Tag Archives: fat

With a heavy heart – and body


Ciao, we’re back. I didn’t want to come back. Had no choice. Italy seduces me every time, and one of these days I am going to cave in and move there. For good.

Until then, if there’s one conclusion that can be drawn from our little Italian stint (apart from the fact that I ABSOLUTELY LOVE Italy – did I mention that?), it’s that I’m fat. Fat, fat, fat. By my own standards, I am horrifyingly fat. I have seen myself in a bathing suit, and – trust me – it’s not pretty. I am so fat that I have my own field of gravity.  I am so fat that I generate tidal waves and they banished me from Venice for fear of actually sinking the place. I am so fat that when I laugh, my cheeks cover my eyes completely and I have to stand still lest I run somebody over. I am so fat the neighbors have asked me to move  – they were tired of living in my shadow.  I am so fat that when I rollick in the waves at Jesolo, there is a tsunami in Costa Rica.  I am so fat that my left and right hip are in two different time zones. I am so fat I am allowed to travel only at night, in a special convoy, with gyrating lights on each end.

See, that’s why I haven’t bought any new clothes lately. I was afraid I’d cause a global shortage of textiles. I had some cereal for breakfast and the price of wheat exploded.

My son, on the other hand, is thin. By my standards, he is frighteningly thin – bones poking out of his skin everywhere. He is so thin, he doesn’t even cast a shadow. All that money spent on his swimming lessons? A waste. He doesn’t need to swim to stay afloat. He is so thin, he remains perched on the surface of all fluids like one of those mosquitoes, simply due to capillary forces.

Now I ask you, is that just? We threw at him everything Italy has to offer in terms of culinary accomplishments. He barely touches the crust around the pizza and won’t even look at profiteroles. Not my case. Not my case at all. Minestrone, antipasti, primi piatti, secondi piatti, pizze, dolci, I love them all with a passion.

So there you have it. Now you see why I had to leave Italy with a heavy heart – and body.

(Don’t worry. There’s more about the actual trip too. Just testing your patience. It’s supposed to be a virtue – or so I heard… :-)) Talk to you soon about the Italian sun, beach, Venice, Padua, etc.)

Fat issues


Ok, so I don’t fit into my old pants anymore. I am two inches wider around the hips now and have added three inches to my waist. Pregnancy has a tendency of doing that to you.  All this while I have been lying to myself that, come summer, I will somehow, through sheer magic, become a sylph again. I have obstinately refused to buy new jeans, I saw the old ones as motivation. Until today.

What prompted this sudden change of heart? I scanned my husband’s face real hard last night as I was parading myself in front of him complaining about how fat I am. For the first time ever, he did not deny it. He looked deep into my eyes, swallowed and kept quiet. Somehow, that didn’t stop his hands from groping my plump parts. So to hell with all those tight pants, which I had no choice but to button only half way up, cleverly hiding the rest under my blouse. It’s getting warmer now and I am running out of tricks. I know, I know, there is one thing I still haven’t tried: cut back on those chocolate bars. But hey, I’m not suicidal! And neither is he. You don’t want to mess with a person’s antidepressants, do you? 🙂 ‘Cause what’s a girl’s life without chocolate?… Or pizza?

Aber, Frau Sepi, das ist so ungesund!”, my inner voice reprimands me. Oh, wait, that isn’t my inner voice at all. That is the voice of my obstetrician’s nurse. 🙂 I wonder what happened to her. Was she fired, did she quit? Anyway, I got along much better with her replacement. She would simply say: “Ach was, das Leben muss doch schmecken!” , and laugh.

I agree. At least once in a while, life has to taste good. And be fun. Which is why I’d rather romp and prance outdoors in my brand-new comfortable jeans than diet obsessively.

I sometimes think the weight women put on as the years go by is nothing but the weight of their own guilty feelings…