I did. Seriously.
I didn't think I was pretty then, but in retrospect I was. I could date who I wanted for the most part. I got a really good job once because the boss was kind of pervy and liked how I looked. I got used to appreciative glances from strange men. I didn't have to buy drinks if I chose my outfit carefully before going to the bar. A Heisman trophy winner hit on me once. (He hadn't won yet, but still...) I was 29 before I learned that when you buy wipers at an auto parts store they don't come out to the parking lot and install them for everyone. I almost never got a speeding ticket. I guess I just took the inherent advantages to being skinny with blond hair and big boobs for granted because I always had them.
Then came my youngest child. I love her, but she ruined me. I snapped back pretty well after the first two, but the third pregnancy in four years broke me. It was a terrible nine months. I developed a heart irregularity, high blood pressure and looked terrible. I mean fucking terrible. People would walk up to me at school (people I hardly knew), touch me on my shoulder and ask if I'd seen my doctor recently.
After she was born, I didn't lose any weight. In fact, I just kept right on gaining. Nothing about my lifestyle changed, but I ballooned up with the subtlety of Violet
Beauregarde. My thyroid was shot - hypothyroidism. Which means that I have no metabolism of which to speak. At all. So I have to do my best to exercise to only be 100 pounds overweight.
The bottom fell out of my iron levels. So low that the hematologist I eventually saw was convinced that I was bleeding internally. When that turned out to be not the case, he thought then I may have cancer. That was awesome. Nobody ever has diagnosed this. The sum result for me is that I can't take enough iron supplements to normalize my levels. Iron tends to make you constipated and the amount I would need would result in me never pooping again. Which is a problem. Anyway, a side effect of this aside from extreme fatigue is that there isn't enough iron in my blood to properly distribute oxygen when I exercise. If I went for a run (which is impossible because of my asthma) I could come home and immediately sleep.
Medications also affect me differently now. I never know if the known side effects will actually be what I experience. For example, acetaminophen is as good as a sleeping pill for me. Which sucks when I have a migraine.
Anyway, the girl who used to be a pretty blond is now a "morbidly obese" brunette mom in a minivan. I went to a family event with my mom last summer and a cousin with whom I went to high school didn't even recognize me. I really miss being pretty.
I always believed that I believed looks didn't matter. I thought I would be completely happy being evaluated for my character and smarts. Turns out that isn't true at all. I desperately want it be, but it isn't. It was much easier to be comfortable with the concept of being ugly when I wasn't.
Being unattractive is much harder than I thought. I hate how I look. I haven't put on a swimsuit in 10 years. I loathe shopping for clothes. I still look at racks as if I'm skinny. I find a piece that would have looked great before, just in a much bigger size. Then I go try it on, cry in the dressing room and walk out with nothing. I won't wear shorts, anything sleeveless or fitted. I know that wearing loose clothing makes a big person look even bigger, but I can't bear to see myself in windows or the bathroom mirror. Nothing fits well. Too many clothes in my size are just bigger, and when you get fat you don't get bigger, you change shape. So, almost everything including undergarments are very, very uncomfortable.
I've done my best to avoid anyone I knew when I was pretty. Especially high school friends. You would have to haul my lifeless corpse back to my hometown to get me to a class reunion. I know this is extremely petty. I feel terrible about it, I do. But, I just can't go. Every time I run in to someone I used to know I get this look of pity. I don't even think people know they do it, but I see it. It kills me. I don't get excitement that I have a job I love, kids that are amazing or a husband who treats me better than I deserve. I get pity that I got fat. It just sucks, so I avoid it.
I wasn't prepared for strangers to assume that because I'm fat I'm stupid. I have a professional job and I'm a little disappointed how often people are pleasantly surprised that I am intelligent and articulate. It's hard to get equal attention and speaking time in meetings and at conferences as attractive people. Negotiations are harder sometimes, especially with men. Things just don't come as easily as they did when a low-cut suit put me close to a result I wanted when I walked in the door.
I was prepared for everyone to assume that because I'm fat I'm lazy and it's my own fault. And, it may be. I could exercise more. I could eat more lettuce. The truth is that I have a better diet than most people I know. And, I'll never be the mom who gives up 90 minutes of time with her kids to go to the gym. So, perhaps I am making the choice. I could power through how terrible exercise makes me feel to achieve a marginal result. To get back to anything close to my previous shape, I would have to give up almost all of what precious little time I have with my kids. That's time I'll never get back, and not a sacrifice I'm willing to make. I feel good about that choice, so it's upsetting to me that I just can't get to a place where I feel good about myself.
I wish I could be comfortable in my now very ample amount of skin. I wish I didn't cry so much about how I look. I wish I was a better role model for my two daughters.
If I am going to spend the rest of my life fat and ugly, I wish I had been so since the beginning. I don't think then I would walk around with the oppressive guilt I feel now. I feel as if I've failed myself, my husband and my kids. I wish with all my heart I could end this with a message of hope; that I could be positive and perhaps even offer a story of triumph. I can't. I guess not every story has a happy ending.
