(Other titles considered were: Too Fat To Leave The House and Eat Like No one is Watching.)

By no accident, I am fat.

I have practically conducted an experiment in eating and drinking everything I want for the last year.  It is bad and it really should be even worse.

I can trace it all back to the relationship before the last relationship. There are at least two kinds of breakups. There is the, “How will I live without him?  I can’t eat or sleep,” breakup! You can generally tell who has taken the split harder by who gets hotter as a result. The person dropping the most weight is usually the person most devastated.  That person has much to do, as they have to get crazy skinny, register for all of those Warrior Dashes, and join EVERY dating site.  In a lot of ways, this is the preferred breakup because it fuels so much personal growth and a hefty dating spurt. I have certainly had this kind of breakup but invariably, I trick another unsuspecting suitor into thinking I will stay crazy skinny.  Sometime into the bliss of a new relationship (usually the middle), I always become comfortable enough to finish an enormous plate of enchiladas while showcasing my “tortilla as an eating utensil” skills.  This is where I was last year when I had the other kind of breakup.

The other kind of break up is the, “Here I am in the Whataburger Drive Thru,” breakup. If your appetite is intact 45 minutes after the breakup, you are probably going to be just fine. I spent last summer swimming in guacamole and margaritas.  In the fall, I spent a few weeks eating my way through part of Europe, and by car, so there was very little walking except in and out of the wineries . Last month, I went skiing and I ate a mound of truffle fries and drank 2 goblets of cabernet for every run I skied.  If there is a truth serum in clothing, let me assure you—it is ski pants. Thank goodness “Stevie Nicks” inspired fashion has come back around.   I have never owned more capes and kimonos in my life. I met a girlfriend out for a drink the other night and she spun around on her barstool and greeted me by saying, “What in the world are you wearing?  You look like a character in ‘Game of Thrones.’”

Then, the very worst thing happened; I was making a very important adjustment under my dress to my undergarments. Okay, I was rescuing my underwear from where they seem to reside, lately.  In that very moment, someone (think Wizard of Oz magnitude) in my professional world emerged on the scene in the ladies bathroom and she saw my butt, the one I have been hiding under all those capes.  In the last 10 years she could have seen my, “I am training for my fourth MS-150 bike ride” butt. Or my “I am playing for the championship in my tennis league” butt. Or my “I am running 30 miles a week” butt. No! She saw my “I wanted to scream –this is not my real butt!” butt.

In a few days, I will be in L.A for my vegan friend’s wedding, weighing 15 pounds over what I like to weigh, 10 pounds over what my mother likes for me to weigh and five pounds over all out panic. I guess another title could have been, “Fat in LA!”

Here is what I can tell you; this past year was one of the best years of my life. There was something freeing about being able to do whatever I wanted without worrying about a few extra pounds. It is now time to reign it back in by making at least a modicum of healthy choices and increasing my time with a racquet in my hand and my butt on my bicycle seat.

May this be the fattest summer of your life—in whatever way is most meaningful to you!

Marty Newton

Marty is a freelance writer and lives in New Braunfels. She owns a cat.