Fatty Fatty Two-by-Four

At first, I blamed it on the road. As in, being on the road. Not in an uber cool Kerouac kind of way. More of a semi-depressing Death of a Salesman way. Maybe something in between. I never thought I would need a Skymiles number, much less be applying enough flights to it to qualify for, like, discounts. But since April, I've found myself in Tennessee, Nevada, Utah, Alabama, D.C., Texas, Colorado and next month, Florida. Not to mention road trips - hello, live from Savannah.

The point is that it's easy to discount the calories consumed on the road - in airport terminals and from little snack bags on planes and from drive thrus and gas stations and in hotel rooms and at client dinners where you feel justified in ordering three drinks, half a cow and a piece of chocolate cake. Honestly, there's no such thing as real food when you're traveling. There is only the packaged, preserved and mass-produced or the food-coma-inducing indulgently rich fare.

After criss-crossing the country, it's little wonder that I started putting on pounds on pace with my frequent flyer miles. I'm working on the Mile High and Mile Wide Club.

But travel isn't totally to blame. Back at home, I've shunned my kitchen in favor of the Chick-fil-A not a mile from my house. I lunch, I brunch, I dine with friends - and every two or three meals, I make a restrained choice. The hummus plate. And then I counter that with how I deserve dessert in light of my reduced calorie meal. Brilliant. On top of that, I've made no attempts to prevent my egregious snacking habits, keeping cookies and chips and the like in the pantry. Nicking Gummi Bears from the dollar bin at Kroger and selecting movie-watching snacks to reward myself for choosing the Red Box over the actual pricey theater.

A few recent pictures, taken from the most unflattering side view, revealed my alarmingly inflated form. The unbecomingly rounding belly. The fleshy arms. The fat that's starting to gather around my face. I've assumed an overall doughy appearance - paunchy, soft, decadent. Pokable.

I probably weigh as much now as I ever have - I'm rather afraid of the scales, too horrified to know what I've done to myself. And as much as there's vanity, and believe me, there is, because, I'm being honest here. But there's also a great deal of shame in having let it go this far. The shame of failing to possess the willpower to shut my mouth. The shame of letting the depression about life to creep up on me and fuel this sorry sad appetite for destruction. Food won't make me happy - and whatever joy I normally take in eating good food is just perverted by this abuse. Even as I finished off the Double Stuf Oreos the other night, I wanted to cry. Because all that creamy goodness was headed straight for my already dimpled thighs. And because, well, I know better. I know I don't want to be on this one-way street to The Biggest Loser.

It's so much easier to remain prostrate under mounds of calories. To consume my feelings rather than deal with them. To viciously hate every new bulge while masochistically stuffing my face. But underneath all those calories and all that dissatisfaction, there's a part of me that is starting to claw against that soft fatty self and demand that we put an end to this.

So I finished the bag of Gummi Bears. And the Double Stuf Oreos. I bought some carrots. I bought some hummus. I'm keeping apples in the fridge. I'm on the road right now...I had McDonald's, and I know tomorrow is going to be some sort of artery-blowing dinner affair. I'm not going to make any ultimatums - no promises to myself that I can't keep. I'm not going to start some crash diet where I deny myself sugar and carbs and joy. But I am going to try to unshackle myself from helplessness...from cutting myself so much slack that I don't even participate in the choice. I'm going to reconnect that line between my mouth and my brain that The Sadsies unplugged.

And let's be honest: I want to be slimmer. I want my clothes to fit. I want to be more attractive for all the superficial reasons, to be one of the beautiful people. But as much as that, I want to respect myself enough not to let the heaviness in my heart be the heaviness on my hips.

Image via Christopher Boffoli's Disparity series

Let's Be Honest

The spiral started, well, how spirals start. At an infinitesimal point behind you that's hardly discernible once you recognize the endlessly loping curvature that looms above you. Round and round and round until the circular shape with its no-end-and-no-beginning ways keeps you from even trying to recall its origin.

That's me, now. Looking back at that spiral, not even trying to fathom how I got to this place at the bottom. And let's be honest - for awhile, I've been slipping and sliding down the spiral with reckless abandon. Acting like I was powerless against the sloping gravity of it all. Like an impertinent child sailing down the banister, I picked up terrible habits with an alacrity that was mind-blowing. The eating. The shopping. The sleeping. The self-deprecation. The self-loathing. The perpetual negativity.

