I hate eating lunch with my female coworkers because they complain too much. Here’s usually how it goes, I settle down ready to grub on last night’s BBQ chicken thighs (Pioneer Woman-YOU’RE WELCOME) and just as I’m about to stuff a forkful of microwaved chicken into my mouth, the woman in front of me lets out a big sigh and proclaims “I seriously need to get back on a diet” before taking a bite of a FOOTLONG MEATBALL PARM SUB. The rest will sigh along with her, murmur (in agreement? “You’re right Deborah, you’re fucking fat”) before chiming in with their own woes.
“I ate like a horse during the holidays!”
“I think I ATE a horse!”
“I had horseshoes nailed to the bottom of my feet, strapped a carriage to my back, and started charging people $20 for a ride through the park. That’s how much of an obese monster I am”
Okay I made the last one up, but you get the idea. The point is why do we do this to ourselves? Why is it that one of the few ways we, as women, bond together involves the mutual hate of our own bodies? Why are you using your insecurities as a conversation starter? Cut that shit out, dude. Stop it right now. Seriously. I’m just trying to eat my damn chicken before my 30 minutes are up and I have to go clock back in.
Unfortunately, this bullshit doesn’t stay in the lunchroom. Our department has a candy dish, so we get all types of foot traffic at 2 p.m. right before that “afternoon crash.” There is one woman who comes by every single day. And every single day she chants to herself “just one piece. Just one tiny piece.” I tell her that she looks like she needs it and she snaps back “I DON’T NEED IT. I’m on the Military Diet right now, and I really shouldn’t!”
Homegirl, you shouldn’t BUT YOU DID. YOU DO EVERY SINGLE TIME and don’t even try to play me because I see that pile of Hershey’s kisses in the other hand, you’re only fooling yourself.
By the way, do you guys know about The Military Diet? I don’t know much other than it involving cans of tuna. Like not as one of many ingredients but an entire meal. I supposed The Military Diet is effective in that the thought of it makes me want barf and doing so would make me lose at least a pound or two.
Anyways, this woman’s style consists of high-waisted tight pants with sparkly cinch belts and thigh high boots. She’s got a Jamie Lee Curtis in True Lies hairstyle going on and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her wear the same jewelry twice. All of this and she’s old enough to be my mother. This bitch is fuckin’ killin’ it. I only wish she knew it too.
I have another coworker who is the same age as me, the few lunches we’ve had together always end in her debating on whether or not she should buy some mini donuts from the vending machine (spoiler alert: She always does.)
These women are always on some sort of diet/workout routine (you know because they will ALWAYS TELL YOU) and I don’t get it because I think they both look fantastic, but that’s a post for another day.
The point is, you are never going to take care of something that you hate. It’s true for my cat* and true for your body. Why would you feel compelled to be good to your body, if the only things you have to say about it are how much you wish it were different?
You will jump from diet to diet for the rest of your life and we will bury your ass with your Lean Cuisines and your cayenne pepper lemon juice and your pot of cabbage soup and your Weight Watchers points counter before you will ever get the body you want.
So before you embark on your new lifestyle change, learn to love the place you’re in now. If you don’t know how, start off every morning by giving yourself a compliment in the mirror before you jump in the shower. Some days will feel truer than others, but eventually you’ll start to believe yourself every single time.
If you are trying to lose weight and you are any of the following
- Crying over the boiled chicken and grass you have to eat
- Shitting uncontrollably
- All of the above
YOU ARE DOING IT WRONG. STOP IT NOW.
And for the love of God, eat the fuckin’ chocolate. Eat the stale donuts in the vending machine. Eat some birthday cake. Shit, eat the entire cake. I don’t give a fuck. I only ask that you not feel guilty afterwards. Food is supposed to be enjoyed; it’s not your enemy. The only cheat meals not allowed are the ones where you hate yourself afterwards.
Be kind to you. Be kind to your body and it will return the favor.
*I’m just kidding. About not taking care of him. I really do hate him.