I hear you! So I will shut up.
Because, in just one of the MANY ways XOJane is like Burger King, the the customer is king. Also, we sell onion rings and homeless people have sex in our bathrooms.
ACCORDINGLY: I'm not going to talk about my week of Fruitarianism other than:
- I felt really bad about posting too much about diets. I did!
- I did not have any of the bathroom emergencies you guys predicted. You guys are so gross and always thinking about toilet time. I love that about you.
- How do I feel? I feel OK. I celebrated being almost-done by drinking three huge goblets full of white wine (wine is a fruit) last night, just to take my new, clean organs for a test drive. Like that you, guys? Mmmm, that's poison.
- My friend who gamely tried All Fucking Fruit All the Fucking Time with me noticed that it does not help you lose weight. Neither of us felt particularly svelte like you do when you're on some kind of restrictive cleanse thing, although my sister said my face looks skinny (she never says this kind of thing!) Maybe because fruit is high in sugar, or because eating nothing but plant fiber and water all week is essentially like chowing down on a stack of wet magazines.
But I did want to address something here.
I promise you guys, it's the last thing I'm going to say about weight loss. And tits. OK, probably not the last thing I'll say about my tits.
I'm going to start by bringing it back to "Notting Hill," partially to prove that I can indeed make literally anything about "Notting Hill." It's why I'm not a wise choice to give your eulogy.
But! One of the many lines that resonates for me is when Julia Roberts says "I've been on a diet since I was 19." It's, ironically, her pity-gambit to get the last brownie at a dinner party (which always seemed really trite given that the other woman's "poor me" story was that she was PARALYZED and UNABLE TO HAVE CHILDREN AS A RESULT. Perspective: Let's all get to know it when bringing up our body mass index at a party).
Still: relevant to me.
I've been on a diet since I was 16. Right? Suck it, Wheelchair Lady, I'll take that brownie now.
Until the age of 16, I had been rail thin. Like, so thin that I still shopped at Gap Kids. Topless, I looked like a xylophone with nipples.
Puberty, for me, was like some kind of cautionary campfire tale for flat-chested teenagers. In high school, I prayed for my period exactly like one of those YA fiction heriones and got one of those Unecessary Pity Triangle Bras my freshman year. You know, when you're so breastless you don't need one, but you buy one because everybody else wears one and it would look weird when you had to change for gym? One of those.
My first boyfriend was so confused as to how to feel me up that he just sort of chamoised them, like he was buffing a car.
Then, in one summer, I grew hips and D cup breasts. Seriously, it happened over the summer. Mother of pearl, did it hurt.
It also made going back to high school very weird in the fall. Curvy ladies may grow to love our bodies, but it's really weird at first. People look at you like you did it on purpose, like you clenched your fists and squinted really hard and sprouted monster cans. Or like huge breasts are one of those floppy quilted fly-girl hats people wore in 1996 that you're wearing because you're an idiot who thinks it look cool.
And they just got bigger from there, like a Stephen King gypsy curse. My mom would come home from work at I'd mumble something about needing to get new bras.
"But we just bought new bras," she'd say, a little horrified that she'd made me. And then we'd go back to TJ Maxx, because that's where you shop for bras when you have to buy them every week, and when you've outgrown pretty young people sizes and now have to crawl around on the floor in the memaw section, looking for some kind of condom-colored double cat slingshot in size OH MA GAH.
That's around the time I started feeling like my body had betrayed my personality. It would be one thing if I were a savvy dresser, but even now, I barely get out of the house without accidentally wearing things that aren't clothes, like a slipcover or a cook book.
I love Fatshion and I love fat and curvy women who know how to dress themselves, but I was not supposed to be built like this. I was supposed to be a sylphy little androgene like Angelina Jolie in "Foxfire." It's not body shame -- I just put on weight really really easily in my boobs and I want to be one of those sexy lesbians who wears army jackets with ribbed tanktops and looks kind of like a dude from behind.
Alas, parts of me just want to be round so bad that if I ate the normal, 1500-1750 calories a day for a 28-year-old, five-foot-six inch woman, I would be one of those ladies you see in the Daily Mail with breasts they have to cart around in a pair of grocery trolleys.
I think it's a hormonal thing, too. I told my GP that sometimes I weigh myself in the first morning of my period and the scale will say I've gained eight pounds.
"Eight pounds?" she said. "That doesn't sound right." But it is. I can gain like eight pounds in a day. If there were a competition for how quickly a person can gain weight, I would win it. Remember on "LOST" how you were like, "Why aren't any of these people getting thinner? UNREALISTIC!" I was like, "Everybody on that plane has my metabolism!" It's just a thing.
I sometimes wear two minimizers and try to dress like somebody who has less-than-monster breasts, and it often looks weird and wrong. I wish I was one of those girls who could nail that pinup look (hi, Em!) but I always feel like I'm Wearing an Outfit.
So, don't get me wrong, I sometimes love my boobs and I also hate diets. And I'm not terrified of being fat. But I am more or less constantly at war with my body's natural drift towards being shaped like one of those double-popsicles. I'm half Polish, as you can tell by my nice Irish last name, and I don't know if it's because of the long Krakow winters, but my body wants to add square footage like its trying to impress its neighbors.
I turn my back on my glacial metabolism for like 10 seconds, I can gain so much weight, so fast.
Exercise mitigates a little bit, but not much. I mostly just have to really restrict my calories. I grew up in the 90s and was raised by single women, so I heard a lot about calories. That was back when everybody thought fats and oils were the bad thing and were pounding Snackwells and Nutrigrain bars like they knew science was going to pop up soon tell them that jelly filling wasn't a "free food. "
Whenever I gain weight, it goes directly into my breasts and butt. YES, big breasts and butts are great but I do not want my breasts to be any bigger than they are.
The point I have laboriously and maybe not very efficiently tried to make here is that I have always been on some kind of diet, just to maintain a semi stable weight. It sucks. It is stupid.
SO. To that end: I promise never to talk about diets again, but I don't think that I'm the only one of us who lives like this. It is just my own personal physical Moriarty. (My Moriarty literally follows me around, because it is my butt.)
I hope it's not, someday! I would seriously like nothing better to say fuck it and have somebody who's like, "Darling, you are hot even with your spine all curvy and your breasts like two trash bags full of flan."
I don't mean that all married and partnered people gain weight or that I equate weight gain with letting yourself go or anything like that. I know better than anybody that you can treadmill and diet yourself insane and not lose a pound.
I'm just saying that I know constant dieting is lunatic, but it is the only thing keeping me from being a hunchback, and that my idea of perfect happiness is ending up with somebody who hates exercise and wants to sit around reading books and not giving a fuck about how many points a muffin is while nestled into the twin beanbag chairs of my breasts.
I mean, it's hypothetical -- I actually like salad and being outside and running around. Even I can't eat risotto and take out for five days in a row without being like, GREENS, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, GREENS.
I also try not to pin my future hypothetical happiness on being in a relationship. I just love that idea, of somebody being so into you that your body could change in any way -- you could suddenly sprout a perfect jawline or silver fox hair, or you could be burned on 90 percent of your body and your skin could look like pizza with the cheese pulled off and whoever you're with is like, "That's cool, I'm in it to win it."
I hope I end up with a nice dude or lady like that.