Being Fat is NOT Beautiful, an Epiphany

I hate stepping on the scale, but over a month ago I knew I had to do so. My pants had felt tight all day. Ok, not tight, but excruciatingly tight. Most of my life I was a size 5. If I went over a few pounds, a diet was easily undertaken and who-o-sh....the weight came off in a week.

When I met my present husband nine years ago, I still had a pretty good body even though I was 57-years-old. As much as I hate admitting it, I have gained 40 pounds. Just thinking about it makes me sick. I have tried every diet available, but my husband sees nothing wrong with the way I look although he appreciates a good looking woman as well as the next man. The problem with my husband being so acceptable to my gain is the fact that he does all the cooking and is constantly pushing food my way. Even when I tell him I am trying to lose weight, he just asks me if I want caramel sauce on my triple chocolate ice cream tonight. But on this particular day, I became totally disgusted.

I am constantly reminded of this rubber tire around my waist and that 18" waist I had in college just about covers my thigh size, I think. I refuse to find out. I can't bend over to tie my shoes from a standing position. I huff and puff after a 2-mile walk. My clothes are getting bigger and bigger and my two most prevalent mental pictures I have of myself is that of a beached whale or a human blob.

Four weeks ago I decided that enough was enough! I was going to go a diet and this time I would be successful. I began getting up every morning at 5:00 a.m. to walk on the treadmill. On week-ends I would walk the 2-mile road in front of my house. I would eat rabbit food. I would chew gum. I would not weigh myself but once a month. I would get some kind of diet pills at Wally World. I would ask my husband to please help me. I would write down everything that went into my mouth and count calories and anything else I needed to count. I would go to the bedroom every night when Rick had his snack of cake, whip cream, caramel sauce and drank his coffee.

I stuck to this regimen faithfully and yesterday was my one-month weigh-in. I couldn't wait to hit the scales. Naked as the beached whale I so disgustingly call myself, I ran to the front of the house, turned on the light, hopped onto the scale, and looked at the reading. I moved my feed around and leaned a bit this way and that. Nothing made the needle change its reading. I had not lost a single pound.

That's when I had my epiphany. I'm never going to lose weight. Apparently, fat, older ladies can't lose weight. I will never lose this weight. And even worse is the new realization that more than likely, I will continue to gain. I had thought about retiring next year, but that would just make things worse. I live on the edge of depression now and try not to let it show. I can just hear all the sizzle of this fat when they cremate me.

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