Fat people frighten me. Not overweight people, not jiggly people; I can understand those. I'm talking about people who have not seen their feet for a decade—people who would weigh 100 pounds on the moon. I don't fear them out of prejudice or some other misguided pride; I'm afraid because I don't want to become one. I'll tell you my most recent nightmare:
I needed to dress up for an important event. I tried on outfit after outfit. And every time I donned a new outfit, I instantly gained 15 pounds or so, meaning I couldn't go back to any previous outfits I had liked because they no longer fit. I almost feel like this happens daily with the items in my closet. Christopher has to reassure me every couple of days that, indeed, I have not ever remotely approached the size of a tank.
Between my unexplainable hormonal imbalance, two inert semesters without consistent exercise, and the handful of M&Ms in my mouth right now, I have every right to be afraid. I think I'm going to go do some push-ups.