Forever 27.

Tomorrow is my birthday and I was wondering if someone could fed-ex me a can of Crisco and a butter knife so I could somehow glide my way into some dress pants. I’ve been wearing yoga pants for the past year and just realized that nothing else fits me anymore; therefore, in order to look presentable on my birthday I’m going to need that Crisco and buttering utensil STAT!

Seriously though, I really am going to be 27 tomorrow and it has brought up a lot of new feelings (or better yet suppressed feelings) and realizations for me. One thing I’ve realized is that I may have a tiny problem with taking things seriously-meaning I don’t take enough things, or anything maybe, seriously enough. Take for example the fact that during the course of my graduate school experience I have been spoken to by my professors three times. Once for not paying attention and looking ”lost”, once for talking loudly during a classmates presentations (Pff, she was boring anyway.), and once for not buying the text book (You were serious about that?). Another example is my lack of sticking to diets and/or treating my health as a serious matter. I don’t have to remind anyone how dreadful I’ve been at sticking to a regimented diet. I don’t have to remind anyone how I’ve gained 30lbs by sticking to a strict eating plan of breads, pasta, crackers, cereal, doughnuts, cakes, pies, croissants, muffins, cookies, chips, buttered popcorn, trail mixed, candy, and anything else containing more than 85 grams of carbohydrates per serving.

27 is different though. 27 year olds have to be much more cautious about what they eat. 24, 25, or even 26 year olds still have the comfy and safe freedom that youth brings on their side. I mean, it’s OK to fall asleep with a mouth full of Sour Patch Kids when you’re 24. It’s excusable to chock slam chicken nuggets and McFlurries during the middle of the night at 25. And it’s completely acceptable to grow out of two pant sizes when you’re 26. 27, however, is a game changer. At 27 you begin thinking about how you’ll look in a wedding dress and if your body, in its current, flabby state, is suitable for carrying healthy children. At 27 you begin thinking about 30 and all the health risks that come along with age. 27 is serious shit.
Maybe, even though I’m not quite 27 yet, I’ve started to think like a 27 year old early because for the past 5 days I’ve been on a strict gluten/wheat/carb free diet.

Disclaimer:
Please don’t tell me how I need “healthy” carbs. You can rant until you’re blue in the face, but I won’t believe you. Read the book What Belly by Dr. William Davis and you’ll never look at a blueberry scone, cereal or even oatmeal the same way again! Have you ever heard of someone referring to their cucumber thighs, avocado belly, or grilled chicken butt? No. But I’m sure you’ve heard of a muffin top, bear belly, or bagel butt. All wheat. I truly believe that I have a gluten allergy; it makes my ass blow up! (Not that there's anything wrong with a woman having a large behind, it's just not working for me right now at this time in my life.)

Anyway, I’ve been living off cage free, organic eggs, plain avocados, raw nuts and seeds, salads, fish, cheese, tofu and some chicken on occasion. I feel good about this plan this time around. Maybe I’m more ready. Maybe I’m growing up. Or maybe I just don’t want to be a fat 27 year old. Either way, I’m hoping for the best year of my life.

Are you gonna eat that?

