It feels SO GOOD to indulge my fat: to taste the sweet sugary promise of the raspberry danish, to feel the taco’s greasy exultation, the let my tongue bath in the glory of the cheesy, fattening Doritos chips, to cool my throat with sugary caloric soda, knowing all the while that all of these indulgences, all of these extravagant delights will only make my body swell with even more sensuous fat.
As you know if you follow my blog, I haven’t posted in a long time. I won’t bore you with what’s been going on. In many ways nothing much has changed—I’m still living at home, my fat fantasies are still restricted by my overbearing (and “health conscious”) Mother, and my opportunities to spoil my fat belly are few and far between. Often I’m restricted to the occasional donut or six on the way to work, which my mother (unbeknownst to her) quickly combats with a heavy serving of broccoli. (I can’t help but feel the calories I consume in the privacy of my car, the jelly and glazed and Boston creme donuts, bastions of calories and saviors of sugars that they are, are somehow counterbalanced by Mother’s dreadfully healthy sauteed spinach, blanched beets, and crispy roasted carrots. WHY, when my body desires nothing more than to get as fat as possible, to feel the calories consume inside me and colonize my entire being, have I had to contend with the menacing force that is Mother?? I swear I would be near twice my size if not for Mother’s neurotic obsession with my body, and her overwhelming fear of fatness.)
So my fat struggles on, content with minor binges and sugary splurges, taking pride only in the impressive cellulitic jiggle that infects my thighs with every step and the gentle wobble of my belly as I weave myself into my shirt in the mornings, knowing only that one day, perhaps, soon, perhaps, the cellulite on my thighs will thicken, my belly will drop further over my waistline, and the waddle of my gait will slow as I consume, consume, consume, pump myself full of caloric fat.
I was supposed recently to have had an opportunity to stuff myself with fattening treats for an entire weekend. The plan was that Parents were to leave for a short “retreat” somewhere scenic in some generic upstate part of some generic Northeast State with the idea that the short trip would be a refreshing way to usher in the summer. Mother and Father bounced the idea around; I kept quiet so as not to show my hand—musn’t let Mother suspect that my fat looongs for them to leave, to leave me alone. The week of and still no definite plans, until Tuesday night, when I casually brought the topic up.
“So, what are you guys thinking?” I queried, eyeing the zucchini squash Mother had spiralized into noodles that twirled around my fork, careful not to make eye contact nor to sound too invested.
“I think we’re going,” Mother said as she cast an excited-looking glance at Father. If she was a teenager, you might have said she was gushing, except that 60-something women who have been married for 30+ years no longer gush at bae, the toils of marriage and child-rearing having worn down anything that might once have resembled passion. Father didn’t bother to look at her—an outside observer might have assumed he wasn’t directly involved in the conversation and was occupied instead with that thing from work earlier, or The Game he would watch later.
“I was looking at B and Bs today,” Mother continued, subdued only slightly by Father’s indifference, “and it looks like we’ll be able to take the time from work. I’m excited about it!”
My heart was nearly in my throat, and my spine tightened. I could hardly breathe. I felt my lungs pleading for a deep inhalation of air as I tried to compose myself. If they left—Friday morning was the plan, not to return until Sunday—I would have nearly three days ALONE. That would be three days of fattening meals, three days of lounging lazily around the house doing nothing but eating, three days of donuts for breakfast, cheeseburgers and fries and milkshakes for lunch, and pizzas for dinner, supplemented by chips and cookies and cakes and sodas. Still not making eye contact, I stuffed a too-big bite of zucchini noodles in my mouth, imagining and almost believing they real, honest-to-goodness crazy carb loaded *actual* pasta noodles lathered with cheesy and oily pesto. Please, I thought, let them go!
“That might be nice!” I cautioned. Shoot. Was I too excited?
“I think so!” Mother quipped, casting another glance at Father. Seeming to realize he was being included in these plans, Father smiled and sported, if briefly, an expression that to an attentive viewer such as myself suggested he might actually be excited, too, to venture Upstate with Mother. They hadn’t noticed my own excitement, my own longing, my own desire for their departure. The weekend couldn’t come soon enough.
The plans were still tentative, though. They would have to see, Father said, about work: it was possible he would have a busy weekend, and it was possible something would come up that would prohibit their leaving. He seemed optimistic, though, and Mother’s genuine excitement seemed enough to convince him that this weekend must be cleared for their little trip. Father announced that he wouldn’t know until after work on Thursday whether he would be able to skip Friday.
