The Dreams of a Fat Girl
Four years ago, I wore size 26. Today I wear size 16.
(Not my butt, though. My butt wears size 18. It keeps trying to fit in the size 16s with the rest of me, but I tell it no. “That’s too tight for you,” I say.
“No, it’s not. It looks sexy!” says my butt.
“No, it doesn’t. No one wants to see you packed in there so tight,” I say.
“Uh huh. That guy over there does,” says my butt, pointing at some guy on the corner.
“Well, I don’t want him to see you like that,” I say. I always have to be the responsible one in this relationship. “Quit arguing. You have to wear size 18.”
“Aw, MAN!” whines my butt. I just ignore it.)
The only thing that keeps me down at size 16 – what keeps me tethered to it like a helium balloon on a string – is the fact that I don’t eat sugar.
Am I some kind of ultra-high-will-powered demigoddess? No. I want to eat sugar all the time. Instead, I eat Splenda, maltitol, or Sweet-n-Low. And it jacks up my digestive system. But I don’t care. That’s better than slowly creeping back up to size 26, like I almost did last year, when I was in love and love made me believe that happiness could ward off the effects of donuts and coconut slushes and Vietnamese engagement-party pastries.
Last night I dreamed of eating sugar.
In the dream, I was at a restaurant with Rick, Jorge and Letty, enjoying a delicious Thai meal. The waiter brought us dessert without being asked. He said it was included in the meal, so it was free. I had been avoiding sugar all throughout the night (in earlier dreams). I finally decided that it would be okay, just this once. Those are the words on the exit sign that leads to the road paved with good intentions that leads, as you know, to hell. My companions encouraged me to join them in eating.
The dessert was a mound of whipped cream dotted with raspberries and cherries. “That’s not too unhealthy,” I thought. After a few bites, I saw that there was a layer of blueberries under the cream. Mmm. Blueberries. I ate a little more.
Under the blueberries, there was a big sugar cookie. Not unlike the “sugar free, low carb” sugar cookies I sometimes buy from my workplace cafeteria. But way, way more delicious and rich. Because you know I bit into this cookie, in my dream. I said I’d have just one bite.
Under that cookie was another cookie. I took a bite of that one, too.
Under that cookie was another cookie. Half that one disappeared down my throat before I could get hold of myself.
I put all the cookies to the side. Okay. No more. I was done.
Under all the cookies and the whipped cream and the berries, there was a pie. “Oh, no!” I thought. I had to take a bite of the pie, because it was the real dessert, you see. Everything else had just been topping. My friends groaned, because they were already full. But they had to eat their pie, too.
I took a bite. It looked like chocolate cream, which I don’t even like, but it was filled with butterscotch chips. I took another bite to make sure. Yes. Butterscotch. Even though I was feeling sick by that point, I had to eat a little more. I didn’t want the waiter or the chef to be insulted.
I said out loud, “Well, as long as I’m cheating on my diet today, I might as well eat one of the donuts that I passed up earlier. I hope they haven’t gone stale.” The thought of having to eat a stale donut made me sad. But Rick said they were still fresh. I went to the house we were remodeling and searched for the Krispy Kreme bags. And then the alarm went off, and I woke up. Thank gosh.
I got out of bed feeling ashamed, and angry that I can’t eat sugar without getting fat and that I have to feel ashamed of craving it.
I just ate a sugar-free, low carb cookie. I’m still a little annoyed.