I am a terrible excuse for a female. I burp, fart, spit massive loogies and have feet like wrecking balls. I rarely wear makeup, I loathe high heels and my legs are often in that unkempt stubble phase. Basically I’m a pair of Birkenstocks and a pixie cut away from full blow lesbian status. But worst of all my unfeminine characteristics: I eat…a lot.
I clean my plate at every meal and usually am looking for seconds. In fact, if you leave your plate unguarded I might go for that too. In a world where women are supposed to be starving and thin I break the norm. I’m sorry, but I can’t help that I can put food away. And when I say food I mean real “manly” food: burgers off the grill, Italian subs, deep dish pizza, hot wings, baby back ribs with French fries and nachos-you name it I’ll eat it. I refuse to apologize for the fact that I’m always freakin’ hungry. I have a ravenous appetite. I haven’t felt full since the summer of ’91. If you ever hear me say, “I’m not hungry.” Don’t call the doctor because I’m not sick; call the priest because I’m fuckin’ dying!
I constantly see women eating salad for lunch. They pick at their plates tossing around cucumbers and uncooked carrots in fat free balsamic dressing with empty, unsatisfied eyes. I cannot understand this. Are they eating salad and sipping water for lunch because they’re craving roughage or are they afraid of breaking the social norm that women should eat like rabbits?
We women have been told since the Victorian era about the dangers of indulgent and over stimulating eating. Victorian women kept conduct manuals that advised on how to “consume in a feminine way,” meaning as little as possible and with the utmost precaution against improper show of desire. In other words, do not load your plate, do not clean your plate and do not go back for seconds. These food rules for women don’t just pertain to the Victorian era though; today the same warnings appear about food in advertisements all over TV and magazines. Green Teas that suppress appetite, pre-portioned Weight Watchers meals, shakes that replace meals and then pills that help you shit out those meals. Denying oneself food has become the central micro-practice in the education of female self-restraint and containment of impulse. We are taught that the less you consume the better woman you are.
I’ve experienced this truth in my own life. At family dinners for example, when I reach for seconds I’m met with judgmental eyes and silence, but when my boyfriend reaches for seconds he’s met with praise and the always encouraging “Please, eat more! It’s just going to go bad if you don’t eat it!” Really!? If that’s the case then why can’t I eat it too without feeling shameful?
Episodes like these just make me want to slam a sleeve of Oreos and a pint of Coffee Heath Bar Crunch in the privacy of my own bed while crying on into my body pillow, not eat less! The more we suppress the worse we feel and I’m tired of it.
I’m tired of hearing women apologize for what they want to eat. I’m tired of women feeling guilty for simply striving to quench their appetites and feed their body what it’s craving. I’m sick of women thinking they have to eat salads when out for lunch in public so they won’t feel self-conscious around the disapproving eyes of strangers. I’m sick of women being ashamed to go back for seconds, eat desert, have a piece of bread and on and on and on.
Why can’t we all just be sorry excuses for females and eat what are body is craving be it a garden salad or a chili cheese dog. Wouldn’t listening to our bodies save us a lot of unnecessary desire, forced restraint and private binges? My hope is to learn to listen to my body and not the stupid, social rules and expectations of everyone else. Right now my body is telling me it wants a vanilla soy latte and a cinnamon scone. :)

Hello again...

Due to the fact that a) I have felt extremely lost lately and unable to give any kind of sound advice and b) have lost the Internet at my house for reasons beyond my control (not paying the Verizon bill) I have taken a small hiatus. I have spent some much needed time focusing on my health and reading some extremely necessary and insightful books in an attempt to find myself again. Having almost achieved my goal (not weight loss goal but attempt to find myself again goal) I can now sit back at the computer reading through all my old blog posts with a clear, rather newly informed head.

As I read, I feel ashamed. I am embarrassed by my shallow words. I wonder when I became this girl. This girl who judges herself solely by the size of her waist. When did I become so engrossed in my own appearance? So self-absorbed. How one-dimensional and petty have I become? When did carrying extra weight begin to mean unattractiveness in every sense of the word? When did eating a measly carbohydrate begin to signify that I was an undisciplined, damaged, worthless pig? When did food stop being nourishment but rather a symbol of my deepest weaknesses? When did I stop being me to become nothing more than an insignificant number on a scale?

I know what it feels like to hate your body and in turn hate yourself. I know what it feels like to truly believe you are the most revolting creature on the planet. It seems to be a right of passage that biological females must go through self-hatred at some point in their lives, but some of us just can’t seem to shake it. During my hiatus from this blog I hit an all time low in regards to my self-esteem. Feeling fat, and therefore worthless, I decided to do what I always do when I’m at my lowest and can’t seem to figure my way out of it: I educated myself. I read book after book on the female body, feminism, and women’s history until I understood the reasons for my existing way of negative thinking about myself, and how to change that unconstructive thinking into a constructive cause.

I now understand that “Girls today grow up believing that "good looks" -- rather than "good works" -- are the highest form of female perfection.” We spend our days a slave to the mirror, to the calorie, to a system that is playing on our self-doubt every single day. We pledge blind allegiance to a culture that celebrates only the trimmest, tightest, sagless, bulgeless, lineless, hairless, big-breasted, perfect, plastic unrealistic model that we call “the female body”. This is how we lose ourselves. This is how I lost myself in a weight-loss induces haze. I let myself become sexualized, objectified, and demoralized by believing that I was supposed to fit into some generic mold. It fucks with you.

As women living in contemporary America, we are trained to forget what are bodies were organically made for and what they are capable of. We are the baby makers, the life givers, the strongest sex, and the most in tune to our emotions as well as the emotions of others. We are all amazing women with a lot more to offer than a tight ass. We’ve got to be willing to accept that we were put on this earth for more than our endless attempts to lose weight or cure our acne or get really tan or (insert whatever you want to change about yourself physically here).

