Hello!

Hi.

My husband has been trying to get me to do this for a very long time now. "They" (whoever they are) say to write what you know, and what I know is fat. I consider myself an expert on fatness, actually. Why, you ask?

I'm morbidly obese.

Of course, I'd never think of myself as morbidly obese because let's face it; I can tie my own shoes, walk up a flight of stairs and I don't need a friggin' Rascall Scooter to get around. But, my doctor (as well as the rest of the population) has officially deemed me a fatass. This came to no surprise but for him to use the term "morbidly obese" was flat-out embarrassing.

So I took my prescribed diet pills. I could hardly sleep, I rarely ate, and cigarettes became my best friend. Fast forward to my next doctor's appointment. Weight loss = zero. The cycle continued for several months until I finally just threw in the towel.

"Do you drink a lot of alcohol?" I was frequently asked at my appointments.

"No," I replied, "but if you don't stop with the questions I may start. And soon."

So what now? Blood work, urine tests, the list drags on.

"You're fine. There's no reason you physically cannot lose weight" he tells me.

I may be fine, but that doesn't make the dimples in my ass magically disappear. Isn't there a way for me to lose weight while I sit on my rear watching Maury and eating Cheetos? Because that would be super.

They suggested I try gastric bypass surgery, but I have no health insurance because I'm too heavy. Thank you, Columbo, because I had no idea I was fat before you sent me a letter.

So what is a girl with saddlebags, boobs that look like the long balloons a few months after the party's over, cottage cheese thighs and a butt that looks like it was smacked with a bag of nickels to do?

Welcome to The Cellulite Chronicles.