I couldn’t focus all day at work Thursday. I mapped in my head the routes I would take from foodplace to foodplace: the grocery store first, then McDonalds, then Dunkin Donuts? Or DD first, for breakfast, then to the grocery store for treats, and then to McDonald’s for lunch, and takeout pizza for dinner? Should I stop at the grocery store tonight, Thursday, so I wouldn’t have to go back out Friday, so I wouldn’t even have to waste the 15 or 20 minutes waddling the aisles, so I could stay plumply plopped on my couch, a donut in this hand and a milkshake in that?
I got home Thursday evening and had the house briefly to myself. My excitement was overwhelming: having done almost no work all day, I was now free to plot more methodically. I opened up a blank document on my computer and made several different versions of an eating schedule, all designed to maximize the calories I would consume. The most caloric breakfast sandwich (sausage, egg, cheese on croissant: 700 calories) and most caloric sugary sweet coffee drink (Dunkin Donuts frozen coffee, medium, 630 calories), plus a few donuts, for breakfast; a massive burger and large fries and large milkshake for lunch; a whole pizza, if I had room, for dinner. I planned out different versions of different meals: should I have burgers for dinner Friday or for lunch Saturday? Which donuts would go best with pepperoni pizza? If I ate a jar of cashews, I could add an easy 1,500 calories to Saturday; a homemade milkshake with a small thing of heavy cream could supplement Friday’s caloric intake, easily pushing dinner alone upwards of 5,000 calories and 200 grams of fat. The goal, I decided, would be 20,000 calories in about 36 hours: because I had to work Friday, I would have Friday evening, all day Saturday, and Sunday morning, before Mother and Father returned, to stuff myself.
Mother got home, and then Father. And then the unthinkable happened: Father laid his briefcase against the wall and stepped out of the mini-mudroom-thing which opens into our family room without slipping out of his shoes, a melodramatic gesture intended to preface the disappointing announcement he was about to make. Sure enough:
“Honey, we have a problem,” he said, casting his voice outwards towards Mother. “I can’t get off tomorrow. Something’s come up. We’ll have to go another weekend.”
Mother was disappointed. She did one of those little half smiles, the kind that are meant to convey that you’re okay but suggest just the opposite, the kind of smile you can only make when what you really want to do is frown and pout, the kind of smile that adults have mastered because they know that they can no longer pout and cry in public. “It’s okay,” she told him, but I could tell it wasn’t.
Later on that evening, I heard her on the phone with her Friend, telling Friend how frustrated she was, that couldn’t Father have put off this work thing until next week? that it was almost like He didn’t even want to go, almost like he didn’t want to see her. I heard her say, with her characteristic flair for the dramatic, that she was going to stop trying to plan nice things for them, that if He wanted to do something, He would have to plan it himself.
My heart dropped almost, it felt, to my waist. I was nearly sick. I wouldn’t be stuffing myself fat this weekend. I would have to suffer through a merely normal weekend, devoid of donuts and cheeseburgers and cake. I would have to subsist on a normal amount of calories, or less, even, since I would probably eat at least one meal with Mother, who would be sure to limit the amount of calories I consumed.
The thought was unbearable. My fat mourned: it was as if the cellulite that populates my butt and thighs was trembling with tears; as if the fat rolls piling upon each other on my back were shivering; as if my chubby double chin was retreating, shy and ashamed, into a quiet, lonely place. It was as if the fat that encompasses my body, the fat that longs to expand forever, the fat that desires nothing but the most complete conquest of my frame, the fat that craves calories and demands donuts, the fat that rules my life, the fat to which I am slave, saw itself, but briefly, as a vain and ridiculous figure. It was almost as if my fat was ashamed that it had allowed itself to get so excited for its weekend fatfeast.
THANK. THE FRICKEN. LORD: I survived the weekend, and Monday morning, at work, after I spent the weekend eating relatively healthy foods prepared by Mother, something came up at work. I would be travelling midweek, they said. I should book an AirBnB, they said. I would be gone Wednesday morning until Saturday night.
I would get my fatfest after all, only a few days late! I would be able to stuff my fat body, to consume as many calories as was humanly possible, to feel my belly jiggle massively as I slammed my face with fattening treats, to allow my fat rolls to spill out everywhere, intent upon nothing but filling up an entire room! I would be a slave to my fat, I knew the minute they said I would have to go. I would give in to all my most excessive, destructive, and gluttonous desires. I would feed myself all day, everyday, from Wednesday until Saturday; I would eat and eat and eat, more and more and more and more, for every hour until I could no longer move, and then immediately upon moving, I would reach, fat and lazy, only for more food.
(I would have to work, too, of course, that being part of why Work sends people Away; this, so far, has proved only a minor inconvenience. My fat has found plenty of time, hours and hours and hours, to attempt to satisfy its most unsatisfi-able desires.
