StrugglingWriter
Well-Known Member
~BBW. Eating, Imagery, ~XWG - a mature lady finally realizes the ectasy of life in the plump lane
Part 1
I remember where I was when it started. I was sitting at my desk, working late again, peckish, craving my nightly glass (or two) of wine, and frustrated that the only thing available to eat in the lonely, stagnant building after dark was the processed starch available via vending machine. I was 30, single, over-worked (but well-paid), acquainted with many and friends to a few, frequently bored and often restless.
At that time I weighed all of 112 pounds. I know this because it was my rigorous mission to make sure that every day I saw that saw that number greeting me on my digital scale before I stepped into the shower each morning. I hadn’t always been 112 pounds: in my mid-20s I had gained about ten pounds before stair-stepping it away at the gym, only to gain it and about 10 more after a break-up a few years later. Since that time my in ordinate discipline of my slender body had paid off. I never lacked for dates or friends when I wanted them, and I’d had more than my share of both shady and romantic encounters in and out of bed, in and out of town.
But now, and for months before, each day when I had stepped off my scale, before getting into the shower, the excitement of the carefree life had waned. Instead, the competing allures of either a successful executive career or sharing a safe suburban nest with a solid guy held much more promise than whatever it was that blow-dried Bryl-crème boys still had to offer me on what admittedly was becoming a less and less frequent basis.
So it wasn’t too surprising to me that on that night at that moment I was tired of saying no (why, exactly?) to that familiar, barely-suppressed desire to munch, and after expending all that willpower in all those gyms over the years I, in that moment, looked inside and found instead the will to tolerate that extra 20 pounds I’d been warding off all those years.
I’d like to say that some solid sense of resolution led to some higher consciousness about a more tolerant acceptance of the imperfect body, or that some erotic vision of excess sparked some exquisitely erotic foray into endless packs of Skittles and bottomless bottles of YooHoo in the break room.
But, no such thing.
Truthfully, I’d had weak moments like this before, and that night I fancied that some day in the not-too-distant I was sure I’d regain my resolve to deny the appetites of my inner fat girl. But not that night. So all I did was quietly walk to the break room for one pack of Skittles and one bottle of YooHoo YooHoo, then return slightly more satisfied to my office, where the lonely hum of the HVAC coaxed me to make headway on my plans for that month’s something-or-other gala. I also recall that my night at the gym was satisfying but short and uninspired.
It’s surprising how fast you can put on weight when you don’t stay on top of it. I’m an event coordinator by trade, and back then I was working with an industry advertising company out of the northwest. As September’s gig (one of six in a calendar year) approached, the length of my day, per usual, expanded.
Out of concern for the business tool that was my body, I had always regularly eschewed those overtime corporate perquisite dinners—you know, the ones conjured by CEOs eager to bribe us with free food so we’ll exchange the best years of our lives for devotion to the company stock price. Just like before, the first night as I ordered one of those dinners for the first time in ages it occurred to me as nothing special. Observing myself ordering food several nights in a row, now that caught my curiosity because, I noticed upon reflection, there was none of the self-concerned guilt about expense accounts I usually considered when devoting my extra hours to the boss.
Looking back, taking the longer view of things, I can now see that endlessly sprinting to plan one event after another was taking its toll: I was in danger of becoming another cog in the wheel, a corporate tool who would be ready for the chopping block the very that instant profit margins—or poor performance—dictated.
So, this particular cog guiltlessly asserted its hard-earned individuality with a flair that sent my personal expense account through the roof.
Bloated expense account or not, I do know that all my extra work that month paid off in genuine career cache’. As I lingered behind after the exhibit at the end of the day, ostensibly to supervise the union guys breaking everything down, the big boss himself congratulated me on the party’s success. In no time we were celebrating that success with a few friendly drinks together. Well, I’d like to say a few, but it was probably more like five. I don’t really remember much more about that evening, except that at the Chamber of Commerce cocktail club I was more a hit with the guys that I’d been in who knows how long.
Even blitzed out of my mind I still knew why: it was because of how much fuller I looked in my clothes. I’d learned all about this years before during those odd times I’d let go of my diet and fitness regimen a little bit. Outside of the boardroom, guys just love a curvy body! It’s the girls that don’t let you live it down.
But the real revelation came when I stumbled into the bathroom hung over late the next morning. I noted the usual hideous morning-after, sallow-faced hag staring back at me red-eyed in the mirror, and after the usual ministrations I stripped my robe, stepped onto the scale I’d chosen to avoid all month, and watched it greet me with a blurry “120 LBS.”
I’d like to say I was surprised, but the truth is that at a mere 5’2” I’d felt the uncomfortable pull of those eight pounds against my clothes all week: a pinch of pants around my thighs, a snug little squeeze across my ass, pressure against the belt at my waist—that sort of thing.
What actually surprised me was my reaction to that bit of LED information. In the past, these moments had inspired me to return to my diet and my workout regimen. That morning I simply stepped into the tub, pushed aside my headache, and focused on the sensual experience of a hot, steamy shower.
Years of this after-the-trade-show ritual had taught me to schedule this day off in advance. So, I ordered Chinese for an afternoon breakfast and sat contentedly on my duff catching glimpses of soap operas, Maury and Montel, and re-runs of the Pampered Chef. That, and a few crossword puzzles and a few more spoonfuls from the pint of Haagen Daas I’d hoarded for the occasion. That stuff is better than sex, at least when you’re hung over.
