Here we go again. When I write about judging myself about weight gain, people assume I’m automatically going to judge them, too. The vibe seems to be like, “If she thinks she’s fat, does she think the same about me?” I’ve actually had people tell me (via via) that the stuff I write about weight can be very hurtful. That, of course, confuses me. I’d have to double check to be sure, but I think I’ve only ever said I like the gym, I want to weigh less and I think BDD falls along a continuum. Wait. Let me stick with that last point there …

For those who missed that blog post, the BDD stuff drew blood!!!  :(  People who suffer from hardcore BDD got pissed off and started spreading shit about me in that community! I’m soooooo not joking. Seriously. After a while, a bunch of random people started searching for my site by googling funkybrownchick + BDD. It’s odd how blogging works. The things I worry will be controversial (Anal Is The New Oral) don’t make anyone blink, and stuff I couldn’t imagine anyone would freak out about REALLY sets people off. As with many forums that: (1) are left open indefinitely and (2) include participants who can’t separate themselves from the issue: the comments devolved into personal attacks. I think Bro said it best: “Remember, when you talk about BDD, you’re dealing with people who literally hate themselves. What else did you expect them to say?” Bro’s right. Besides, I’m old enough to know when to leave other people’s issues just as they are: other people’s issues. So, I deleted the nastiest comments of the bunch. But, enough about that and back to the topic of today’s post.

Last week, I stepped on a white bathroom scale at my friend’s house and discovered that I weigh 136 pounds. I’m small-framed and only 5′5″ tall (5′7″ with heels). I prefer to stay within the 118 - 125 range, and I’ve never weighed this much in my life. I’m sure endless alcohol drinking and cupcake munching haven’t helped my situation. But, whatever. I’m getting back on track. Eating healthier foods. Buying fewer cupcakes. Passing on beer and opting for wine. Working out more. I’ve got a gym membership again, and I’m looking forward to sweating my way back to 125 before the year’s end. I even bought a new scale for my bathroom!

For me, getting down to 125 shouldn’t be hard; I’m neurotic about weight so I burn calories like a motherfucker. My problem will be staying in the 120s and resisting the urge to drop lower. Just like gamblers don’t know when to cash in their chips and take their money home, people with weight issues often don’t know when to say when.

We’ll see how this goes.

Technorati Tags: funky brown chick, funkybrownchick, Twanna, Twanna A. Hines, Twanna Hines, weight loss

Last night, I went to Cupcake Social 2.0 and Media Meshing. Mini cakes and beer all night long. I’m totally gonna have to kick it anorexic style for the next three weeks to get in shape for bikini season. I swear I think: If I weighed more, I’d be less attractive. If I weighed less, I’d be more attractive. No, I’m not a moron. And, yes, I already know that’s a fucked up attitude and I’m not even overweight. I’m thin by midwestern standards, and slightly “curvy” by Manhattan rule books. But, whatever. That is what it is. I’ll just say this: if I ever tip 125, I swear to Buddha I’ll start running miles around the track at Central Park — breathless, smelly clothes, feet pounding the path, drippy forehead and all — like a fucking mad woman. Why? Because insecurities are ugly.

Wait. What the hell was I talking about? Sorry for the fatphobic tangent there. I planned to talk about men with accents today, but then I got off track. I started talking about last night, the cupcakes, the beer, Central Park. Whatever. Okay, so, LAST NIGHT … After the cupcakes and beer, I went home and my phone started ringing at Booty Call O’clock. It was this British guy I went on a couple dates with several weeks ago. In recent weeks, he’s taken to calling and texting me in the midnight hour. One message said something like: “Fancy a small party?” Um, I take it that would be a party of five: me, him, his dick and his two round testicles. I didn’t call him back.

From a European man, The Angry German, who writes for Esquire:

Women seem to take the English accent as an aphrodisiac. I can say, “Hey, I work for an investment bank, have my own place, and write a column in Esquire magazine” and get no response. Whereas butt-ugly Mr. Winterbottom to my side says, “Hey, I am on parole and need to buy some coke — care to help me out?” As long as he says it with a Brit accent, it is guaranteed that she will go home with him and fund his cocaine addiction.

Smart. Funny. Sexy. God, I love Esquire. And, yes, I need to date better men. Anyway, read the rest of the Angry German’s rant here.