I’m not trying to say that we should all stop trying to drop a few pounds when needed I just think we, myself included, need to become more conscious and rational when going forward with such decisions so to not become blindly obedient to a society that glorifies holocaust victims in pageant makeup.

My point exactly.

I wish I could take back all the horrible things I’ve said about myself in regards to my figure and other appearance related issues both in this blog and throughout my life. Alas, I cannot change my past. All I can do now is attempt to advocate for young girls that are growing up in this unforgiving world today so they may never have to lose their authentic voice and self-confidence the way I have.

Books you must read if you are in anyway self-conscious about your female body:

Unbearable Weight: Feminism, Western Culture, and The Body by Susan Bordo

The Body Project by Joan Jacobs Brumberg

Women, Food, and God by Geneen Roth

Is there hope for fat women?

I enjoy Sex…and the City-you know, that decade long, number one show turned big screen movie? Well, today while I was at the gym (yes, I was at the gym, and can I just say while on the subject that I see more bare breasts in my gym’s locker room than in a Stanley Kubrick film) I was watching an episode of Sex and the City entitled Unoriginal Sin. I couldn’t help but relate the whole thing to my life at the moment.

The episode starts with our heroin, Carrie Bradshaw, sitting at her computer trying to drum up new material for her weekly sex column, but finding it very difficult since she’s not in a relationship. She fears that her lack of insightful columns (or her lack of columns in general) will get her fired by her editor. Like Carrie, I too have been sitting at my computer a lot trying to drum up ideas for my weight loss column blog, yet finding it extremely difficult to come up with anything insightful since I’m not losing weight! Though I don’t have an editor breathing down my neck and causing me to fear getting fired for shitty writing, I do have readers that are important to me and I fear that my blog with become nothing but a big fat joke (pun intended) if I continue being such a disappointment.

As sad as it is, after all of this talking, complaining, whining, crying protesting, praying and blogging, I am still fat. I'm beginning to think that there is something seriously fucking wrong with me. I wrack my brain every night as to why I can't seem to stick to a diet at this point in my life when I have done it successfully in the past. What's different now? Have I changed mentally? Is there something physically wrong with me? Or is it D, all of the above? I’m starting to think that the only thing I can be consistent with is failure.

If you’ve seen this episode of Sex and the City that I’m talking about, then you remember that Carrie was beginning to become very cynical and pessimistic about finding love after having so many devastating disappointments and heartbreaks with men. Most of the time I feel cynical and pessimistic about this weight loss journey after so many unsuccessful, pointless attempts. I feel emotionally deflated while physically more inflated (have you seen my ass?!) My cynical side is doubtful that this weight loss will ever happen for me and wonders if all this diet related stress is even worth it. I know losing weight isn’t supposed to be easy, but I didn’t think it would be this impossible! Is there any hope left for me? Is there hope for fat women?

In the end of the episode Carrie dedicates her book of columns to "Charlotte York, the eternal optimist." I dedicate my blog to optimism in general. To hopefulness and confidence about the future of successful weight loss. To hopeful women everywhere.

Andrew Joseph & a Plug.

About a month ago my sister gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, Andrew Joseph Christopher-Mazzini. He's perfect:
I don't know if you know this, but before he was born my sister was pregnant. I know, crazy huh! I had my good friend, and photographer, Kasia, take maternity photographs of her. They came out gorgeous:
I was so inspired by the beautiful photographs of my sister and the little joy that was growing inside her belly, that I decided to let Kasia take an intimate photograph of me and what has been making my belly grow:

All photographs by Kasia Jastrzebska (she's Polish). Visit her at http://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Photography-by-Kasia/129061203806840 to book a photo shoot!

Fat Women I Love.

