Coming to Terms.


My sister is getting married in June! JUNE! EEE!!! I am SO excited. She has picked out GORGEOUS dresses for us to wear, BEAUTIFUL flowers to adorn the space, and, most importantly, has set about ensuring that the cocktail hour is a feast not to be missed.

But here’s the thing: The gown I had to order? WAS A SIZE ~TEN~.

10. one-zero TEN.

I think my wedding dress was a sample ten, and they had to cut that thing apart and make me a whole new dress from the refuse. And now, this thing that’s a size ten, this enormous tent of a sheath, it is STRAIGHT-UP FITTING ME. FOR REAL.

Part of me wanted to apologize to the salesperson, to explain how I used to be a size zero, how I used to buy clothes in the CHILDREN’S department at Target. But the larger part of me – the better part, pulled it the hell together, smiled, and agreed that the ten fits much better than the eight. I spent the ensuing months resigning myself to being the Fat Bridesmaid. You know, the bridesmaid who isn’t the CUTEST but has “spunk” and can drink most of the groomsmen under the table. That’s me.

I went for my first fitting the other Sunday fearing the worst, and you know, the thing doesn’t look half bad. My mom is not the greatest iPhoneographer, so I’m not sharing those images, but let’s just say I looked somewhat… regal. And with the hair and the flowers, I’ll bet nobody will even THINK to ask if I’m pregnant. And if they do? I’ll challenge them to a tequila-shot competition.

Free Advice: if you don’t know, probably just don’t ask.


It’s no secret that I’ve gained some weight since B! moved out here. All told, there’s around a 35 pounds from lowest to highest. And, you know, I’m not in love with it, but it’s not like it’s wrecking all my time. I just ate a fro-yo cone with sprinkles. So, there.

But it’s gotten a little awkward lately. More specifically, people have started asking me if I’m pregnant. And I’m not talking like “that random stranger this one time”, I’m talking PEOPLE. Like, best friend people. Like, coworker people. People people. More than a handful. And it’s never just like, oh are you pregnant? It’s always like:

“Boy or girl?”

“When’s the due date?”

“I hope she has your hair!”

For any readers who may themselves have asked the burning question in question: it’s not the asking that bothers me. I’m well aware that I’m no longer the lithe sprite of yesteryear, but I’m also no longer smashing dishes or throwing glasses of wine at things. My eating disorder is in remission. I have a full set of dinner dishes. Weight gain is a small price to pay for sanity, I think, although it’s not always appropriate to say in the moment.

What bothers me is the whole awkwardness of the situation. Like, they say it, and then I have to say, you know, “no”, and then they get all flustered and I just laugh and smile because really – REALLY? It’s funny. Come on, you know it is.

That said, I’m still thinking of getting a couple T-shirts made that say “NOT PREGNANT, JUST FAT”. It’s summertime now. Anything goes.

is fat and happy? Think again.


So remember how I posted awhile ago about my weight gain and how I was all zen with it?

I’ve now had two separate people ask me if I’m pregnant.


Get thee to the gym, you’ll say! And lo, I will agree that more Gym is in my Future. But I *have* been gymming (more or less) and I *have* been limiting my drinking (sometimes)! And it’s all well and good to say you’ll skip lunch and diet, but when your blood sugar bottoms out at 3pm you’ll be singing a different song, believe you me.

Now, I hate people who are all like, wah, woe is me, sad sad and doing nothing about it, and I won’t be endless about the current state of affairs, but, in this case, I’m the victim as much as the curse. I don’t think it would be so bad if I’d wavered all my life, but I’m not USED to this! I AM NOT USED TO LOOKING PREGNANT.

They told me the eating disorder would turn around and bite me in the ass one day. I guess now I’ve gotta believe them.


Needs a new coat. Preferably something in a nice shade of mustard.


So my winter jacket is too small for me, now. Read that: my WINTER JACKET. How is a winter jacket too small? And, moreover, how is a winter jacket too small FOR ME?

I’ve always been tiny. Always been short, skinny, petite. During the high days of my eating disorder, one might have added frail, bony, and skeletal to the list, but those times are long gone. All in all, I was always on the slighter side of normal. Now, I might be plump. And, you know, that’s cool. A sign of healthy eating, or, at the very least, EATING, which I didn’t really do for awhile. So we take that as a positive, I suppose, in our moments of darkness.

But the question, really: as a person who was once so eating disordered, how am I not constantly tortured by this weight? I mean, we’re not talking a month or two of overzealous dieting here, we are talking, like, sixteen YEARS of bloated nightmares come to reality in one solid flesh. The answer came to me last night, merging onto rte 16 at dusk, having just purchased a wardrobe’s worth of size-medium shirts from the local Target.

I’m just happier now.

Before, my weight, whatever it was, was a bone of contention. Another way I had failed, or, conversely, a measure of how I’d achieved superiority. I could be 98 pounds, I could be 118, but, depressed, neither was acceptable. Neither was attained by conventional means, so my weight, my body, became a symbol of my illness. Now, with the depression more (or less) under control, I can begin to be OK with who and how I am otherwise. I’m not saying I don’t wish it weren’t so – some mornings I think I’d take a week of misery for a day out in my size-24 skinny jeans – but I’m not compelled to make drastic changes to my eating patterns as a result.

Unless “drastic changes” means “more apple crisp”, in which case I’m totally game.

Feels like a grown-up


My bed has been killing me lately. Not physically, I mean I don’t have backaches or anything, but it pops, it sags, and the frame has fallen apart no less than three times. I made B! drill it together with wood screws at 3am last April, and it seems lately that the wood screws are about to give way. It was the bed I shared with my husband and the bed that our friends (now married with child) shared before that. It just drives me totally insane. And this Saturday, I decided it was high time to do something about it.

B! and I marched our way down to the neighborhood Sleepy’s, blazed through the double doors, and were assaulted by a sea of headboards and mattresses. Greeted by a heavily-makeupped woman of indeterminate middle age, I made no compunction about our need for a cheap bed. “On the lower end of the price range,” was how I delicately phrased our requirement.

Mind you, we are in no shape to be purchasing anything on any end of the price range. My computer’s hard drive died on Thursday, and the repair is a cool three hundred dollars. Jake’s medical bills? Please, let’s not even think. My OWN medical bills? I have a payment plan with my providers. But the bed was wrecking my life, and at thirty-two years old, I mean, why should I have to live like that?

Zero percent financing. No money down. Delivery, assembly, AND disposal. A thousand-dollar mattress slashed to nearly half its original price, with a nice brand name and a five-year guarantee. I signed on the line three times and, just like that, became the owner of my very first self-purchased brand new bed.

Anyone remember the Mr. Rogers “Proud of You” song? It’s kind of been in my head all weekend. Like, I’m singing it to myself.

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