Like many other Memorial Day weekends in my life, I’m heading down the Cape. For those of you who weren’t fortunate enough to grow up in the North East, down the Cape means Cape Cod. It’s my sister’s birthday we got a place on the beach that takes dogs. The weather is supposed to be nice so I’m trying to figure out which muumuu I have is the most lightweight. I’m the biggest I’ve ever been in my life.
I told my sister “I am the fattest I have ever been”
She said “no way, (beat) you’ve been fatter”
A sense of humor runs in the family.
Truth is I am almost 200 pounds. I am a woman on the verge of a midlife crisis who is one banana split away from 200 pounds; I’m living in fear. Why fear? You may wonder. Well, a midlife crisis plus the feeling of being bigger than most; the odds of me getting in a fist fight are higher than average right now.
I asked the Doctor if I could have a print out of my stats with my weight on it so when people act in a way that I deem uncool, I can whip out my official documents.
“These are my medical records. I weigh close to 200 pounds. The most I have ever weighed. My underwear leaves welts. I’m uncomfortable every minute of every day. Now we can continue to squabble about who is first in line at the cold cuts counter but you should know, I’ll be expressing anger only hours of regrettable late nights eating can cause: I’ll only be pretending it’s about my desire to get a pound of liverwurst, pronto”
You know what it’s like to have 13 pairs of high end jeans that just sitting in your closet on hangers because they hurt when you put them on? It’s infuriating. Even my yoga pants are giving me wedgies.
I am taking drastic action. I just signed up for a running group. Rock bottom. I avoid cardio like my breathy neighbor with rotting teeth. I get bright red when I run. I played basketball at Chelsea Piers when I first moved to New York, at the first game, the ref stopped the game with a whistle. He yelled “Are you ok?” I still had my hands in the air trying to guard a semi pro free thrower. I’m looking around to see who got hurt. Turns out, he was talking to me. “You!” he said like I was a moron. Like it was crystal clear I was the one he was concerned for. “I’m fine. Why?” I panted, putting my hands on my love handles.
“You look like.. well, you don’t look right”
I didn’t show up for the next game. Or the game after that. Nobody ever called to see if I was ok. I remember hoping I would get a call because wanted to tell somebody I had been humiliated and wanted a different ref at my games. But me calling them to tell them about it, it just felt a little too Zsa Zsa Gabor.
I would love to know what Zsa Zsa complained about.
Anyway, people don’t act like they notice any major changes in my appearance. I’m pretty well proportioned. So that’s nice but what’s weird is I keep seeing people I know who have lost a lot of weight. I never know if I should say something because I’m thinking they look like they lost weight, if I say something and they are thinking it looks like I gained weight, well, I might see it in their eyes.
Last night I said it to another comic “You look like you lost weight”
He said he lost 20 lbs.
So I was right on that one.
About a month ago another I had said to another comic “You look like you’ve been working out”
He said he lost 35 lbs.
Neither one of these people mentioned their weight loss until I brought it up. When I lose these 20 pounds I’m going to carry around a 20 pound rump roast. People will ask “Are you selling meat now?”
I’ll adjust my halter top and explain the symbolism.
I can also use it to protect myself against street thugs who might see the new slimmer me as an easy target.
Women fights off mugger with 20 pounds of rump roast.
Walks away unscathed in a vintage Halston halter and what appears to be a fresh blow out.
Thanks for listening!
Kendra is a stand up comic living in Brooklyn where she owns a super comfortable bed. She spends most of her time wondering where the hell her sugar daddy is and hoping he didn’t settle.