Am I Fat?

God I'm making myself sick asking that question for the nth time.

(Maybe if I get sick I can lose the weight faster! Like get dengue or have my tonsils removed or something!)

I'm kidding.

Sort of.

Shit.

My clothes won't fit right. Damn. I actually had to try on three different tops last Saturday before I could settle on one that hid the very tops of my godforsaken, vodka/redbull-filled muffins. This was it. ------------------->

A-fucking-las.

Now before I bust out into a semi-rant (but hopefully, semi-insightful blog) about what I've been through to try to lose weight THE HEALTHY WAY -- ie. yoga and sexy chef meals and better bodies gym and my evasiveness to go out and practically stay away from alcohol and shakeys at 5 in the morning...

I am going to tell you all now that I... am... fat.

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And not FUCKING. PREGNANT.

Jeez fucking louise!

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Ok. I know I've been quite the broken record with regard to my weight (and the pictures don't lie; I've made my "heftiness" quite evident in my insistence to wear tight-ass footless stalkings and cleavage-showing sleeveless dresses and short-ass coochie cutters despite the obvious gain.

But I've been TRYING to lose the weight. Seriously. But God, I never knew how hard it was to lose TWELVE FUCKING POUNDS. Just 12, people.  I'm 120lbs and 5'2". Furrealz. Breakups and latenights and early mornings and glasses of alkie and heaps of yang chow and buckets of chicken and baskets of garlic fries... all w/c contributed to my gain... which isn't exactly such a large number, if you think about it. But Hell... it was easier to lose 50lbs, 10 months after I gave birth. (Now if I can only remember what I did exactly that made that happen...)

Oh right, I breastfed and refused to eat.

*shrugs*

So around the time my boyfriend and I got together last October, I started to focus on getting back into shape. I've tried the master cleanse aka Beyonce diet (poor Paolo, he would stay up til 2am cutting me up some lemons and mixing my diet concoction for me while I left him to go to sleep ---- AND HE AND I WEREN'T EVEN AN OFFICIAL COUPLE YET, HAHAHAHA!). I lasted a day on that diet, btw. =P However, I've tried cutting down significantly on the rice (I don't really eat pastas and breads). I've cut down on the iced tea and yes, even the alcohol. I've done yoga. And I just recently had a week's worth of the Sexy Chef's 1200 calorie-a-day menu. (I had all my daily meals delivered to me for a week... FOR FREE-NINETY NINE! =) Now, I still prefer to cook and eat lean meats, chicken and fish fillets. I rarely fry my food nor do I eat anything fried. Of course, I still make the occasional trip to the nearest fastfood resto but if we were to compare the no. of times from then to now... I'd say the number is significantly fewer. As is with my vices and my unhealthier eating habits.

If you really think about it, I'm actually healthier now than I was back in the day.

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But I'm still 120lbs. I swear, the fucking scale doesn't wanna budge. After 6months.

So you can imagine the frustration (and yes, the gloom and the bouts of sudden depression) that oftentimes ruin the entire chakra of my day. And other people's days, too.

That's why Pao thinks my scale is broken.

Yeah. Whatever.

The scale isn't broken. I'm just not doing something right.

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But this isn't about that.

It's about my ex asking me if I was pregnant.

True story.

And it's the darndest thing too because my ex and I don't even talk save for when I'm grilling him about our daughter and child support and the nuances of our separation and custodial visiting privileges and all the other stuff separated parents talk about.

We were planning our daughter's 3rd birthday when he asked. So I asked in return: WHO THE HELL GAVE YOU THAT IDEA, YOU HAD BETTER TELL ME, I FUCKING SWEAR. He said something about the "magazine industry"... and after much prying, I learned the one really inquiring was...

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You know what...? I'm not even gonna say it. Because that would bring me down to her chismosa levels... and I'm not about to go out like that.

But yeah.

I was hurt. Not because it was mean. I mean, I get MEAN. I get fat jokes. Shoot. I drink hatorade like the best of em. But it was because of WHO said it. And (of course I'm not gonna say who)... I just thought I'd be given a little more consideration or delikadesa than that, considering my role as a fellow woman, mother, daughter, and sister.

So I simply replied by saying, "How can I be pregnant? You can barely help me with my first child. And I can't afford two kids."

And after that... I got to thinking. (Ok this is what I was thinking at the time, when the wound was still fresh and I was still upset but now I think even in my anger, and even in the midst of other people's lack of tact and taste... I make sense.)

But yeah. I was thinking... how I didn't get it.

I really didn't get it.

*all sorts of thought just run through my head a mile a minute at this point*

But this is what I got from all of that:

People... are hard to please. But oftentimes, the hardest person to please... is oneself. Just last year, I was a scrawny 105lbs. My size 27 Zara jeans were hanging onto my pelvic bone for dear life. Three of my top ribs were already protruding. But man was I skinny. I was barely eating. And people didn't like it. And I didn't appreciate it... even after I had it. And then I realized that it took me about a year to get that body and another year to realize that it didn't matter. Because people don't give a shit. And weight is NO guarantee. Being skinny is NO GUARANTEE. My relationship STILL FAILED when I was thin. I was still alone, still unhappy, and drowned myself in the oblivion of my lost body. I had no ass. I went from a 36-C to a 34-C. I was my ideal weight less 5lbs. And in this crazy, fucked up beauty-obsessed world... less than ideal... was perfect.

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And after all of that came crashing down on me like being hit by a fucking anvil by Wile E. Coyote... I began to think about how I had handled myself after that mess... and...

I'd like to think that I'm a good mother. And that I have been a good mother. Despite the circumstances, I haven't been completely unfortunate. I think it was the misfortune that really brought about alot of my blessings now... more than I could've ever asked for: a supportive and loving family, great help (my yaya is awesome), understanding and intelligent friends who keep me in check, and of course, a faithful and caring partner who willingly and wholeheartedly chose to give of himself... even when it wasn't asked of him... but only because, it was right. Because you do right by those you love.

And then I thought...

My boyfriend met me at 120lbs. His exes were skinny cheerleaders, cock-diesel with rock hard abs and a vina morales pre-baby body... but skinnier. I was short, pudgy, and with helluh booty (but I sure as hell was PURTY, hehehehe!) But he loved me anyway. And he never fails to tell me that I'm beautiful. And yes... he even tries to "help" me lose weight... even when I break my own rules or lash out at him for MY eating those goddamned potato chips on MY own accord.

So what was my point?

I think I already made it somewhere. If I didn't, then... my bad. I just wanted to get that off my chest... AND make it clear that I'm not pregnant.

But I am getting married. Or didn't ya'll hear on the radio when the disgustingly stupid boys from Boys Night Out on Magic 89.9 announced it --- and my boyfriend's mom asked us if this was true and if so, would begin considering what wedding gift to give. Hahahaha!!!

*awk-frikkin'-ward*

Sheesh. Frikkin' pre-emptors. (But god love those boys)

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I really just want to fit into my jeans again. That's all.

I'm gonna go get me a bag of chips now.