Fat loves company. At least that was what I surmised during my younger, thinner years. (Remember those?) Every (female) one I knew who was overweight would look at me with that "oh, she thinks she's so superior" look, eat another cookie, and say something like, "I hate you. You can eat anything and stay so skinny." Then they would smile and their unspoken wish that I would balloon up like a walrus would be so intense it would leak out of their ears.
These days I can only convince myself I am thin by sidling up to an actual walrus. And walruses are hard to come by this far upstream.
Two instances back-to-back have nearly ruined my appetite.
Yesterday, I downloaded the pictures from our LA trip onto the computer, and noticed one of me, which looks like a small head perched on top of a large, shapeless pile of laundry.
Then, this morning, in my cold-drug-addled bleariness, I did not shield myself properly from the sight of my own backside. Oh, the horror.
Something must be done.
Something besides cutting down on food.
Where's a good witch's potion when you need one?
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