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Tuesday 03 August |
Saint of the Day: St. Martin


Simcha Fisher - published on 10/05/16

I’m not asking for advice.  I’m not asking for advice. I’m not asking for advice. I’m not asking for advice. I’m not asking for advice. I’m not asking for advice. I’m not asking for advice. I’m not asking for advice. I’m not asking for advice. I’m not asking for advice. I’m not asking for advice. I’m not asking for advice. I’m not asking for advice. I’m not asking for advice. I’m not asking for advice. I’m not asking for advice.

That being said, I’ve been exercising regularly and significantly altering my diet for almost two months now, and guess what? I gained weight. To me, this is a very clear signal from the adipose gods that I am meant to be an acolyte for life.

Also, I am still breastfeeding Corrie (19 months), mainly because she calls it “ding.” She toddles up to me and says, “H’lo, Mama. Gotta ding, Mama.” And I am not made of stone. I am, as I’ve previously mentioned, made of lard, and thus can put up very little resistance to this kind of thing. Some women will say, “Oh, my nursing baby is so hungry, the weight just slid right off!” Well, now we know to whom it slud. My theory is that my body recognizes that there will be a significant draw on available nutritive resources for the foreseeable future, and responds by hanging on extra tight to that sixty-pound reserve, just in case.

It’s really not so terrible being fat. You are excused from entire categories of clothing. Other women, on what ought to be a carefree jaunt to the beach, are burdened with wondering, “Is it going to be an occasion of sin to other people if I wear this bikini? What about a tankini, or a monokini, or maybe I should take a crack at this Slaves of the Immaculate Bosom of St. Wurgtrude-Approved Ultramagnifikini with Turtleneck and Detachable Dickey, just in case? What if there will be seminarians present? What if they are blind seminarians, but they have a very good imagination? Should I pack overalls, so they can hear them going ‘veep-veep-veep’ when I walk?”

But for a fat person, it’s simple. The only consideration is, “Do I have a flood insurance rider to cover the vacation homes whose hardwood floors I will ruin when my thighs displace half the lake?” Easy peasy, considerably more squeezy.

Meanwhile, regular exercise gives me all kinds of benefits. I no longer have to shout for help in getting off the couch when I’m tired of watching Netflix. I can put my feet up on the ottoman without sweating. The other day, I picked a waffle up off the floor without even making a plan for how I was going to become upright again. And best of all, I now have knee gap.

In conclusion, I would like clarify that, yes, I am still ballooning.

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