The Unbearable Fatness of Being . . . Me

Sunday, April 15, 2007


Hey, Everyone!!! Thanks for stopping by. I've got a brand new blog (still same old me, though) called "THE ONCE AND FUTURE ME." I can be reached at

Still just getting off the ground, but I hope you'll come and visit!

Coco ;~)

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

Testing, Testing, This is only a Test . . .

Did Blogger lose my post from earlier today? Are they having a bad day? Am I more neurotic than I thought? Just checking.

I Am Neurotic

Here's the deal: I am so nervous that I haven't heard from the school about scheduling the 3rd interview/sample lesson that I am now paralyzed to do anything else. Never mind that the 2nd interview (panel-style) went GREAT yesterday, an hour-and-a-half of actual pleasure (not chocolate-type pleasure, but not interview-ordeal pain either . . . really, it was enjoyable!). So it seemed I wowed them. Terrific. High the entire night on that, with no dickweed hair-dude to mess it up. Right? SO . . . why am I a freaking wreck today?! I wanted to do the following, whilst I awaited their phone call, which should have come hours ago (they said they'd call tomorrow MORNING to set a lesson up!): 1) cement my weight-loss plan into a solid thing, on paper, which I will follow to the proverbial "T", as my (gulp) 40th is less than 4 months away and the lard is barely budging (admittedly, though, I'm not helping it along that much <=/), 2) clear out my kitchen of all nutritional sabatours, 3) blog (guess I'm doing that one, but still without the use of proper paragraphs . . . why won't the Blogger gods answer my emails???), 4) read, and comment on, those lovely blogs I've so quickly become addicted to ( I am reading them, but can't seem to stop the ruminating to comment . . . that is so selfish!), 5) get some clothes to the tailor so I can have a couple things that fit, should a job perhaps come through . . . I'm not only fat, I'm short . . . way short), 6) pay bills (why does that one always make the list?), and, most importantly, 7) continue the job-hunt vigorously by doing all the nitty-gritty that process entails. I could also be meditating, exercising, bleaching my teeth with an over-the-counter product, cleaning my house, changing the kitty litter, going to Target (when all else fails . . .), but, folks, I am PARALYZED. Not just trippin'. Actually seemingly unable to move to do anything productive, or even useless. How I managed to write this must be some bizarre fluke of nature. P.S. If anyone has a suggesting for my paragraphing problem, please let me know; I am not only neurotic, but I also have a pronounced technological disability. Thank You!

