I Blew My One Shot to Gain Weight With Society’s Approval
With the vaccine now rolling out, I may never get the chance again.
When COVID hit, like many Americans, I was in the middle of trying to lose weight. Thirty pounds, to be exact, the leftover from my two pregnancies. (Ok, my boys just might be teenagers now but don’t judge).
I figured that quarantine would basically put an end to any weight loss that might have been on my horizon So, like any good suburban woman who is actually not a housewife (this is not the 1950s even though some politicians would have you believe that it is), I took to social media for guidance.
And what did I spy with my little eye, or at least my good one? Cute images of babies posing with protruding tummies and Michelin-tire fat rolls in bikinis, adorable toddlers “exercising” their way back to the refrigerator and that darling of a cultural icon, Baby Yoda, opining that “ronabelly sounds like the name of a delicious donut.” A chunky bulldog in tight shorts resting under the slogan, “Due to coronavirus, my summer body will be postponed until 2021.” References to clothes “shrinking” during lockdown. Boredom eating. Expanding elastic waistbands. Buttons on jeans “socially distancing.” And my personal favorite, “So, after this quarantine…will the producer of My 600-Pound Life just find me…or do I call them…or how will this work?” Even celebrities, such as the perennially fit Brooklyn Decker, tweeted that “Honestly, this is not the time to put the pressure of low-rise jeans on us.” If babies, Baby Yoda and Brooklyn were giving the ok to gain weight, shouldn’t I be able to do it, especially since I had been so successful in the past?
All conditions were ripe for gain: gyms had closed and no sane adult would be caught dead in one after they reopened with the virus still raging. Travel had ground to a virtual halt; so had my twice-annual pilgrimage to New York City where just the sight of those New York-thin women would shame me into losing at least a few pounds. I was immobile for two weeks, and on crutches for two months, after having surgery to mend a torn Achilles tendon (actually the peroneal tendon, but doesn’t Achilles sound sexier?) I had more time to sit on my ass and dream up ways to make up the calories I would have normally eaten in the form of the fabulous 1,950-calorie Bloomin’ Onion at my now-shuttered neighborhood Outback Steakhouse. Or the milk-chocolate covered almonds I would have sampled from the bins at Wegmans or the cookie samples those nice people with hair nets used to give out at Costco. I had more time to snack while viewing a steady diet of hundreds of hours of must-see programming on Netflix, as well as fully digest those self-help mantras encouraging me to treat myself right and not worry about eating Cadbury creme eggs for breakfast. It’s a pandemic, damn it! We’re all in this together, remember?
So what happened? All the millennials were telling me that Jupiter had aligned with Saturn, and that Venus and Mercury were aligning with the waning crescent moon, so weren’t these cosmic phenomena enough to ensure ideal karma for my stigma-free gain?
Apparently not, sigh. As much as I hate to say it, I blame Ivanka. Her helpful, cheery exhortations to “find something new” didn’t lead me to a new job, as you might have thought. They led me to new food — and not Goya beans for those insensitive enough to ask! The newest low calorie Swedish ice cream that I could eat by the pintful for only 280 calories instead of a whole Ben and Jerry’s Chubby Hubby for 1,360. The newest monk fruit sugar that I could use to bake dozens of holiday cookies and not get fat from eating more batter than a human should be legally allowed. The trendy xanthum gum that my teenage son introduced me to through YouTube that could be used to thicken Greek yogurt and processed Oreo O’s cereal into a fake “milkshake.” The newest no-added-sugar chocolate chips that could so fabulously serve as the welcome chaser to my nightly jumbo glass of red wine. Who cares if they didn’t taste exactly like their more caloric, fattening cousins? Double the quantity, half the calories.
So even though I’m disappointing everyone on social media, I must confess that I will not be returning to work in a muumuu with soft waist leggings — or 300 pounds heavier. I know that I missed this unique opportunity to gain weight without society’s judgment and that this makes me a loser, in this case, of 20 pounds to be exact. But never fear, I’ll be back at the gym soon, much to my thighs’ chagrin.