I apologize for not writing much lately. I’ve been really busy and stressed out from grad school and figuring out my financial aid situation and a whole plethora of other things that make me want to dive head first into a dozen chocolate frosted. And though I haven’t actually eaten 12 donuts I haven’t been doing perfect with my diet given my now disgustingly frantic schedule and complete lack of organization skills. Sometimes after a 9 hour work day and 2 hours in Boston traffic you have no other choice but to crush a coffee roll and Dunkachino; after all, America runs on Dunkin’. But, I digress…

The other day while I was driving to work and listening to talk radio, I was more than a little disturbed by something the talk radio man said. He was talking about what the “perfect” female body is and how the conventional ideal female body has changed over time. For example, in the 40’s and 50’s women seemed to be (and wanted to be) more curvy while in the 90’s the ideal women was anorexic looking (think Cait Moss). Anyway, the host said two things that made me want to vomit 1) that there should be no such thing as a plus size model and 2) that Marilyn Monroe was “overweight”. Really!? You’re going to call one of the sexiest women of all time overweight!? Apparently men like fat women though because every man I’ve ever known has thought Marilyn Monroe was a hot bitch! This got me thinking about other "fat", hot bitches; here’s a few:

Obviously Marilyn goes first since she's the one who started all this. One of the sexiest women of the 20th century.

Born into poverty in rural Mississippi, raised by a teenage single mother and molested at the age of nine, Oprah managed to overcome despondency to reinvent herself as the richest woman in the world with her O empire! Go Oprah!


Not only is Crystal Renn EXTREMELY sexy, she overcame a serious, life threatening case of anorexia to become one of the first high fashion plus sized models. She also wrote a book called Hungry: A Young Model's Story of Appetite, Ambition and the Ultimate Embrace of Curves. Love, love, love this woman!

Ummm, Kirstie Alley is hysterical! Have you seen her show Kirstie Alley's Big Life? It's fantastic! The show presents the story of her losing the weight she gained back since her Jenny Craig campaign. Hmmm...Gaining back weight, I can relate to that!

Lizzie Miller was considered too fat to even be a plus-size model, now she's plastered all over the glossy pages of Glamour magazine giving confidence to millions of normal sized women everywhere.

Take these pictures of these women, print them off the computer and cut them out. Paste them on your walls, on your mirrors, stick 'em to your head; I don't care. Just remember, these are real women! Women like you and me! Curves, cellulite, tummy rolls and all! These are the ideal female bodies; they are perfect because they are realistic. You agree?

An Altercation with a Chocolate Cake

A few weeks ago Patrick and I got in a little tiff. I don’t even remember what it was about. I’m sure it was something stupid; maybe he ate the last fruit roll up or something, I don’t even know. Anyway, I said something regrettable and Patrick ended up storming out of the house, slamming the door behind him. He left me home alone with the dog and a chocolate cake.

I made my best attempts to distract my mind from the fight and how upset I felt about the whole situation. I sit on the couch. I lay down. I twist and turn and fumble with pillows. I watch TV. I pet the dog. And then I hear it; the chocolate cake beckoning to me.

“Gina,” it whispered. “Come over here and look at me. Look at my texture. Can you imagine how soothing I would feel melting in your mouth? I bet I taste good enough to make you forget about that man. That awful, terrible man. Come tell me all about your troubles. I’m here for you.”
“I’m not even going to look at you!” I retort back to the cake. “You’re not worth it!”
“Oh, but aren’t I?” Responds the cake. “I have three layers of ooey, gooey comfort in a neat frosting coated shell. I’m fresh and fluffy. I was made with love and kindness. I was created solely for situations like these. I’m just what you need. I will console you. I will numb those pesky, wretched feelings of yours even if just for the moment. I am so worth it.”
I get up and walk toward the cake.
“That’s it, love. Come closer and smell me, touch me, engulf me.” The cake is persistent.
I remove the plastic top covering the cake. It’s voice becomes louder and stronger. The cake continues to plead with more aggression now.
“Let’s run away together.” It suggests. “Let’s live somewhere together where no one will find us! Forget about Patrick, forget about work, the dog, school, just forget it all! Escape with me!” “I won’t judge you!” The cake shouts in a last ditch effort to suck me in, “I don’t think you’re fat!”
I grab a fork and dig it into the cake. I take a bite and then another. I close my eyes and swallow. The cake was right, it is soothing, it is comforting. The cake overwhelms me and for a moment I forget…

Then I remember! I remember my pants and how snug the have become. I remember my weight loss goals and my writing. I remember my promise to myself and to my readers. I realize that eating cake solves nothing-it doesn’t resolve my issues with Patrick!
“But I taste SO good!” The cake relentlessly grapples with me.
I block my ears, run to the kitchen trash and throw the cake away.

Actual photograph of the actual chocolate cake in the trash.

I sit back down alone on the couch and wait for Patrick to come home. No chocolate cake, no TV, no distractions; just myself and my thoughts to wrestle with.
I guess that’s what overcoming emotional addiction to food is all about: learning to put the fork down, throw out the cake and just deal.