I know what you are all thinking…

It has been quite a while since I last posted, and I know that there have been rumors of “Oh, Fatty’s fallen off the wagon (wheel)!” and “I knew she couldn’t do it!”.   Well. No need to be rude. Fat people still have feelings!

Over the past couple of months, I have had my SIL’s family stay, the planning stages of a complete restructure at work (yes, it is unbelievable that someone would hire this mammoth of a woman! I guess my sparkling personality and hilarious jokes are worth my pay cheque!), my mother’s wedding <3, dramas with my BH’s job and the general day to day irritations of being an overweight blonde city girl.

So, to update you on the past month or so, I had Halloween dress ups at work (we dress up a lot… It’s a fun job!) and while I wanted to dress as a petite little Tinker Bell, I hadn’t yet lost enough weight, and had horrible images of looking like the love child of Kermit the Frog and Sally Struthers. Not. Hot.   So I channeled my inner goth, and went as Morticia Addams. I thought I had lost a bit of weight around the boobie area, but every single man kept saying: “Oooh! Elvira! Great costume!”. I guess maybe my shirt was a little low cut…….

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The Melbourne Cup was next, and I wore a cute (but professional) dress to work. I had heard an urban myth circling my weight loss group, but was skeptical… Until…… Let me start from the beginning.

I currently share an office with my Managing Director. He is a lovely guy, and we spend a lot of time joking and laughing. And working (if he happens to read this). This particular day, I reached for a folder and felt a fresh breeze across my buttocks. Unusual. I looked down, and to my complete horror, my underwear had migrated south, and were dangerously close to heading into Cankle Territory. JESUS CHRIST!

Had it not been for the fact that it was “washing day” and I was wearing those undies that used to be cute and lacy, but are now grey from too many washes and are barely held together from the elastic now masquerading as dental floss, AND that my boss was offsite at a meeting, I am sure I would have been done for sexual harassment*.

The moral of the story is, even though you don’t HAVE to wear stockings anymore…. It is probably a good idea to do so. And buy some new undies.

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The last event was my mothers wedding – or “THE EVENT OF THE YEAR”, if you will.  I had purchased my dress while I was still grossly obese, and as I had shrunk it began looking nicer and nicer. Maybe it is my reverse-body-dysmorphic-disorder, but I think I looked quite nice!

The wedding was absolutely wonderful, my mother looked stunning and the food was DELICIOUS! Ha! Tricked you! I can’t eat any “normal” food.

I was so busy on the day that all I could do was gobble down a Cohen Friendly hamburger pattie whilst bending over to reduce the chances of dripping burger juice on my dress and hiding behind the boot of the car so the other guests didn’t notice me being a freak.

A realisation that came from the wedding, however, was that I am waaaaaaaaaaaaay out of practice for rejecting men’s advances, as I have not been hit on in FOR. EVER.

Unfortunately it was a drunken member of my new step-father’s family, (hey, even though he was blind drunk, I was still picked up. I’ll take whatever I can get these days!) who wanted to dance all night and take photos with me. I had to keep reminding him that “We are family now!” and pointing him in the direction of some other not so related guests. Good times!

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*Just kidding. I work in the film industry. We don’t have any rules or laws against Sexual Harassment. In fact, it is highly encouraged!


These Boots Are Made For Waddling…

I spent this past weekend at Westfield looking for some nice boots to replace my very worn ones. To be fair, they have stood up to months of dragging around 100kgs, and they had done their job quite well.

Unfortunately all the shops were clearing out old stock to make room for summer sandals and sky high heels – so my hopes for something decent were pretty low. At this time of year the only boots available are in a women’s size 15, or looked like this. No. Thank. You.

As a delicate size 5 girl (only in the shoe department), I can always find a gorgeous little pair of something spectacular to cheer myself up after a bout of failed clothes shopping 😦 UNLESS it is Boot Shopping. Boot shopping sucks.

The problem is if the shoe fits, then the calf bit is crumpled down around my ankle, or only zips up 2 centimeters and I look like I’m taking inspiration from this woman. The alternative is, if the calf fits, the shoe part looks like I am a three year old trying on my fathers shoes. Either option does not provide satisfaction for this young lady.

In the past I have been known to get my own way. Please don’t misunderstand, I am not one of those awful women waving their Louis Vuitton handbag around screaming at sales assistants, however I DO believe that if you want me to spend $300+ in your shop, then you gotta work for it!

So, I walked into Wittner at Westfield, and asked the 12 year old assistant (who actually looked a little scared for her life when I zeroed in on her to serve me) for all of her flat, black, leather boots, 1. that aren’t too butch* and 2. that will fit around my “power calves”. Good luck Miss.

The poor young thing trotted off on her stick thin legs to find the un-find-able. She came back with 2 pairs. Both in size 6. Fail. But, because of her efforts, I agreed to try them on. As I suspected, they didn’t go up past my ankle. Or cankle as she was thinking. Bitch. The other pair were the ‘pull on’ style. Or they would be if I wasn’t so voluptuous. I started the challenge. Right foot in. Calf leather bunched up around the cankle area, but I persevered. Then the most horrifying thing happened. The once shy and naive pre-teen assistant decided to help. NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

She wedged her fake, too long, french manicured fingernails between the expensive leather and my sweaty, fat calves. And then…. she tugged and pulled and heaved trying to pull those damn boots up. I could see the sweat beads pooling on her over-foundation-ed forehead. This girl was really earning her $12.50 an hour. By this time, a small crowd had gathered and I am sure someone took a photo on their iPhone (My better half says that there was not a crowd and no-one took a picture – but I was the one in the war zone. I was the one experiencing the embarrassment and physical pain.).

After about 45 minutes (or 1 minute, if you believe my better half’s version of events), the boots were as ‘on’ as they were going to get. I nervously stood up and looked at myself in the mirror.

No. Just no.

No to the muffin top I had developed below my knee. No to the insistence of the torturous teen that the “leather would stretch”. Lets be honest; the leather was not even that taut when it was on the cow. And definitely no to going through this every morning before work.

But, perhaps from embarrassment, perhaps because my feet had swollen and I wouldn’t have been able to pry the boots off without the assistance of the fire brigade or perhaps because all of my blood had pooled in the areas that weren’t squeezed into those leather devils, I waddled to the counter and woozily handed over my hard earned credit card and paid for those suckers.

I’m returning them tomorrow. Promise.

*NOTHING against girls who love girls, I am just a little more “Lipstick Lesbian” than “Stone Cold Dyke”.