Till the Fat Lady Sings.

For most of my high school career, I maintained a respectable weight of 108 pounds. I would listen to passive-aggressive comments from other girls around my size such as, "OMG I HATE YOU! YOU'RE SO SKINNY." Truth be told, I thought those girls were annoying. I thought their insecurities were annoying. I thought that their bagged lunches containing a ziploc full of almonds and salad drizzled in transparent dressing was stupid. If I ever had the displeasure of coming face to face with my food Nemesis, the salad, I'd disguise it beneath bleu cheese or ranch. Anything thick enough to hide the fact that I was eating a bowl of glorified grass and leaves would do. Eating salad made me feel vulnerable, like a deer. A real herbivore.

I laughed at the idea of the freshman fifteen. And inside the cruel and underdeveloped part of my brain, I laughed even louder at those who had gained it. But now, sitting here on the couch watching The Colbert Report, things don't seem so funny. My weight now fluctuates between the hideous numbers of 124 and 127. I am living, breathing proof that willpower is not something people are necessarily born with.

Like an honest man using the insanity plea, I murdered a small part of my body with no recollection of the event ever having taken place. During an out of body experience, I must have boiled pasta, made Alfredo sauce, cut up a block of cheese and baked a lemon cake. 
After eating, I looked down and panicked slightly. I was pregnant, pregnant with the masticated slop of any and every food containing cheese or carbohydrates. I looked like a girl 5 months pregnant at her junior prom trying to hide her baby bump from peers and parents and priests. Or was it more severe than that? Did I look like a starving child who's stomach was expanded with the bloat of bacteria? Probably not. There's no mistaking me for a skinny adult anymore, let alone a starving African child.

Members of Alcoholics Anonymous use a term called rock bottom to describe the moment they hit their absolute lowest point. The other day I went to take a shower and a Ruffles potato chip fell of of my bra. There was another one stuck to my boob. I prayed that this was my rock bottom.
Ignoring all of my natural instincts, I put on my $12 canvas sneakers from Urban Outfitters and went for a run on a nearby bike path. 'Went for a run' is kind of a misleading term for me to use. It might make you think that I actually ran. I came to the shocking realization that I could run for no longer than 3 minutes at a time. Any longer and I experienced shortness of breath, tightness in my chest and nausea. I assumed that the chest tightness was a result of my sports bra. Like a Las Vegas showgirl in need of a quick change, I ducked behind a bush, stripped off the evil bra and continued to run in a tank top with a built in bra that I can only assume came from a Limited Too. The tightness was gone but that didn't change the fact that I was still very out of shape.
I started to run only when people were watching so that they wouldn't think I was weak or unworthy of the bike trail. Once out of my element (the couch) and onto the running trail, it surprised me to see how much I cared what people thought of my physical (in)ability.

While staggering towards the end of this hellish run, I noticed a used up band-aid that had been stampeded into the ground. I had immediate sympathy for it. The band-aid was just another permanent fixture in the concrete, something for runners and bikers to ride over or look past. It didn't belong on the trail. It belonged on someones pussing knee.
I half-ran, half-walked back to the opening of the bike trail. The whole time I was very careful not to step on any band-aids. It's important that you don't step on your equals.