Tension sinks its claws into my muscles as I go stiff. The assumption by most doctors, hell, most people, is that because I’m fat, I eat like shit and don’t move at all. But it’s actually not the case. I’m hoping because my new OBGYN, Dr. O’Flaherty understands the condition, she’ll actually listen to me when I tell her I’m not a lazy shit who sits in the drive thru of McDonalds all day every day eating Big Macs and drinking milkshakes.
Ugh. Fuck. I could definitely go for a strawberry shake right now. With super salty fries. And a Big Mac.
Okay, fine. Fat girls like shitty food too. But it’s notallwe eat. Or at least it’s not allIeat.
“I swear I’ve tried everything.” My palms are slick as I wipe them on the thighs of my jeans. I’m so tired of being fat shamed and judged. I really just want to find someone who’s going to help me. “I’ve done Couch to Five K twice. I’ve done cardio classes.”
She sits back in her chair, nodding, no sign of judgment or disbelief on her face. “Have you ever lifted weights?”
“No.” I fucking hate exercise. As soon as I realized Couch to Five K wasn’t working for me, I wanted to quit. Walking is a pointless waste of time. And I don’t have the patience or self-confidence to learn how each of the torture devices in the gym work.
“I have PCOS too.” The admission takes me aback, but it makes sense now why she’s more sympathetic to my story, since she’s lived the same issues I’ve lived through. “And I can out-lift my husband in the gym.”
She goes on to tell me that with PCOS there’s a surplus of estrogen in my body, and—long story short—if I lift heavy shit in the gym, my muscles will absorb the excess hormones and “crap” in my body to repair the micro-tears you get from weight lifting.
“I recommend you try thirty minute sessions, three times aweek. That should be enough to start. And I’m going to put you on Metformin for insulin resistance. We’ll start at 500mg for two weeks and then step up to 1000mg, okay?”
Tucking the piece of paper with my notes about Metformin into my purse, I nod, tears welling in my eyes. It’s so nice to finally be listened to by someone who knows what the fuck they’re doing. She’s answered every question I had on that piece of paper, before I even got to ask them.
“I’d suggest you get a personal trainer for the first while, too. So you can learn how to do things the right way.”
That’s never going to happen. I’m so tired of buff gym people with their judgy judgment, and their side-eye shade. Okay, fine. That might not be completely accurate, but that’s how it feels. Anytime I go to a gym, I feel judgment.
I wouldn’t know where the hell to start to find a personal trainer in my area. There are flyers on bulletin boards all over campus, but I’d never train where people from my classes might see me. Cringe. Can you imagine? There could be someone near Mom’s, but how much will that cost? I don’t have that kind of money or time.
I thank Dr. O’Flaherty, pick up my prescription, and read about the delightful side effects of Metformin when I get back to Mom’s.
“Mama!” Wyatt has no chill. He runs at a solid eighty every day. When he’s really feeling it, he dials it up to a hundred and three.
The kid is a bundle of joy and sunshine. Sometimes it’s a hard pill to swallow, as it reminds me of his father. Loki’s big vibes are hard to forget—his lopsided smile, his zest for, well, everything, every single thing made that boy freakin’ happy.
Except, as it turns out, me.
What feels like shards of emotional glass slide under my nails and deep into my skin. Reliving the memories about my one-night stand with Wyatt’s father never ends in a good place.It’s always a back and forth battle in my chest. I wouldn’t trade Wyatt for the world, but I just thought?—
“Mamaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”
I guess not answering him the first time made him go bigger for round two. If I keep ignoring him, he’ll just get louder and louder.
He launches himself at me, giggling uncontrollably when I blow raspberries against his neck. “Hey, buddy! Did you have a good day at school today?”
He’s only two and a half, but with me in college and Mom working, he started daycare pretty early. Another mom-fail. I wish I could raise him by myself, but in today’s world, it’s just not possible.
I’m grateful for the social interaction and learning he gets at daycare, but I’d give anything to spend all day with my son. He’s my favorite person in the whole world, but I need to earn money. And that means he’s gotta go hang with other kids throughout the day.
He’s every bit as social as his dad seemed to be, so as hard as it is for me to let him go every morning at drop off, he takes it in stride and doesn’t look back. He loves his teachers, he loves his friends—except that one kid who threw a duck at his head on day one, and Wyatt has never forgiven her for it.
Don’t blame him. I wouldn’t forgive someone for splitting my head open with a toy duck either.
“Hey, sweetie.”
“Hey, Mom.” Squishing Wyatt against my chest, I smile at Mom.
She looks tired. She always looks tired. Working multiple jobs always seemed so cool when I was a kid, but as an adult, it just makes me want to do more, be more, earn more, so I can give back to her. I’d love to earn enough so she could quit one of her jobs and spend more time with Wyatt. But she gets good health insurance, and she’s stubborn as hell.
Thankfully, kids are covered under her medical plan until they’re twenty six. That gives me five more years to set myself up for success. She’s shouldered so much of the weight for years on end—I want to give back. And I want to be everything to Wyatt that Mom was to me, even with all her jobs and spinning plates.
“Eloise called over on her way to visit her dad. Said she has tickets for the game tonight and was wondering if you’d like to go.”
