Skinny Lady on a job well done last week.

So to make her feel better, I acknowledged my own pot belly, which I wish I could blame on motherhood but instead have to chalk up to poor genetics (and the occasional french fry/pastry/fill-in-the-bad-for-you-food binge). She looked at me like a crazy woman and said my stomach looked like “that” – and she gestured to my fabulously fit 17 year old niece who was sporting a sexy zebra print string bikini. Obviously I have a gift for hiding my defects, so I looked to my husband to confirm my fat. I asked, “Don’t I have a pot belly?” And he confirmed, “It’s true, she’s got a belly.” At this point both my niece and sister broke out into a shocked laughter, one that wondered what kind of stupid husband would say such a thing. And in my mind I thought “mine.”

-Skinny Lady, on the fat acceptance movement 

Case in point: On moving day, my husband told our friend that I was on a “french fry tear” last week. Though true, this is an embarrassing fact that I felt forced to acknowledge. When I did, my friend replied with, “…But as some part of you knows, you could use all the fries you can find as you are the skinniest of sticks.” As sweet a compliment as that is to a girl like me, my impulse is to object with, ”No, dear friend, you were just too distracted by the long, skinny stems to notice the muffin top just a few inches higher.”

But this is all irrelevant to what happens next. She tells me to bring her the magazine on top. It happens to be an In Touch Weekly from June 2007 with Angelina Jolie gracing the cover. She indicates for me to sit down next to her, flips through until she finds the page she’s looking for, and then directs me to read a blurb beneath a picture of the actress, who happens to be looking rather skeletal.

The gist of the blurb is that skinny women: 1) have more difficulty getting pregnant, and 2) are more likely to miscarry. I turn to my mom after reading the blurb and the first thing I notice is the satisfied look on her face, as if she just discovered the cause of all my problems. So I say to her, ”Mom, she looks like a skeleton. I don’t.”  To which she replied, “Almost.” I love it when she compliments me!

To be honest though, the first comment my husband made upon seeing this drawing was: “Your father would be mortified if he saw this.” It’s true. My father was a talented artist by all accounts, and I, his genetic offspring, have turned out to be a talentless disappointment (in more ways than one, I’m sure). Yay me.

Ditch the friends. You won’t be missed and if you are, it won’t be for long because there’s already a replacement friend waiting in the wings. Sure you’ll be lonely, but you’ll also be skinny. And really, what’s more important?

Once you’re rid of the friends, the rest is just maintenance. Maintenance is cake, though not quite as tasty.