Fat Back

And before you start salivating, I’m not referring to the hunk of lard used to flavor otherwise tasteless vegetables. Get your mind out of the gutter. I’m talking FAT BACK. As in… I’m Fat and I’m back. As in… I’m Fat and currently have no back. And not as in ass. That would be too good to be true. Back… as in the thing that keeps you upright. That is unless you’re me and spend most of your time ON your back. That’s a whole nother topic. Not going there. In any event, not much has changed since I left you. I’m still pushing the limits of gravity with a very aggressive eating regimin. Gravity may have gotten the best of me at the worst possible time. My favorite fatty holiday….Thanksgiving. Two days before one of only a handful of acceptable eating holidays I went down like a fatty at the trough. On the floor that is. Couldn’t get up. No Life Alert around my neck. No random calls “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.” Who would feed me? Who would wipe my ass? Why my roommate Andrea that’s who! Don’t be judgy. Yes, I am over 40 and have a roommate. You’ll recall the divorce. Shut it. Andrea comes in quite handy. She’s a nurse. She knows things about things. Things I need to know. Like how many pills it takes to put down an old horse like me. Apparently that equates to 12 Vicodin a day….along with a few other appetizers for muscle relaxation and random OCD related side effects. Ughum

So there I was… 2 days before Thanksgiving, 2 weeks after running a marathon and 2 inches from the floor. Aside from the shooting pain in my back that felt like OJ had stopped by for a quick stab and run, I realized I might need a new vacuum. Look, OCD doesn’t stop for back pain. You put your face in a rug that smells like dog ass! A quick click on JCPenny.com seemed like a plan… or not. I couldn’t move. Andrea was standing over me popping Prednisone at my head. She delivers babies. She wasn’t prepared for the controlling, non-pill popping crip lying before her. “Take the damn meds!” Down girl. The meds did not make me get up. The dog ass smell did. I just let her think it was the meds. One position…that’s all I had. Fetal and feral all rolled into one. Less than attractive. One inch either way and I was screaming bloody murder. Muscle spasms, shooting pains and no appetite. Did you hear what I just said? No appetite! Fuck the pains, the spasms, the dog ass, the evil nurse….2 days out from the biggest eating event of the year and I have….no appetite! (insert random sound “dum dum dum). This condition is better known as “Fat Back.” I was a vegetable…sans the fat back to spice me up. I was grounded and high as a kite all at the same time. I feared all my dirty secrets would come out… I only shave my legs on even days. My “girl” could have used a trip to the groomer. I take Benadryl recreationally. I hadn’t flossed my teeth in 2 weeks (no telling what was in there). All these “things” were running through my head. Screw the pain…I had serious issues here! It crossed my mind that things could be worse. I could have the flu and be forced to puke in a dirty toilet. No I couldn’t. I never have a dirty toilet. And I shave my legs every day. And my girl was completely groomed. I plead no contest on the flossing. I find it too sedentary of a task. Should have done it whilst I was running the marathon. I’m obsessive. I want to live life of the non-shaving dirty toilet crowd. I fear situations such as this and consider it my duty to not only wear clean underwear but to clean everything…all the time. In any event, I had Nurse Andrea to clean up any of my dirty indiscretions. Ughum. I spent my free time (every waking moment) Googling the plethora of drugs before me. Holy side effects fat girl! I was a cocktail of crack waiting to explode! Thank God I had my loving Nurse to scream at me every hour on the hour “Stop Googling and take the F’n drugs. I wash mine down with wine. You won’t die!” I just couldn’t argue with that. I secretly cut her out of the will as I feared she was trying to kill me and take the left over white chocolate candy balls I had stashed down stairs. I couldn’t get down there and she knew it. Then it dawned on me. Christmas was around the corner and she loved my cookies. Surely she would spare me until then. This was so a “Misery” moment. I was just waiting for her to chain me to the bed and break my ankles.

