Extreme weight loss: The Rose edition


Ricky Gervais has a brilliant bit about obesity.

“How can people get to be 500 pounds?” he asked. “When you get to be 300 pounds don’t you think, well that’s a lot.”

Ricky’s observation is ringing true for me this week, as I evaluate my own weight loss regime.

I’ve been slogging away for months at the cursed gymnasty, rowing and treadmilling an hour a day and I’m still a size 16.

Well, I’m a slightly smaller 16.

But shouldn’t I be after three months of exercise?

I’ve come to realize it’s exactly as Ricky said.

I hadn’t realized just how fat I had become.

My shirts are getting bigger on me and the ass is hanging on the backside of my pants, but the muffin top is still a burgeoning mess.

Not as big a mess, but a hot mess all the same, still advertising silver-fish like stretch marks from my many child expulsions, still all pock-marked and cottage cheesy.

It’s getting better, slowly. My midriff is now resembles unrisen, unbaked bread instead of the fully realized French loaf.

Still.

When I got to 200 pounds, as Ricky said, shouldn’t I have said: “Well, that’s a lot.”

Standing naked today, I was horrified to observe that while my right breast is deflating nicely, the left one is as big as ever.

Holy mother of shit!

How did this happen?

And is there anything I can do about it aside from having it butchered off?

Surely, I can wake the MoFo up, shake it by its saggy skin and tell it to get with the program?

This is so not what I expected.

I went to the experts today, the ones on Twitter, for some advice.

Dr. Yoni Freedhoff, a bariatric weight loss specialist, told me that it’s not the exercise, it’s the stuff I’m still putting in my face. He suggested that I start keeping a food journal.

I’m pretty sure that’s not the problem.

I eat all my fruit and veg; I get enough fibre to poop out the Titanic.

My diet is absolutely great.

I’m pretty sure the problem is the amount of stuff I smash into my gob.

I suck at portion control — this I know — especially at dinner time.

And I’m an all time ace at self-sabotage.

Recently, I went to a china sale and bought pasta bowls the size of the Grand Canyon. In my squirrelly little mind, I bought them for salad, but sometimes the spaghetti accidentally slithers its way in, as it did last evening.

And, of course, the red wine doesn’t help.

Or the martinis.

Or the margaritas.

But I ask you: what girl can live on omega threes alone?

It’s like Nora Ephron once said: “I don’t want to be on my death bed and think: I should have had that piece of chocolate cake.”

On Dr. F’s advice, I’ll try to do better. I’ll keep a journal and knock myself on the side of the head with it.

As I was thinking about all of this, I got my afternoon snack ready.

I have to confess I ate the baba ganoush right out of the plastic bowl with a chaser of whole wheat slider buns.

Before I knew it, the baba had ganoushed.

Busted.

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