It's the end of June and I have reached a new milestone: my heaviest official weight (excepting for pregnancy and the first couple months AFTER pregnancy) in 4 and a half years.
Wooooooo!!!!!!...plbpt.
It seems I've surrounded myself with beautiful, kindhearted, liar-faced-liars who swear on the lives of their children that "oh you look amazing, I would NEVER have guessed that you've been putting on weight!" while in their heads I'm quite certain they're thinking something more along the lines of
Liar-faced-liars try real hard to be nice, and that's sweet and all, but a few things in my life have chosen a more direct, objective approach. Things like:
1) My Wedding Ring. The symbol of my eternal love and commitment has been rethinking its commitment to my left hand. Or, I suppose, it's deciding whether it wants to avoid joining the hand completely, or fuse itself to myself forever and ever Amen.
2) My Pants. This morning, I was afraid of all of my pants. To be fair, I'm pretty sure they were equally afraid of me. My pants were purchased for a skinnier person, and they glared judgingly at me from my closet. "NO FAT ASHLEYS ALLOWED", they proclaimed. But you know what? I don't like being told what to do, so I shoved my oversized backside into those jeans anyway. I squiggled and squirmed and gasped and twisted and tried hard not to think about This Recent Incident wherein a woman was hospitalized for wearing overly tight pants. Take that, judgy pants. You are ON me now. HA.
3) Wait what was this list about again? Oh yeah. Things telling me that I am fat.
4) Lastly I think, The Scale. Now, I know that The Scale is a deep fried jerk covered in jerk sauce, and that he's on a constant mission to destroy my mood, but... sometimes he makes some points. Today's point, for example was 159.4. And it made me sad. THANKS A LOT SCALE. YOU WIN AGAIN.
But hey, forget all that. It doesn't matter, because guess what? Guess what? It's that, YOU'RE WELCOME, THE INTERNET.
You see, Skinny Ashley thought that blogging was a time-luxury she could no longer afford. Skinny Ashley spurned your love and affection because her jeans fit her just fine, and everyone knows that people who can fit into their own jeans are SELFISH BRAIN DEAD JERKS. But Fat Ashley, well, Fat Ashley has all of the muffin tops. And now, oh, Fat Ashley needs you so hard, Internet. Fat Ashley can't live another day without you. Fat Ashley is so sorry she went away and is begging, pleading, for your mercy and forgiveness.
Also, Fat Ashley thinks you're looking very nice these days, by the way. And... she wonders if you did something different with your hair?
Asking for a friend: how many times can a person call herself Fat before she hurts her own feelings? Let's call it an even 37 and move right along.
So there we are. There I am. Fat Ashley is back with her too high BMI score and her too tight pants and her too desperate need for approval. Hope you still like me, Internet. Please, please still like me.
The End.
...
Real quick, I expect a few people out there to respect the fact that I've only ever used the name Fat Ashley in those post, and never once, NEVER ONCE called myself a Fat Ash. Because that would not be classy, and classy is the name of the game here, folks. Classy.
