Not everyone has weight to lose.
I get it.
Despite living in one of the fattest states in perhaps the fattest country in the world, I seem to know very few chubby people. In fact, I’m pretty sure all the women I’m friends with spend their non-air-eating time drawing flirtatious winky faces in the Size 0’s of their clothing tags. Not that I’ve seen anyone do this — I just know it’s what I’d do if I were them ... and I wouldn’t stop there either. I’d resew those tags onto the outside of my clothing and I’d add little dialogue bubbles above the zeroes with snippets from my Thin Person Acceptance speech: “First, I’d like to thank starvation ... oh, and the makers of speed. And thank you, envelope glue for believing in me. I never knew how good you could taste for brunch.”
It should go without saying that I don’t plan to eat a lot on Thanksgiving. I simply can’t. The goal, as it is every year, is to detox and take it easy.
I will start off the day with frothy matcha green tea prepared with a bamboo whisk. I will then eat a slice of whole wheat toast with a little organic fruit and some honeycomb from local hives. And as I rehydrate with the pristine underground spring waters from the island-nation of Fiji and nutritious vegetable juices made with the dusty $200 juicer I bought during “Liz’s Lose Weight With Juices Plan,” I will meditate on the four ounces of turkey and roasted Brussels sprouts I’ll use later to nourish my body to the precise edge of satiation — all to the enjoyable and peaceful sounds of traditional tribal panpipes and whispered Incan secrets.
Annnnnnd ........................ then it will be 9 a.m.
My “Musica de Ecuador” CD will screech to a violent halt, and, assuming last year is any indication of what happens next, I will look down to find that I’ve been butter-massaging the turkey with one hand, while spooning dollops of homemade whipped cream spiked with Irish whisky directly into my throat — bypassing the taste buds for expediency’s sake.
Another glance around the kitchen will reveal that I’ve been cooking very thick bacon for the Brussels sprouts and using the juicer to hold limes for gin and tonic “breakfast cocktails.” Upon further inspection I will be shocked to find that what I thought was whole wheat toast is actually browned stuffing patties with meaty sausage and cider gravy.
Oh, what a sad state of my American body’s government! Why can’t I be more like my friends, the French? Then again, without Thanksgiving — the official kickoff to My Most Fattest of Fat Seasons — how could I possibly pass any meaningful resolutions for the New Year? Personal renewal and hopeful vows are my fig jam! And you can’t be reborn without re-stuffing yourself to the point of re-dying, right?
Here are a few of the things I’m very fatful for on this beautiful holiday of much bounty:
Kim Kardashian’s Temporary Husband™ called her “fat," and it’s supposedly one of the reasons for their impending divorce.
I don’t think it’s nice to call people fat.
But I’m so OK with it here.
I recently realized my favorite outfit looks like it’s from The Kirstie Alley Stomach and/or Sofa Coverings Collection. At first I was horrified by this thought and wanted to throw it out immediately.
But I think I’m going to need it today.
Because it truly is the sweatpants of dresses.
I’m no longer jealous of the Pilgrim women for their lack of available food and resulting natural thinness ... for two reasons. One, I just read about colonial diseases and I never want to die of something called puking fever, milk sickness (not the same as milk leg) or bladder in throat.
And two, if I had been a Pilgrim, I’m pretty sure my husband would’ve thrown himself off the rock upon our arrival because of my constant, insecure chatter: “Do I look fat in this wool frock and apron? You’re not looking! What about this thick, shapeless collar? Look at my neck, it looks like a cornucopia, right? If you didn’t know me and met me on the Mayflower would you say, ‘That woman appears to have bladder in throat!’? Why are you walking away? Come back here! It’s snowing! There are natives! We don’t know if they’re friendly yet!”
Liz Farrell is the editor of Lowcountry Current. Follow her at twitter.com/elizfarrell.