Call Me Crazy, Part 2

[continued from previous post]

So one day last week, I notice TL’s status update and comments are as follows.

Obesity is not a disease….its a condition commonly associated with laziness

Female commenter #1: AGREE

Male commenter #1: So true Big [TL]. I can’t feel sorry for fat people unless they have some kind of gland condition or something.

Male commenter #2: Laziness and overeating. Don’t forget overeating, [TL]. [Pretty sure, this comment was made by this guy.]

Female commenter #2: I agree too. It just seems really socially irresponsible to let yourself get to that point. Not talking about a few extra pounds here, like from having kids or something, but real obesity.

Let’s stop there for a second, and—ahem—digest.

OK, first off, Male commenter #1, the one who is incapable of “feel[ing] sorry for fat people unless they have some kind of gland condition”…how the hell would he know who does and who doesn’t? Does he stop fat people on the street and go, “Hey, listen, I was just wondering whether to feel sorry for you or judgmental of you. So could you tell me if you have a gland condition?”

And, actually, Male #2 (who I’m going to infer was begotten to two skinny parents, who were begotten themselves to four skinny grandparents, and who has probably never felt the urge to overeat in his life) was the closest to being right on this. Broken down to its most elemental, obesity is almost always a result of overeating. There are lots of reasons people eat more calories that their bodies need:

  • being marketed ridiculous portion sizes
  • high-calorie crap-food being cheaper than good-for-you-food
  • having a disordered relationship with food
  • it tasting really damn good
  • it being a holiday
  • having a hard day at work
  • etc.

But basically, the vast majority of obese people don’t get obese because of “gland conditions”; they get obese by eating too much.

Now, according to the Body Mass Index calculator, I am obese. (According to my dad, I’m a vision of Baroque loveliness. Potato-potahto.) I’m not quite 5’2″, and last time I went to the doctor I weighed 176 lbs. That gives me a BMI of 32.4. Over 30 is obese, thus I am obese. I am obese because I consume more calories than are required by my body. (More on this subject later.)

But I’m not fucking lazy. I get up and go to work every damn day. I keep my house in, well, decent condition. I go to the gym and lift heavy objects over ma head. I walk my dogs to the dog park. I go hiking.

So anyway, I try—I don’t know this dude, or his friends—I try, but I just…can’t…keep…my mouth…shut.

Me: Wow. Sorry, but this is some of the most ignorant shit I’ve read in a long time.

Probably could’ve been a bit more diplomatic. Whatevs.

[continued]

Call Me Crazy, Part 1

This is a tale in five acts, in which our heroine is judgmental and preachy, has a temper tantrum, and learns a Big Life Lesson.

This dude from the gym—let’s call him The Linebacker, TL for short—friended me on Facebook maybe three weeks ago. Not sure why. We’d never really spoken. (And no, he wasn’t trying to get in my pants; he got engaged last weekend.)

Anyway, I accepted the friend request, and when I looked at his profile, I realized how very little we had in common:

  • religion: Christian
  • political beliefs: conservative
  • bio: stuff like If Im not progressing than im regressing. Thats why ill NEVER stop working hard. I can rest when I die.
  • He attended Duke (not really Duke, but someplace like Duke) on a full football scholarship.

So:

  • I’ve got nothing against Christians, but I’m not one.
  • I’ve got nothing against conservat—that’s a big, fat lie, coming out my mouth right now. I’ll admit I do feel some malice towards conservatives.
  • I generally don’t have much conversational rapport with people who use phrases like “fired up” on a regular basis.
  • We all know what an expert I am on football.

Put them all together, well, I just didn’t see us chillin on a Friday night.

(I sound like a judgmental doo-doo head, which I am, but that’s not my point. Right now anyway. He seemed like a good enough dude. I just didn’t think we were going to be besties.)

[continued]

Like a Skipping Hippo

Every week, a couple times a week, I text my friend, Erika, to see if she wants to have a doggy play-date. Her dog, Barley, is my dogs’ best good friend. Today’s text conversation:

Me: Dogs?

Erika: Yesh!

Me: yippo!

Erika: Like a skipping hippo

Me: who got a big tippo so he did a back flippo.

If you don’t think she’s awesome, based solely on this interaction, I don’t think you and I can be friends.

Amy, the Tech-Monkey

Dammit, why is WordPress not showing the categories at the bottom of my blog posts? I checked the boxes on the admin page!

It must be nice to be my ex or my former roommate. When something like this happens, they’re all, “Well, the configuration of the hyperplex is faulty; all you need is a DPN number. Just barrage the H7 code, and voila!”

Me, I’m all, “Maybe it’ll work if I click harder in the little square!”

(Bobby/Dan, help.)

It’s So Bright in Here

In bed this morning, I stirred. Mistake. The dogs think that it’s time to get up when I stir. It’s not. Especially not today. My head was so cloudy. My eyelids seemed weighted. I raised my eyebrows to see if the momentum might make it a little easier to open my eyes. Nope.

Feeling the thunk of Redford’s chin on the bed, I flopped an arm over and scratched his whiskers before tucking my hand back under the warm covers. Violet came in and did her morning shake. I could’ve stayed in bed all day.

Because yes, I indulged this weekend. I threw caution to the wind and decided, I’m a grown-up, I can consume whatever I please.

And now I’m hung over.

Not from beer. No hard liquor for me. No champagne toasts.

GLUTEN. That’s right: pita bread, lasagna soup, olive rolls. Mmmmmmm.

(Worth it.)

(Not worth it.)

(Fighting with myself over whether it was worth it.)