Thursday, August 03, 2006

The Burst Balloon

What should have been a really good day all around (yesterday) turned on its head by someone's mean shit. I had a great first interview at this school that I've been wanting to teach at for many a moon -- a private school that still takes folks like me who went for a Ph.D. instead of a teaching credential. What did I know then? Certainly not the job market! Anyhow -- the interview was great, within the first 5 minutes she said she already knew she wanted me back for the second, panel-style interview, and even though there's a few other candidates, at least I felt like I stood a good shot (please, if there's anyone reading this, please keep your fingers crossed for me . . . hubs and I need this, but more than that, I need this --it's such a fantastic feeling to be doing something you love that's also contributing positively to our world -- not to mention a boost in one's self-esteem, which has been nil for me for a while now; I'll keep you posted on the job. Now, back to my whining . . .) So how could the day take such an ugly turn (operative word: ugly), and so quickly? Well, I'm blaming this hair guru who was going to "see" if he would cut my hair (I live in L.A. -- I swear it was like I was going to audition to get a freakin $40 haircut! This ain't Frederik Fekkai I'm talking about here). However, as I was desperate and since I know he is talented (I gave in to a short-hair-will-make-me-look-thinner-whim about 6 months ago . . . wanna guess how that worked out? . . . and chopped 12 inches off my long, curly hair, the kind that looks downright freaky when it's growing out chunky, choppy layers), I agreed to 'audition' for "Jozef" (real name!), believing he could make me look a little bit 'pretty,' or at least a little less 'ugly' (can you all say "Low Self-Esteem"?). Now, it's important here to keep in mind that Jozef has seen me before when I walked in to make an appointment months ago; alas, he couldn't take me at the time. And then this last-minute interview came up, and I had to cancel the hair guru -- I left two messages on his voicemail, which he never returned. Came home on such a HIGH from my interview, mentally preparing the sample-lesson I'll have to teach on my 3rd interview, creativity buzzing, hope welling . . . and all it takes is one, no, two, messages from the super-cool hair dude and my balloon pops. Loudly. Painfully. They were so rude, and cruel, that it hurts me to go into the specifics he did, but I've promised myself to be as forthcoming as I can be in this blog. Some (not all) details: references to my "ugly fucked-up hair", calling me a "fat bitch," telling me "he'll NEVER do my hair after this" (like I would ever be in the same room with HIM after this!). I suppose he didn't get my messages, or he just ignored the part after "Hi! This is Coco . . .", but I don't think that excuses it. What I do know is that my mind instantly turned to me body -- as if the disgustingness of it is what has allowed this dickweed to talk to me (o.k., my machine) like this. Because pretty, thin people are the only ones worth being courteous to? (Again, I live in L.A., my view may be warped -- is the rest of the world this bad? Lord help us . . .). Because fat can't be pretty, right? Fat makes me ugly, right? And ugly, of course, makes me bad, in some way less than human, allowed to be treated as such. It's like he not only has a right to treat me like a germ-infected cockroach that's crawled into in his pristine salon, but an obligation to squash me hard as he could, without a thought, with a sense of righteousness and duty. He's a person, a cool one at that. I'm fat, so I'm not. And the thing I hate is that, having spent quite a few of my adult years as a thin, pretty woman (with good hair!), I know this situation would have gone differently. At least my self-esteem was high enough that something like this would have rolled off my back in less that a minute. An hour, at the outside. I definitely would not still be hurt, angry, and ruminating a whole 24 hours later! Don't get me wrong: even as a fat, lives-in-whatever-clothes-will-fit kinda girl, I still had a chat with his boss. I also am aware that this guy is an asshole, not worth my time. But why did his shit hurt SO much? Why did I let him take the shine off my day, off me? My question to you, kind readers, is this: was this just a matter of someone's being a rude asshole, just because? Or, was it someone's being a rude asshole to an easy target, a fat, unstylish (only on the outside!), unhip-with-messed-up hair (insult to injury . . .) , low-self-esteem girl? All I know is, it hurt. Lots. Where is all that confidence I used to have? The motivation and confidence I had after the interview just slipped away, even though I did call dickweed back and let him have some back. But I couldn't shake the feeling that 'feist' from fat is not the same as 'feist' from thin; it seems to have the same impact as a cute little three year old mildly cussing. My hubs wants to break him in two, after he saw the effect on me and heard the messages for himself -- he's 6'4" and buff and could do it easily; some evil part of me wants to "yeah, baby, go hurt the mean man!" (don't worry, I wouldn't, and he wouldn't . . .but I can fantasize, can't I?) -- but the point is that what hurts me hurts him, and I am blessed to be deeply loved. Which is why my (over?)reaction bothers me so much. What if the weight never goes away? Is there a way to function as a pretty-and-sexy feeling, confident fat woman in a world where this attitude exists? Ouch, people. (Thanks for listening and letting me vent)

Monday, July 17, 2006

Motivation Fickleness

You never know what will motivate you . . . or, for that matter, what will stop your motivation dead in its tracks. As to what causes this surge in motivation (OH! a surge! grab it before it gets away . . .), not really sure. I do know it's a fickle thing for me. The slightest negative blip on my emotional screen and I lose all focus about eating well, for nourishment only (not that that can't be pleasurable as well), but certainly not to use food as a drug. Which, more and more, I realize I do. I absolutely have to explore that here. On the other hand, the surges in motivation can also be equally fickle, and equally dangerous if unharnessed. I'll read something that completely inspires me, or try on something that almost fits, and, instead of getting depressed and disgusted, I'll think, "I can do this! Stay focused, treat myself well, and I will get there!" And then it passes. The depression and disgust come on, but quick, and, till the next surge, I'm doomed. I have a feeling that while motivation may be important, it's not the key to changing the things I want to. Commitment is. I am determined to explore this, to find out why I've been a makeover dilettante, to change.

