So, hilariously enough, I'm a nutrition major. And for one of my classes, we're doing a "diet assessment" project. I have to analyze one person's food, and she analyzes mine. And ... I'm embarrassed. And angry about it. Because I don't want to be judged by this skinny-mini diet girl. And I call her that because I've had to analyze what she eats, and she's the type who measures out precise amounts of her Fiber One cereal in the morning and eats fat-free yogurt, etc.
Health has not been the order of the day when choosing my food the last few days--more whatever I see and like, I eat. I didn't eat hardly anything for days because of being sick, so now ...well ... FATGIRL MUST FEED. I don't usually care, but something about having to hand over my diet to be scrutinized by someone is really bothering me. Part of me wants to fake it and put down a perfect diet, but of course that would be playing into the stereotype of fat people lying about what they eat. But I don't want to tell a stranger that I had a pint of Ben & Jerry's for dinner. If I were an average sized person like her, she'd assume it was a one time thing. But I'm fat, so of course she'll think that's how I eat every damn day. Grr.
Oh well. That's her problem.
I have my eight o'clock class tomorrow; the one I hate going to because the professor is an obesity scaremonger. I'll be honest, I've missed more class sessions that I've been to. It's just hard to drag myself out of bed to go to a class where I have to listen to someone indirectly insult me by talking about how unhealthy fat people are, how they just need to be "educated", blabbity blah.
But I have to go tomorrow; I went on Tuesday and DoomProf cryptically mentioned something important for next week ... that she'd explain tomorrow. I freaking hate it when people do that--just tell us now! And then three hours after that I have a biochemistry exam that I thought was on Friday--thank god I double checked the date.
So I have to be up in about five hours (still studying), and I can't just come home and crawl back in to bed. Because I absolutely hate dragging myself out of bed a single minute earlier than I have to, I got everything ready tonight. I showered late this afternoon, so I don't have to worry about that in the morning. I have my backpack packed with everything I need. I have coffee in the espresso maker so all I have to do is turn it on. I have a bagel with cream cheese ready to go, and a protein drink as well. I even have my flavored creamer and hazelnut syrup already poured in a cup in the fridge so I just have to pour the coffee in. If I wouldn't be too hot, I'd sleep in my clothes. Hell, I'd sleep in my shoes. If my glasses weren't cracked, I wouldn't bother to put in my contacts tomorrow.
I detest mornings.
I am standing in line at Ross, with the down comforter I do need. I am also staring across the register at the shimmery baby blue Kathy Van Zeeland purse I do NOT need.
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My textbook just informed me that the word "globesity" has been coined to describe the OBESITY EPIDEMIC.
GLOBESITY BOOGA BOOGA BOOGA!
I went to Qdoba tonight, and one of the employees was cleaning off the quesadilla griddle thing. I'm not sure what he was spraying on it before scraping off layers of burnt tortilla, but whatever it was, it put off clouds of smoke .... that tasted sweet. It didn't smell of anything, but when it drifted across my face, it tasted like I'd put some sort of artificial sweetener on my lips. How freaking weird is that?
Several years ago, I worked with a very ... interesting, let's say, woman. She was in her early forties, and was naturally slender, although when I first started working with her she was a little heavier than she liked because she'd had a baby a couple of years before. One day, she up and decided to make herself stick-thin, and started running miles and miles and eating odd combinations of things. Then she started having an affair, left her husband, and convinced her new boyfriend to buy her some boobs.
She was already a D or DD, probably, and had the volume of a soda can added to each boob. The things were enormous. It was sort of scary-looking, especially on her teeny tiny frame. One day she bent over suddenly, and when I saw it out of the corner of my eye it really looked like her giant knockers had pulled her over! And it was around this time that she told me she wanted to lose another ten pounds. I didn't think she was serious, but she kept saying "yeah, I used to be 140, now I'm 150! I need to lose ten pounds!" And she kept insisting, and running further and futher, and eating less and less .... because the number on the scale changed.
I finally couldn't take it any more and pointed out she'd had those ten pounds surgically implanted onto her chest. She didn't like that much, but it just was so idiotic--you could already see her ribs, but because of a number, she felt the need to push it more.
So one of my friends posted a status yesterday, basically saying she didn't want to work during the Superbowl while everyone else was chowing hot wings. A friend of hers wrote back "just picture all of them getting FAT!"
HARDY HAR HAR. Because eating wings during a football game will make you FATT! That's all it takes you know! One day of enjoying your food!