Why I feed off my fat

This story is what set me thinking. A story on CNNs online edition about BDD. Body Dysmorphic Disorder. And believe you me, with the half a brain I have left, and the miniscule time left from surfing other people’s blogs and passing on bad jokes through chain mail, it takes a lot to set me thinking. And most of my thinking is on the lines of which store should I mentally burgle. Given that almost the entire lot of stores in Inorbit is on half price sale once again (Shoppers Stop–lovely mojris and shoes at Rs 399 and 499. Throw off your shoes and run there. All I managed to buy between the brat running amok in the aisles was a measly serving tray which was marked at Rs 349 and on sale at Rs 99. Lifestyle again on 50 per cent sale. Kaysons. Pepe. UCB. I’m dying. Someone cut up my credit cards now.)

http://www.cnn.com/HEALTH/library/DS/00559.html

It talks about a condition known as Body Dysmorphic Disorder. It could also explain why I wear a UK size 10 and feel I am humungous. Rationally, and on a clear sunny day I know that I am exactly three kilos overweight. For my height, 56 to 58 kilos should be the healthy range I should be at to look human. But the fact that I have touched 60 kilos has grown to LochNess proportions in my mind. On a rational sunny day I know I still fit into the jeans I wore before brat was born, albeit give and take for a little bit of a tummy that stubbornly refuses to get itself back in. And those little rolls of fat that decide to lope themselves over the waistband at the side, needing loose kurtis to stay camouflaged. Which then means all my ridiculously paid through the nose for DKNY and D&G and Cavalli lycra fits are meant for days when I am feeling very brave or very drunk to dare step out in public with them on. But then, thats what caesareans are all about, great excuses to keep a bit of tummy hanging out.

But there is something called seratonin which is working overtime in my brain I presume and making every glance in the mirror seem like I am face to face with a runaway elephant from the circus. Rationally I know that there are people out there getting butt implants to have the kind of butt I go around draping in tent like kurtis in sheer embarassment. But then I can now happily blame it all on BDD. Dont blame me, its BDD. And polycystic ovaries while I am at it. And let me find some more reasons while I am on the case. Can I blame the computer too? Spending too much time on it and not enough time off the butt and walking around causes big butt syndrome.

But realistically speaking, and am trying hard not to look at my reflection while I type this, I am actually not overweight. I am pleasantly plump. Perhaps a bit too pleasantly plump. Too much plumpness. And a little bit of pleasantness. Those are all trick mirrors around me, designed to make me look 20 kilos fatter than I actually am. All the sales people who tell me “No maam, we dont have that in XL,” are actually part of a conspiracy which also includes the Roswell aliens and the Bermuda Triangle secret file, and all the weighing machines I stand on or will ever pass by chance have been doctored by a mobile crew of mechanics who set them to twenty kilos below actual weight, and the fact that I can never fit into airline seats comfortably is because they deliberately assign me a seat designed for leprechauns.

Therefore, am back to cut the carbs and walk the miles. No dinner, minimal carbs, and a long walk whenever I can get some volunteer to handle the brat. I promise you a five kilo loss in a month. I promise myself a new wardrobe. Now thats incentive worth starving oneself for. 

Here’s what I will take a tip from, a New York Times Lead Story: Susan Jacoby suggests that a woman assuage appearance anxiety by salting her money away in a retirement savings account instead of spending thousands on lifting her face or enlarging her breasts, But why not donate those thousands to smoothing the lives, expanding the opportunities of less fortunate women -in Nicaragua, in Eritrea, in our own crisis centers?