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
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