Some Days I Don’t Feel Fat: The True Confessions of A Full-Sized Woman

When I announced to my friends that my blog was going to be turned into a column, one exclaimed, “Like Dear Abby?” My response, “No, more like Carrie Bradshaw but instead of extended and complicated metaphors involving shoes, I’m going to write about my fat ass.”

The blog is called “The Fat Nanny” and it’s pretty much about what it sounds like: I’m a nanny and I’m fat, not necessarily in that order. I haven’t always been overweight; as a child I loved swimming, riding my bike and being outdoors in general. I was an avid basketball player, dreaming of becoming the next Rebecca Lobo despite my asthma. I loved watching the WNBA and even convinced my dad to cement a basketball hoop in our driveway. Shortly after that, I realized that all WNBA players are in the upper 5-foot to 6-foot range was and despite always being one of the tallest girls in my classes, my mother is 4-foot-11-inches so I had little hope of growing past the 5-foot-2-inch prediction that had been set for me.

Some days I don’t feel fat. My 5-foot-2-inch frame is pretty good at hiding all of my 160 pounds. It’s usually days like this that my self-esteem gets shot down from all angles. A few weeks ago, I had one of those feel-good days. I slipped into my designer jeans, threw on a cute shirt and headed to a doctor’s appointment for a quick check-up, unrelated to my weight. The nurse called my name and I followed her through the maze of the health center as she led me to the scale. I set down my purse, as all girls do, stepped on the scale and watched as the nurse wrote down 163 pounds. That’s not really the weight I wanted to be at but it wasn’t horrible, or so I thought.

The nurse chaperoned me into the breadbox of an exam room and took my vitals. The doctor was in shortly, just as promised. She gave me a quick once over and right there, in front of me, typed into the computer in the notes section, “Overweight.” I was flabbergasted. Was it necessary to type that in my file when all I had was a sinus infection? That appointment was a little reminder that I really need to start taking care of myself.

This wasn’t the first wake-up call I received in the past year.

Last July my second cousin Kimi, whom I considered a close friend, died from lung-related issues.  I’ve dealt with asthma for as long as I can remember and never took the issue very seriously. Last summer, however, I began to have more asthma attacks and voiced my issue over Facebook. Just days before her death, Kimi sent me a message on Facebook urging me to take care of myself. She had been on oxygen for three years and truly understood the struggles I was facing.

Kimi’s kind words of encouragement made me reconsider the direct correlation between my gasping for breath and my waistline. I wanted to learn more about the issue and according to the American Academy of Allergy, Asthma and Immunology (AAAAI) obesity and asthma can create a dangerous and vicious cycle. The more obese you get, the more your asthma flares up and the less you exercise, thus rendering your self-improvement attempts futile.

I’ve decided to take you, the reader, with me on my journey through the world of exercising and weight loss. Summer is approaching and not only do I want to look good in a bikini, I also want to be able to not be gasping for air while I do it. I hope to be an inspiration, motivation, a good laugh or at least a lining for your bunny’s cage.