What I Would Like to Say (edited)
(updated version of author's story from 2007, found here)
by Struggling Writer
(updated version of author's story from 2007, found here)
by Struggling Writer
Part 1
I remember where I was when it started. I was sitting at my desk, working late again, peckish, craving my nightly glass (or two) of wine, and frustrated that the only thing available to eat in the lonely, stagnant building after dark was the processed starch available via vending machine. I was 30, single, over-worked (but well-paid), acquainted with many and friends to a few, frequently bored and often restless.
At that time I weighed all of 112 pounds. I know this because it was my rigorous mission to make sure that every day I saw that saw that number greeting me on my digital scale before I stepped into the shower each morning. I hadn’t always been 112 pounds: in my mid-20s I had gained about ten pounds before stair-stepping it away at the gym, only to gain it and about 10 more after a break-up a few years later. Since that time my in ordinate discipline of my slender body had paid off. I never lacked for dates or friends when I wanted them, and I’d had more than my share of both shady and romantic encounters in and out of bed, in and out of town.
But now, and for months before, each day when I had stepped off my scale, before getting into the shower, the excitement of the carefree life had waned. Instead, the competing allures of either a successful executive career or sharing a safe suburban nest with a solid guy held much more promise than whatever it was that blow-dried Bryl-crème boys still had to offer me on what admittedly was becoming a less and less frequent basis.
So it wasn’t too surprising to me that on that night at that moment I was tired of saying no (why, exactly?) to that familiar, barely-suppressed desire to munch, and after expending all that willpower in all those gyms over the years I, in that moment, looked inside and found instead the will to tolerate that extra 20 pounds I’d been warding off all those years.
I’d like to say that some solid sense of resolution led to some higher consciousness about a more tolerant acceptance of the imperfect body, or that some erotic vision of excess sparked some exquisitely erotic foray into endless packs of Skittles and bottomless bottles of YooHoo in the break room.
But, no such thing.
Truthfully, I’d had weak moments like this before, and that night I fancied that some day in the not-too-distant I was sure I’d regain my resolve to deny the appetites of my inner fat girl. But not that night. So all I did was quietly walk to the break room for one pack of Skittles and one bottle of YooHoo YooHoo, then return slightly more satisfied to my office, where the lonely hum of the HVAC coaxed me to make headway on my plans for that month’s something-or-other gala. I also recall that my night at the gym was satisfying but short and uninspired.
It’s surprising how fast you can put on weight when you don’t stay on top of it. I’m an event coordinator by trade, and back then I was working with an industry advertising company out of the northwest. As September’s gig (one of six in a calendar year) approached, the length of my day, per usual, expanded.
Out of concern for the business tool that was my body, I had always regularly eschewed those overtime corporate perquisite dinners—you know, the ones conjured by CEOs eager to bribe us with free food so we’ll exchange the best years of our lives for devotion to the company stock price. Just like before, the first night as I ordered one of those dinners for the first time in ages it occurred to me as nothing special. Observing myself ordering food several nights in a row, now that caught my curiosity because, I noticed upon reflection, there was none of the self-concerned guilt about expense accounts I usually considered when devoting my extra hours to the boss.
Looking back, taking the longer view of things, I can now see that endlessly sprinting to plan one event after another was taking its toll: I was in danger of becoming another cog in the wheel, a corporate tool who would be ready for the chopping block the very that instant profit margins—or poor performance—dictated.
So, this particular cog guiltlessly asserted its hard-earned individuality with a flair that sent my personal expense account through the roof.
Bloated expense account or not, I do know that all my extra work that month paid off in genuine career cache’. As I lingered behind after the exhibit at the end of the day, ostensibly to supervise the union guys breaking everything down, the big boss himself congratulated me on the party’s success. In no time we were celebrating that success with a few friendly drinks together. Well, I’d like to say a few, but it was probably more like five. I don’t really remember much more about that evening, except that at the Chamber of Commerce cocktail club I was more a hit with the guys that I’d been in who knows how long.
Even blitzed out of my mind I still knew why: it was because of how much fuller I looked in my clothes. I’d learned all about this years before during those odd times I’d let go of my diet and fitness regimen a little bit. Outside of the boardroom, guys just love a curvy body! It’s the girls that don’t let you live it down.
But the real revelation came when I stumbled into the bathroom hung over late the next morning. I noted the usual hideous morning-after, sallow-faced hag staring back at me red-eyed in the mirror, and after the usual ministrations I stripped my robe, stepped onto the scale I’d chosen to avoid all month, and watched it greet me with a blurry “120 LBS.”
I’d like to say I was surprised, but the truth is that at a mere 5’2” I’d felt the uncomfortable pull of those eight pounds against my clothes all week: a pinch of pants around my thighs, a snug little squeeze across my ass, pressure against the belt at my waist—that sort of thing.
What actually surprised me was my reaction to that bit of LED information. In the past, these moments had inspired me to return to my diet and my workout regimen. That morning I simply stepped into the tub, pushed aside my headache, and focused on the sensual experience of a hot, steamy shower.
Years of this after-the-trade-show ritual had taught me to schedule this day off in advance. So, I ordered Chinese for an afternoon breakfast and sat contentedly on my duff catching glimpses of soap operas, Maury and Montel, and re-runs of the Pampered Chef. That, and a few crossword puzzles and a few more spoonfuls from the pint of Haagen Daas I’d hoarded for the occasion. That stuff is better than sex, at least when you’re hung over.