I kept telling myself “You will make it to Thanksgiving.” Not… “You will get better…your back will be fine…you will run again…the pain will go away.” Nope. I am a SIF to the core. I focused on the meal. It’s Thanksfreakingiving people! It’s Fatty Christmas! What evil fatty God thought this was funny? Perhaps the one who saw me about ready to transition due north into double fatdigits! (random sign of the cross). Don’t get me wrong…I appreciate a good flu now again to shed a few pounds but this was a little much. Mother brought the flu last year. Thanks again Mother. I gained that weight back in 2 minutes. Next time let’s shoot for a stronger strain. 24 hours isn’t quite enough time at my size. I laid in bed crying on Thanksgiving Day. I had my flex jeans and oversized shirt all picked out. Yet I laid naked in the bed high and alone. Until Nurse Andrea kicked into action. She made me a full on Thanksgiving dinner in bed and ate it with me…in bed! Best SIF EVER! It was a dream come true…or maybe a bit of a nightmare with Andrea as the hero who saved Thanksgiving. I laid in bed…on my side…slurping up every fatty creation she brought me. Mac n cheese, turkey, stuffing… you name it. I made sure to drop some between the sheets for snacking later. It’s hard to eat sideways lying down. It seems like a dream but it’s less than ideal. I had visions of a post consumption nap without having to move an inch. And it happened that way. I ate, I slept and I snacked in between the sheets. And in between all of that was the worst pain I have ever experienced. Tip…when it hurts to think about moving one should rethink over eating. Trips to the bathroom were less than pleasant. And so the hunger strike began. Yes, I just said that. And I hope I never say it again.

I lived in fear. We are all aware my overly aggressive running schedule is a cover for my overly aggressive eating regimen. Run 6 miles…eat 6000 calories. I’ve done the math. It works. Take away the running and my house of fat comes tumbling down like a big girl on ice skates. And then I realized something…. the pain pills that were keeping me from pulling every hair out of my body were also killing my appetite. Interesting. I would soon come to understand the down side to pain pills…the fog. If I was a guy I would feed them to my wife every day. I can’t remember when I have been so agreeable. “Oh you want to stick the MRI machine up my ass and flush it out with an enema? No problem.” By the way….getting an MRI when your L5 is unaccounted for is…well mostly impossible. They gave me enough drugs to put down a horse. Just not enough to put down a SIF. There’s a difference. My sweet came with me for the MRI. It involved sedation. They slapped a “fall risk” bracelet on me and asked me my weight. Let’s back up. I would never fall in a hospital. A. MERSA…hello. B. My weight…um…yeah Richard can you leave the room? I lied. Of course I did. I told that stupid nurse not to ask me my weight. She was skinny. She lied on me. There’s no way in hell I’m telling my boyfriend what I really weigh. I’ve spent 2 years agreeing when he threw out random numbers like 120. I’m a multiple of that…or something. Then we had to bring in the judgy radiologist. He looked me over good. I gave him the 10 pound eye. For those less skilled in the art of fat….that’s a look that says “Add 10 to the number I gave the skinny bitch and keep your mouth shut while your at it.” Needless to say he wasn’t hip to my lingo. Really?! Did you graduate medical school?! So as luck would have it I never did get enough of the good stuff to forget I was lying on my back for 30 minutes. They said I wouldn’t remember anything. I would be sooo drugged. Drugs for 120lbs do not work on the 2X crowd thank you very much. I had 2 choices…fess or up suck it up. Can you guess what I did? Good SIF’s. They said I have “jelly” from a ruptured disc sitting on my nerve. “Think of it like a donut that exploded” they said. I didn’t appreciate fat jokes at a time like this. A. I love donuts. B. They should explode in your mouth not in your back and 3. I prefer custard thank you.

I’ve made progress. I’m eating again. If you call that progress. Personally I’d rather go back to the drooling, non eating, skinny chick I had become. Minus the back pain. I can rock that look like no other. I can now move around enough to eat, sleep and think about eating. If I can’t run soon, I’ll end on some random TV show about a morbidly obese chick that eats her entire family out of frustration. It is winter. It’s a time to kill and hibernate. All the animals are doing it. I watch Discovery. It’s all the rage. I am traveling 3 hours to the fancy Dr. next week. Do you know what I am looking forward to the most? A road trip pit stop at McDonald’s or some random place that serves shit and fries. Think about it…no good can come of me seeing a man who cuts people for a living. He’s going to tell me things I don’t want to hear and take the money I was using to super-size my meal. This my friends is a crime against fatties. Fatscrimination.