The fatfeast began with yesterday’s lunch, immediately upon getting off the plane: a massive, greasy, cheesy, cheeseburger, an immense portion of fries, and a large Coke. It was so nice out that I ate outside, near a farmer’s market that was being hosted in the center of a financial-looking building in the City to where I was dispatched. It occurred to me, sitting there, stuffing my fat fatter fattest body full with a fattening lunch, that here were people who aspired to be thin and healthy, these customers of the farmer’s market: these were people buying cucumbers and lettuce and tomatoes, who would make a refreshing salad for dinner, who would spend the rest of the day avoiding excessive calories, who might go to the gym in the morning to burn off any calories that sneaked—oops!—past their restrictive diets. And here I was, right near these people, allowing my fat belly to grow fatteningly over my thighs, stuffing my fat face with a fattening cheeseburger. I momentarily wished that I could be a depository for the all the calories they worked so diligently to avoid: that every time they refused an office donut, or a lunchtime soda, or an extra little treat after dinner, that those wasted calories would manifest immediately upon my own growing frame. I prayed to some power unknown that every calorie they burned at the gym would become mine, that those lost little calories floating off their thin and thinning frames would find its home in my growing belly.
The fatfeast continued at dinner. I stopped by the grocery stores and bought a frozen pizza, a raspberry danish tray, a box of frosted sugar cookies, a large bag of Doritos, a pint of ice cream, a 2 liter of soda, and a small carton of whole milk. I gorged: my desires were so strong that the grease of the pizza spilled out of my mouth as I nearly drooled, approaching something like satisfaction, as I was basking, finally, the fat life, the fat glory, that I had so hopelessly craved. The raspberry jam and frosting of the danish made me quiver; the cookies filled my growing belly with sugars innumerable. The crunchy Doritos, providing a contrast to my sugary goodness, made me nearly gasp. The soda and fat-filled milk padded my swelling belly—I could feel myself, after nearly half a pizza, nearly half a bag of Doritos, three huge cookies, and nearly half a tray of raspberry danish, approaching Food Coma mode. I rubbed my swelling belly vigorously, intent on making more room for more food so I could grow ever fatter. I jiggled my fat thighs, urging the armada of calories to venture from my belly downward, to clear room in my belly, so I could send in another army, another massive grouping of foods and treats and calories, so that more and more and more fat would hang (forever!) off my body. It seemed, for a moment, to work: I forced another bite of sensuous, soft, danish: the pastry gave in to the powers of my teeth, and the frosting molded to the force of my tongue; the calories obeyed, venturing down into my fat belly, urging the stray lingering calories to collect in the rolls on my back, or on my bulging hips, or in my expanding ankles (are they cankles???). I had room only for half a pint of ice cream. I let it melt just slightly, just to the point of being orgasmic. And then I ate, and ate, and ate, feeling the calories dripping down my throat as I gulped hopelessly at the ice cream, nearly breathless with the thought of the calories expanding to any and every area of my growing fat body, forcing themselves into any area that needed a little extra caloric fat expansion.
I was stuffed. I could hardly move. I tried, unsuccessfully, to force another bite. I settled for a large swig of milk and headed to bed.
Today was more of the same: after work’s morning meetings, I promptly found a local donut shop for a lemon curd, jelly, and maple bacon donut. As I write this, I’m stuffing my fat body with tacos and Doritos, and the rest of last night’s leftovers: the danish, the cookies, the soda, the milk. I’ve finished them all but the cookies. I swear I can feel myself gaining weight, even since yesterday; I can feel my fat swelling more ferociously off my frame; I can feel myself giving in more completely to a desire that can never be fulfilled, to a desire to grow fatter and fatter; I can feel myself becoming more completely a slave to the demands that my fat makes of me; when I think, briefly, that perhaps I don’t need to stuff myself every single day while I’m away, I can feel the anger of my fat, and I can feel its pull, and I know that I am hopelessly lost: I know that I must stuff myself fat; I know that I have no say; I know that I am given over completely to the fat that desires only more fat. I know that my fat will never be satisfied. I can feel myself approaching 350 pounds, and I can feel my fat longing, pleading, crying for 400; I can feel myself approaching 400, and then 450, and I can feel the rolls of fat that hang ever heavier off my fat body craving 500, and 550, and 600. I know that my fat will never be satisfied being fat; it craves only to be fatter.
No matter the consequence, I know that I have no choice but to give in to the demands my fat makes of me. And so I eat, now, as I type this, more danish, and more cookies, and more ice cream, and I know that tomorrow, whatever plans I make, I will repeat: I will stuff my face with as many fattening and caloric treats I can find, giving in only to the false promise that more fat will satisfy my fat, knowing that my fat will only and forever demand more fat.