Chapter 3: Rock Bottom

Flip flops and parkour do not mix.  This occurred to me as I sprinted toward the rock wall that borders the Nelson Atkins Museum of Art.  It is deceptively low on one side, and should you ever find yourself in mid-hurdle above it, I have three words for you:  sweet gum balls.  Those spiny little bastards are everywhere in the fall. 

My “landing” lasted approximately seven minutes and resembled what might occur if an octopus were catapulted onto an ice rink scattered with marbles.  Both flip-flops were brutally ripped apart by the force of my fall.

When it was all over, I laid ass-out on the sidewalk and let out a soft whimper that built into a full-fledged sob. 

My “friend” Brennan, who had been walking behind me, frowned as he concluded his phone call, “I’m gonna have to call you back.” 

He pressed his finger to his phone, but instead of kneeling down to tend to my injuries, he stared, transfixed, at the yellow school bus behind me.

It’s important to note at this point that the Nelson Atkins Museum of Art is a popular destination for elementary school field trips. 

Raucous laughter erupted from the packed bus.  Tiny fingers poked through the windows to point at the idiot girl who had just spectacularly crashed onto the sidewalk on Oak Street. 

Shoeless, paralyzed from the ankles down, and humiliated, I began to wonder if I would ever get up.  Perhaps it would be best to just stay down here and live amongst the fallen leaves and sweet gum balls. 

Brennan, bored by this point, scooped me up and dragged me to his apartment across the street where he propped me up on the couch with both feet elevated on two pillows atop his coffee table.

And then Fatty took over.  She knew I was injured, too weak to fight back.

“Can I get you anything?” asked Brennan.

“Twisted puffed Cheetos,” Fatty whined. 

Brennan grimaced, but he ran to QuickTrip to pick some up. 

What I am about to reveal will be no surprise to both the Frito-Lay corporation and anyone who has ever suffered a Cheeto addiction.  After that first small bag, I went on what can only be described as a six week bender, which culminated in front of the Dollar Store in Raytown.

“Stop the car!” Fatty shouted.  Huge yellow letters in the window advertised a two-for-one sale on Twisted Puffed Cheetos.

“Oh god.  Really?”  Brennan’s face contorted with fear and shame as we pulled up to the storefront.  He had noticed not only the revolting pace at which Fatty could devour puffed cheese snacks, but also the additional girth the habit had produced.

Fatty stomped into the store and emerged moments later carrying two giant bags of cheesy poofs.  She wouldn’t even let me wait until we got home to devour them in shameful solitude.  No.  She just ripped open the bag and went to town shoveling the cheesy, puffed corn into our mouth.  And that’s when it happened.  Rock...fucking...bottom.

“I fuhwl shek,” Fatty mumbled through the blob of half-chewed Cheeto mash in her mouth.

Flakes of puffed-corn carnage littered the front of my shirt.  Brennan couldn’t bear look at me.

Fatty passed out, allowing me to emerge from my Cheeto-induced fugue state. 

“Brennan, take these away from me.”  I surrendered the chips.

“O.k.,” he said, still looking out the window.

Chapter 2: The Sauce

I recently acquired health insurance, but since I had previously been maintaining my “health” through the socialist Shangri-La known as the UMKC Student Health Clinic, I had to find an actual doctor.  So, my friend recommended hers, a man we’ll call “Dr. Lob.”  She did not tell me that Dr. Lob specializes in geriatrics.  The office is in a time warp.  They don’t accept credit cards.  The only magazine in the waiting room is AARP.  The stench of looming death (which, by the way, is like two parts foot powder and one part Listerine with a hint of Metamucil) is inescapable.  As I filled out my new patient forms, I sat mere inches away from actual old people.  But not just regular old people. Sick old people clutching wadded up tissues, many of whom were probably wearing adult diapers and peeing in them just a little bit.  O.k., fine.  I know what you’re thinking.  But don’t judge me.  I realize the irony of my situation—that I, too, will one day don the adult diaper.  But sweet Jebus, until that day comes, let the aged and I keep our distance. At this point, you may be asking yourself what this has to do with my battle against Fatty McGhee.  Well, if there’s one thing that Fatty hates, it’s getting weighed, a ritual upon which they insist at most doctors’ offices (believe me, I’ve tried to stop them).  And if there’s one thing that Fatty loves, besides bacon, it’s the sauce...booze...grown-up juice.    On the new patient form, there’s a question about the sauce—specifically, how much of it do you drink.  Well, on most of these forms, you get to circle a number per week.  I like those, because the lie is so easy.  Just circle 2.  That’s what they want.  But this one asked “How much do you drink?”  And then it provided a blank space.  Shit.  I tried to think of a reasonable number that was somewhat close to the truth, but every answer that was even remotely honest seemed like too much, so I just wrote, “probably too much.”  Perfect.  Finally, the nurse called me back through the catacombs of the office to be weighed.  “You bastard!” Fatty shouted at the scale. I took off my shoes, stepped up, and requested, “Look, could you just write down my weight without telling me?  I’m obviously not going to use the information constructively.” “Sure,” she agreed, and then she ushered me to a smaller, private room, where I could read AARP in solitude while I waited for another twenty minutes.  Dr. Lob knocked gingerly on the door.  He had a beard, which I don’t like, because I feel that they are dishonest (what are you hiding behind all that facial scruff?) and he trembled slightly as he thumbed through my scant file.  Then he paused. “How much do you drink?”  He was clearly exasperated by my written response. “About two glasses of wine a night?”  Please let that be the right number. “That’s probably too much.  We like that number to be closer to two drinks per week.” Fatty wanted to tell him that his beard sucked and that his hands looked like cabbages, but instead I just nodded.  Sigh.  Goodbye box-wine.  I’ll miss you.

