Sunday, October 21, 2012

Sisters! Awful, evil, nasty, funny, wonderful women.

The way we choose to lose weight is a very personal thing; however, it's interesting what similar stories many of us "fluffies" - my term of endearment for we non-Twiggy types - share.  One of my favorites is the, I'm-gonna'-trick-myself-into-believing-the-bullshit-magazine-advertisement ploy.  This is the hideous brain fart moment when I stop mid-bite on my king sized Snickers Bar and stare at the full page testimonials of the newest wonder weight loss miracle drug (FDA approval pending).  Somehow I convince my mind that the bad photo shop paste jobs are authentic.  My thoughts start with the following:

"How amazingly happy that skinny lady looks.  Isn't it ironic that she's wearing the same barrett in both pictures?  She must really like that barrett.  I wonder how much this incredible drug costs?  I want to be happy like this skinny lady too.  Hmmm, if I order now I get a free set of knives to cut vegetables with.  I hate vegetables.  I don't care.  I want the knives anyway. They can help me when I'm baking my holiday cakes and pies."

Then there's the special diet plans.  The ones where I pay over a $100 or more a week to have the company ship me their food and I miraculously shed the weight until I attend my first neighborhood party or go out to dinner.  Once this happens, my fluffy ass can kiss the diet salad dressing packets goodbye.  No wonder Eric and I are always broke.

There is a story behind this story, believe it or not, and I'm getting to it.  The very topic of diets starts me ramblin'.  After all, I am the queen bee of all weight loss strategies.  I've experienced just about every one of them.  Fortunately for me, I've learned to say, "I'm Bri and I'm beautiful", regardless of my fluffy butt and fold of fat left over from my gastric bypass surgery seven years ago. We are who we're meant to be.  Yes, I've gone skinny dipping with my husband and with a group of strangers.  Ah well, life moves on.  "I yam what I yam".



When I was in my early twenties, I was fortunate to live right behind - or "next door" - to my oldest sister, Ellenmary.  We both lived on an ancient rental property in Long Beach, California, with our former husbands.  My sister and her ex-husband rented the front house and my ex-husband, Jeff, and I rented half the duplex behind them.  The other half was rented by a dear friend of Jeff's whom eventually I came to love like a brother.  We couldn't have asked for a nicer situation.

Ellen and I were Monday dieters.  I'm certain I don't need to explain this to you, my dear friends and blog readers, but for clarification purposes I will.  Every weekend, we found ourselves gorging on horrible fatty foods and on Sunday evenings we'd make a pact.  My sister and I would promise to meet at some ungodly hour on Monday morning and begin our dieting retinue of "power walking" to the beach and start some new fad diet that day.  This is how it would begin:

5:00am Monday:  Bright eyed, ready and excited; my sister and I would get together on her front porch, dutifully stretch our calf muscles, and start power walking down the quaint streets of our lovely beach city.

5:15am Tuesday:  I'd sit on Ellen's front porch, struggling to tie my shoes in the pre-dawn light, and Ellen would walk out the front door looking a little worse for wear.  We would fore go the stretching,  stop at a coffee shop in Naples (a walkway of eclectic shopping and houses down Ocean Blvd.) for a cinnamon bun, and take a much needed rest before heading back home.

5:20am Wednesday:  I'd wait for Ellen for approximately 10 minutes praying she overslept. Inevitably she would.  I'd go back into my duplex for a doughnut and some coffee.

Two weeks and one pants size larger, I considered my plight:

I can't depend on anyone helping me to lose weight but myself.  Ellen is busy.  I saw an advertisement for a "Richard Simmons' Sweatin' to the Oldies", video on TV.  I can do this!  I can dance in the morning before I shower for work.

Video in.  Richard Simmons sure had energy in his little blue dolphin shorts but if those other big ladies behind him could dance, so could I!  I began the routine.  The old duplex shook.  It sounded literally like the Disney Cartoon, Fantasia, in particular the part when the elephants were on parade.  Thank goodness both Jeff and our neighbor, Dave were sound sleepers.  I would be mortified if they saw me trying to dance.  I was huffing and puffing.  I was awful! 

I heard laughing and it was not coming from my video.  Richard usually cries with empathy for his ladies.  This was hysterical cackling; the kind of laughter that could and would wake entire neighborhoods.  It sounded strangely familiar too.  Jeez, it was loud...who, what, where?

My sister...ELLENMARY!  Apparently with the light behind me, I was casting an enormously larger than life shadow across my drapes.  My fluffy size 24 body lunging across my duplex appeared more like a monster amazon struggling to accomplish the silliest of dance moves which wasn't - in all actuality - far from the truth.  Dammit it all!  Did she have to laugh that loud?  I slammed open my door and there she was, practically rolling on the grass between our houses.  WELL!  I didn't see sweat dripping down her face!  At least I was trying to do something about my fluffy rolls!  Dammit!

Sisters!  Awful, evil, nasty, funny, wonderful women.