Meet me in Fattyville

Meeting. A dirty word. I am of course speaking of a business meeting. As a fatty, I look for “food” in everything. So when I was told that I would be required to sit through a meeting on RESPA (evil mortgage laws) my first thought was to stick pins in my eyes until such time that I could obtain a Dr.’s note to relieve myself from said meeting. Realizing that blindness was not a viable option I decided to focus on managing my expectations. Being the stellar employee that I am, I arranged a meeting with my Manager to obtain crucial details that would be imperative to the successful completion of said oppressive meeting. I ran down my list of questions in order of importance. First, what’s for lunch? Second, what time do I have to wake up? Third, when can I go home? I think that about covered the success related portion of my concerns. As you might imagine, I am often nominated for employee of the year.

Bottom line…I had to be up at the crack of my ass, the food was going to be heavy ass pasta and there was no hope of me getting home before happy hour. Perhaps I should refrain from managing my own expectations. Shock has it’s benefits…like a non-pre-planned shitty attitude. Imagine you work in an industry that already hangs it handcuffs at the door and you are asked to attend a meeting where you are told that shackles are now all the rage! Polly Positive aint showin up for this meeting. Any fatty in this situation will revert to primal instincts. Eat as much as humanly possible and refrain from any sort of participation. Why talk when you could be eating brownies covered in powdered sugar or Tiramisu? My feral fatty gig worked well until the speaker asked us to close our eyes and imagine various scenarios where we were happy and successful. Unfortunately my imagination isn’t quite that active so I closed my eyes and envisioned my own version of a happy place…Nap Time in the Land of Fatties. It’s a wonderful place where you eat yourself into a food coma and no one asks you to wake up and listen to dumb suggestions like being successful. I wasn’t too far into my happy place when the presenter commanded us to wake up….I mean open our eyes. In lieu of bitch slapping her, I smiled and pretended to be a new person. Actually I was a new person. I was now angry. Never wake a fatty from a food coma. Might lose a digit.

Now that I was awake, I realized that I had broken a crucial SIF rule. Rule #4321…never spill food on required reading material at a business meeting. Too late. My RESPA book now looked like a an ingredient from the chicken parm I had for lunch. Skinnies “doodle”…fatties spill food. What can I say. I tried to wipe it off but that just made it look like evidence from the scene of a mass murder. Sitting next to the manager probably wasn’t a good plan given the current situation. I did what most guilty folk do, I pretended not to notice. Hard not to notice sauce on your book, the tablecloth oh and the back of your hand. The neat thing is, when you pretend it’s not there, others pretend it’s not there as well. It’s a defense mechanism. I hated to break out my mad psych skills but it had to be done. So there I sat, covered in sauce pretending to be the newest resident in the Land of Happy and Successful People. I was kinda bitter that even in the land of everything good I was still fat. Seems like you’d get a break being that we all willed ourselves there. Apparently not the case. I knew this meeting was a bad idea. I decided to day dream my pain away. I wasn’t too far into that when we were asked to close our eyes again. Damn! Who is this bitch? Miss Cleo?!

Around 3pm the presenter loosened the shackles and agreed to set us free. Although she had indicated that the torture would continue until 5 pm or later, we were being released on good behavior. I grabbed my saucy books and ran for the parking garage. She seemed the type to change her mind and I wasn’t waiting around for that. In fact, I had dreams of tackling her and showing her what really happy people do when forced to dream of things that will never come to pass. Bad career move. Instead I drove to the Border Station to obtain lottery tickets from 2 states. I figured I had put in my time and Lady Luck might be shining on me. Yeah well Lady Luck must have been in her happy place bcs I didn’t win big…or at all for that matter. I would make a great lottery winner. I’m semi-fat so people would instantly like me bcs of my imperfections and I would give money to starving people bcs that is just unimaginable. I have my posse in place for just such an occasion…Susan would be my PR person saying things like, “Kelly respectfully requests that you respect her privacy during this very difficult time.” Not sure what that means but all of the important people say it. Emily would make sure that I am on page 6 with the likes of Brangelina….that’s right cause I stole him from that baby buying freaky deek! Ok. I realize I have lost control of myself. Only one thing to do…eat.