NOTE: Recovered Post!8.20.06

Friday, June 23, 2006

The Bitter Truth

Welcome to "The Unbearable Fatness of Being . . . Me," wherein I will explore the past and future of my body, fitness, health, self-esteem (and self-loathing), and, of course, weight and food issues. And lifestyle. And my future in general. And probably a whole mess of other stuff related to every part of my life, since I've reached a point where my weight, and my feelings about it, now affect everything else in my life. How sad is that???! I know I'm far from being alone in this, and I think that's even sadder still. I'm pissed off at our society that encourages us to obsess this way ( and, yes, I am aware that there're a lot of other things going on the world more important than weight loss, but I won't be tackling that here; so, thanks for not attacking me for that . . . God, am I defensive, or what?! I'll be trying to work on that too . . . ) but right now I'm more pissed at myself. It so wasn't always like this. (Prepare for whining) I used to be so effortlessly thin, my stomach so perfectly flat . . . exactly the kind of 'girl' (can I still call myself that, 6 months away from 40?) that would piss me off now, if we were to meet, the fat and the thin--piss me off, leave me feeling jealous and depressed . . . mostly depressed . . . and running for a little snicky-snack to make me feel better. This last part, while it may be a 'duh' for those more enlightened than I currently am, is something I'm only now becoming conscious of. I hope to become aware of many more things on this journey, as I feel I've been sleepwalking (more like sleepstrolling) through my life for a long time now. That's why I had to choose the title I did, because I have to come to terms with the painful truth: the 'me' of today is a fat girl, woman, lady (hmm), chick. I am fat. I am Fat. As opposed to those women who grew up chunky and, even after losing 'the weight,' still feel they have a fat chick inside them, I have a very unreasonable skinny chick inside of me. I spent a decade and a half as a sexy, svelte, often pretty woman; the next decade found me chipping away at that image as I packed on pounds, bit by bit, until I reached my current weight (will check what that is tomorrow), something like 70-75 pounds heavier than "who I was." I am still shocked when I see pictures of myself (who the HELL took this awful photo?! oh, shit . . . I look the same in all of them. crap). Still shocked when I see myself naked in the mirror before my shower (every time). Still shocked when clothes don't fit. Still pick up the size 2 pants at Target --how crazy is that?! I am SO far from that, but the skinny chick inside still thinks size 2 is 'normal'--I don't even want to be a size 2 anymore, even if I could. I look at those pictures of myself (back then) and think "God, her head is enormous . . . EAT SOMETHING!" The thing is, I did eat; it just took a while to catch up to me. I think. (About having been a size 0-2: I am 5'0" with a small frame, and that's just the way it was; ain't like that no mo). Used to be when I felt flabby, I just had to drop and do a few crunches and, almost instantly, I'd be right back to 'normal.' Like I said before: ain't like that no mo. So. I no longer feel sexy or pretty. I can't believe how quickly our society's fucked-up messages about women, weight, and worth invaded my fairly watchful brain and eventually took possession of my (fat) being. (Fat and Fatter . . . there's another title). And as fucked-up as those messages are, I am sick of looking and feeling like this. I do not want to be fat anymore! And it's not just the aesthetics of it all; I don't feel well. Migraines, knee surgery, possibly compromised fertility. The time, space, and energy this shit takes up in my brain, my life. This is my Life, man! I HATE worrying about this. So, ironically, my hope is, I guess, that if I worry about it publically, I can conquer the beast and kick it to da curb, once and for all, and FUCKINGGETONWITHMYLIFE. Which is not to say that I won't appreciate the journey, cuz basically I am that kind of person. I just don't want to feel this way or be this way anymore. I don't even know how much weight I want to, or can, lose. What I do know is that I don't want to reach 40 like this. I will not reach 40 like this. (oh, and . . . pardon my french)