This happened to me last night.
For one reason or the other, I pointed out to my son that I was tired because I was overweight. Okay. I said fat. Like the good son he is, and like an intelligent man in training for an eventual relationship, my kid responds with an automatic “no you’re not.”
Now I know he’s lying. I am not a moron and I am able to discern what I see in the mirror. Plus I’ve long ago given up Victoria’s Secret for Cacique (for those of you who don’t know, Cacique is the panty store for Big Girls). But it’s nice of him to say. Still. I want to make my point. (Who knows why. He’s 15 and doesn’t really want me to make my point, but whatever).
I indicate my backpack and inform him I’m tired because I am carrying around backpacks of fat. He thinks I am weird and the conversation is dropped.
But later, when I’m lying in bed unable to sleep, I can’t let the concept go. Exactly how many backpacks of fat am I carrying around? Because sometimes that thing weighs at least fifty pounds. There are days when I’m even forced to reevaluate what I take back and forth to work.
Of course like any sane woman I get up and weigh my backpack.
The first shocker here is that it weighs no where near fifty pounds. There are days when it feels like I’m carrying around bars of gold (I wish), but it’s really more like I’m hauling fluffy, overweight kittens in there.
The second shocker is the number. Holy Lord. I am carrying around FOUR backpacks of fat. FOUR!!!
(Actually I’m carrying 4.376 but I’ve rounded down for my sanity).
Imagine how good I would feel, how much energy I would have, if I shed those four backpacks.
P.S. As I wrote this I ate M&M’s. While this is sad to contemplate my fatness while eating chocolate, now the dreaded question has lodged in my brain. How many M&M packages of fat am I carrying around?
Oh man. I see a really bad thing starting to unfold. How many boxes of rubberbands…how many notebooks…how many pounds of coffee…wait I think I know that one…