Technorati Tags: anorexia, bikinis, British boys, Cupcake Social 2.0, cupcakes, Esquire magazine, funky brown chick, funkybrownchick, German men, Media Meshing, men with accents, pro-ana

I read the phrase “nothing tastes as good as being skinny feels” on a blog somewhere, but I can’t exactly remember where. I google it, but I can’t find it. It’s not that the phrase isn’t out there anymore. It’s just that it’s so prevalent that finding a particular mention of it is like searching for Nicole Ritchie hiding in a large tub of lard. You know it’s there. But, it’s too hard to find it.

I’m not anorexic but I, like most women, suffer from so-called BDD (Body Dysmorphic Disorder). If you’re not familiar with the term, people with BDD have a distorted sense of self-image and/or are critical of their physical appearance. We all know of the most extreme cases of alleged anorexia like Paris Hilton and that made-for-TV Lifetime movie starring Tracey Gold. However, more moderate cases are prevalent everywhere around you. Standing in line next to you at the grocery store. Teaching your children at school. Or, of course, typing the words that you’re reading on your computer screen right now. To be clear, I neither vomit after I eat nor starve myself. But, at 5′6″ and 125lbs, I honestly believe that I’m slightly full for my frame. If I ever top 128 (it’s happened before), I hit the gym like a madwoman until I’m back within my acceptable range of 118 – 125 lbs or so.

So, where does all of this come from? Folks who do research on anorexia, bulimia, BDD and other weight-related stuff would tell you that it’s all mental; but, that’s bullshit. What do I mean? Well, Halle Berry and Beyonce combined probably weigh about the same as Jennifer Hudson, right? So, go ask the man nearest you if he’d rather f-ck Jennifer Hudson *or* Halle Berry and Beyonce. Chances are, he’s likely to ask, “Who the f-ck is Jennifer Hudson?” Or, if by some odd chance he actually knows who the hell she is and he says he’d rather f-ck *her*, do me a favor and slap him silly for lying to you like that.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that I’m not crazy. I’m just saying that my BDD, my personal mental state, has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that most heterosexual men and lesbians probably prefer Halle and Beyonce over Jennifer because they’re thinner (read: sexier). It’s nothing that’s ever stated — it’s just something that women know. The French, God love them, are waaay less subtle. Five years ago, one of their commercials for a cereal brand ran with an image of a slender-bodied woman exiting a swimming pool wearing nothing but a tight cherry-red swimsuit. The camera pans up and you hear a voice say: Skinny. You look better that way. BDD = fatphobia. I’m not saying it’s a good thing or I bad thing. I’m just saying it’s a thing. My thing. And, I’m working through it. Why this topic today? Honestly, I don’t know. It’s just something that I’ve been thinking about lately, so I thought that I’d share it with all of you. And, I don’t have any witty or funny closing comments. So, I guess I’ll just end by saying: “Thanks for listening.”

I love the gym. After a really intense workout I always feel invigorated, energized, pumped. Alive. And, the best part of it all? The Instructor. The instructor literally makes or breaks the class. Pepe is the instructor for my mid-week class and I love him. He’s got the body of a god and the sense of humor of a comedian. I was working out really hard one day and I accidentally hit him square in the eye with my elbow. He tells me that I have a boney ass elbow and dares me to kick his Puerto Rican ass. “We got any new people in here today?” he asks as enters the class the other day. (This is the beginning of the run down.) He continues but seems slightly annoyed that a man and a woman standing in the second row are having a conversation in another language. I don’t know the language, but it is from Eastern European and the conversation sounds like this:

“Aurnuljat njhm mjh ytijee?” asks the woman.

“Yeah, duurtjl downtown thyjwa lower east side beawodforwal eerteuij,” the man replies.

“Uguyda?” The woman’s eyebrows lower.

“Afdafalwal,” he says softly and then nods his head.

“Ohhhhh! AAIJFOELHLACYH e adjfa iaj eja,” she adds with a smile.

“Yes.”

“Oh.” And, then the pair smile at each other.

Pepe is annoyed. They are talking and he’s trying to start the class. He walks over to the pair. “Y’all talkin’ when I’m trying to start my class?!” he jokingly teases. “What the hell language is that anyway? This is America, dammit. Speak Spanish!”