That's me, now. Finally plopped rather decidedly on my arse at the bottom. My first impulse is to offer excuses. But I've been here before, and excuses get me nowhere. So I'm trying something new. In light of my present position, in light of the recognition of my free will to be somewhere besides here, I'm going to explore my choices with all honesty. I'm going to tell the whole truth - the whole ugly truth - and hopefully find my way away from the ugly something less hideous...something tolerable...something that resembles the fragile beauty of hope...

Image via Randall C. Page

That 70s House

When it comes to house hunting, I have mastered internet research. I know how to control-click the multiple areas in which I'm searching, select the interior and exterior features crucial to my abode and sort the views by price. I know what sites will show the tax assessment on all the surrounding properties and which sites have pictures. Unfortunately, there's only so far you can surf in the pursuit of a domicile.

Nonetheless, I probably would've continued my e-hunt from here to eternity if The Barrister hadn't badgered me (just a little bit) to make an appointment to see the house. When I say "the house," it's the one I look at every time I search. Just to scroll through the 10 available photos again and see if any updates have been added to the listing criteria or (fingers crossed) the price has been dropped. I know when it was built (75) and its exact square footage (1798). But finally, on Sunday, I e-mailed the listing realtor and asked to see the inside.

On Monday at 6, The Barrister and I drove over to The House for my first showing appointment as a potential homebuyer. Here's a recap of the good, the bad and the ugly:

The Good
- A quiet, centrally located neighborhood where I think I would feel safe
- New bamboo hardwoods in the living room and kitchen
- All new cabinets in the kitchen and granite countertops
- Appliances -including the refrigerator, washer and dryer - are included in the purchase price
- The living room is a glorious sunny oasis bordered on two sides by windows
- Hilarious "Wild and Crazy Guy"-esque wet bar behind louvered doors in the living room
- A cavernous garage
- Not one but two (two!) walk-in closets in the master bedroom

The Bad
- In the backyard, it's a bit hard to distinguish between maintained and unmaintained landscaping
- The roof is 20 years old
- Windows in the bedrooms are crank-handled windows which my dad swears could be the bane of my existence
- A friend of mine at work warned me that squirrels will eat the cedar exterior
- As The Barrister noted, there's not a good location for the television or the litter box (both essentials)

The Ugly
- Beige carpet in the hallway, master bedroom and first guest room, which The Barrister found revolting
- Atrocious burnt orange-brown carpet in the second guest room that reminded me of a few unfortunate diaper changes
- The unspeakably hideous guest bathroom - a combination of pale lime green tiles, terra cotta paint and a (gasp!) palm tree wallpaper border. It was a Boca-gyptian look of sorts.

I definitely could see myself in this house. I was mentally plotting paint colors and furniture placement as we walked through the rooms. But I don't want to get overly excited and make an offer before I've seen something else. Which means - unfortunately for The Barrister - a return to the dubbya-dubbya-dubbya search for another house worthy of the hunt.

The Good, The Bad & The Ugly

The Good
*David Gray is likely to have a new album out before the end of the year and he claims it is more like his early work. I am breathless with anticipation.

* Summer hours start at work next week. Hello, 9-to-4 on Fridays!

* Counting Crows are kicking off the Summer in the Park series on Good Morning America on Friday.

* Braves game on Thursday - my first trip to The Ted in almost a decade!

* Getting more and more certain that Dillon's going to be left-handed.

The Bad
* May be in love with a country musician.

* Missed House season finale last night because I am programmed for it to be on Tuesday but, as if the writers' strike wasn't enough, they moved House after it returned. Egads.

* Must work on Friday night. Blech.

* ABC canceled Women's Murder Club. Booooooo!

The Ugly
* My lower back just north of where the good Lord split me, sunburned to the nth degree after weekend yard work. Guess there was a gap between my tank and my shorts.

* My room, scattered with clothes worn over the past three weeks and littered with half-unpacked bags.

* My brain...not a great string of days here in the last 8 to 10

* Envy...the Rockstar heads to Ireland and Spain tomorrow.

* I'm grumpy as hell.