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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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December 2006 / January 2007 Contest Results |
Size 8
By
Christine Gauvreau,
New York
Before I got
pregnant, I was a size 8.
For five hours. On one day in 1991. More than a decade before I actually
got pregnant, but technically the statement holds true. That’s one of
the perks of becoming a Mommy. You finally have someone to blame for the
extra pounds.
I remember size 8 like it was yesterday. Most likely because yesterday
is the last time I looked in my closet, where the size 8 dress still
hangs. I wore it to a wedding. After months of sweating to the oldies
and fasting between diet shakes, I’d managed to slim myself down to a
size 9. I then stuffed myself into a pair of control top pantyhose that
enabled me to squeeze my size 9 body into my size 8 dress.
The wedding was fabulous. I danced all night. Not because I wanted to,
because I was afraid to sit down. I couldn’t eat, drink or breathe, but
I was a size 8 and all was right with the world. I avoided using the
Ladies Room for fear I’d never wriggle back into my undergarments, but I
was a size 8, and the need for circulation paled in comparison.
In the car on the way home, I ripped off my pantyhose. It felt good to
breathe. I remember thinking it would feel good to eat, too. At the
drive through, my growling stomach said “Yes, I would like fries with
that – make it a double.”
The next day, the dress no longer fit. I hung it in the closet, vowing
to wear it again. And there it still hangs, waiting fifteen or so years
for me to keep my promise.
“We’re going on a diet,” I inform my husband, who give me a look that
says What’s with this “we’re” nonsense?
“We’re exercising, too.” I think I hear him whimper, but I’m a woman on
a mission and I won’t be deterred.
After researching weight loss programs online, I’m overwhelmed. When I
was a size 8, there weren’t so many options. I now know the difference
between saturated fat and trans fat (as well as trans fat and fat
transsexuals, thanks to one wayward mouse click). I know to calculate my
BMI, I need to square my height and divide by my weight or multiply my
weight by the ratio of height to…
I don’t really know how to figure BMI. I’ve come up with a number
resembling the national debt, which oddly enough, is also the number of
Girl Scout Cookies I’ve consumed over the last fifteen years. I decide
calculating my BMI requires visiting my high school algebra teacher, but
I fear I no longer fit in the desk.
“I’m going to Weight Watchers tomorrow,” I announce to my husband, who’s
retreated to the kitchen with the kids, hoarding the Doritos.
In the morning I stand in the weigh-in line. Hoping to reduce my weight
by every last fraction of an ounce, I’ve cut my hair, shaved my legs and
clipped my fingernails. I’ve removed my earrings, my bracelet and my
wedding band. I removed the underwire from my bra before opting to
remove my bra altogether. On the drive over, I blasted the heat in the
hopes of sweating off another ounce.
The line shortens. In a last ditch effort, I jog in place and try to
remove the elastic band from the seam of my pants.
“Next!”
Who me? As I untie my shoes I contemplate running, but a dash to the
door is impossible from this stooped position.
“Good morning,” the weigher greets me. Her nametag says “I’m Angela. I
lost 52 lbs. “Step on the scale, please,” Angela requests.
I step on the scale and have an out of body experience. I haven’t felt
this short of breath since the control top pantyhose. I see a burst of
light. I want to walk into it, but then I realize it’s just someone
opening the blinds.
She doesn’t announce my weight, she writes it in my membership book. She
hands me the book and I hand her twelve dollars, the current market
price of shock therapy. I read the number and wonder if there’s a
defibrillator on the premises.
“Are you staying for the meeting?”
“Umm yes…I need to sit down.”
“Great! You’ll need a nametag.”
As she jots down my name, I contemplate asking her to write, I’m
Christine. Before I got pregnant, I was a size 8.
http://www.pajamamommy.net
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