Chapter 1: My Eating Alter-Ego

On a recent walk with my friend Maureen (Mo) and our dogs (Otis and Soft Taco), I asked her if she had any trouble with uncontrollable nighttime pseudo-hunger that devolves into a shame-spiral of binge-snacking...because, uh...that’s my reality.

“Oh yeah,” she replied.  “There are just certain things that I can’t keep in my home—“

“Chips,” we chirped in unison.

“Yes.  And that sweet and salty popcorn.  And there can’t be a Topsy’s within a five mile radius of me.”

I confessed that it was as if there were some sort of short-circuit in my brain, a wall of fog that allows me to continually unwrap packaged cheese or refill a bowl with chips and popcorn until I am literally sick with regret.  As I described almost every night of my life for the last four months, Mo nodded, affirming that my description matched her own. 

She thought for a moment while Otis pooped, and she posited this theory: “I think there’s another girl that lives in here,” she pointed to her stomach.  “And she gets so angry when you don’t feed her.  I mean, you know how I get ‘I wanna punch somebody in the face’ hungry?  It’s like my eating alter-ego.  I call her MoFo.”

“Oh my god.”

“I know.  She is always hungry. “

“And she sounds beefy.  I bet she’s wicked strong.  I wonder what my eating alter-ego is called...no wait.  I know.  She’s Fatty McGhee.  Ugh.  She is such a bitch.  She’s always like, ‘hey, maybe you should have a salted caramel cookie or seven...and then some chips and salsa...and you probably better melt some cheese on those chips.’”

We agreed that both of us have, at various times throughout our lives, been taken down hard by these fat girls within, and it occurred to me that I don’t have to hate myself over this anymore.  It’s not me who has caused this 25lbs to gather in my hips and midsection—it’s that goddamned Fatty McGhee. 

So I have developed a plan.  But before we go there, let us review the various methods through which I have won small battles with Fatty McGhee only to continually lose the war:

1)       Weight Watchers—God, I just hate the name.  I don’t want to “watch” my weight.  I want to live my damn life!  I hate seeing food (beautiful, glorious, aromatic, delicious food) in terms of points.  It works, but at what cost?!  Absolutely unsustainable (I mean for me, anyway.  If you fucking love weight watchers, and you want to shout from the mountain-tops about how it saved your life, good on you).

2)      Nutri-System—O.k.  somewhat better.  You never have to think about what to eat.  Just open a box.  But, uh...isn’t processed food how we (and by we, I mean me) got to be fat in the first place?  I don’t think it helps anything if you’re eating pizza and macaroni and cheese for dinner every night.  One cannot eat pre-packaged food forever.  And Fatty McGhee is wise.  She bides her time, and like a thief in the night, she returns, fatter and bitchier than ever, with fistfuls of fresh mozzarella and buttered breads.

3)      Fat Burners—I’m talking pills, people, and none of them really do shit.  Except one, one marvelous little ingredient for which we will now have a moment of silence...Ephedra.  Ma Huong.  Whatever you want to call it.  It was glorious to the tune of 30 lbs in one month. Gone...effortlessly.  Fatty wasn’t hungry!  Sadly, it’s because she was basically on amphetamines.  So, the versions of this “supplement” that had like 100 mg of Ephedra  were extremely dangerous.  But my magic pills only had 20mg.  Twenty eensy-weensy little milligrams.  They make pills with Ephedra in them now that the ban has been lifted, but they’re not the same.  Sigh.  Clench fist.  Shake angrily at FDA.

4)      Crazy Working Out—This works, but break the routine for even one week, say, if you get sick, and Fatty McGhee swoops right in there and undoes every bit of hard work.  Damn her.

So, there you have it.  But here’s the one thing I haven’t tried yet.  I have never exposed Fatty McGhee to the public.  That’s right, bitch. You’re coming out of the closet.  It’s on