I married a soldier last year. Ex-soldier, actually. A very hott ex-MP with mad rock climbing skills, and a badass Suzuki GSXR was his only flaw. (I was a nurse, see? So donor-cycles have never been my thing. I must admit, however, that if a husband must come with a flaw, a sexy charcoal-gray crotch rocket is a satisfying thing to kvetch and moan about to your jealous coworkers, whose husbands are mostly good-for-nothing lard lumps who drink beer and sit on the couch watching college football and yelling at the TV.)
Well, then all his dreams came true and he was accepted into flight school. ...In the army.
Now my former-ex-soldier is a Warrant Officer helicopter pilot who owes the Army 6 years of OUR life (which begins AFTER completion of flight school. So it’s really 8 years.)
I was savagely uprooted from my career, my friends, and my beloved Missouri (which I never realized I loved until I arrived in Alabama).
...And upon crossing the border from Tennessee into Alabama, I INSTANTLY gained 20 lbs, my face erupted into acne boils, I developed horrible allergies, and I was promptly stung by a colony of fire ants (I have no idea how they got into my car).
Lamenting my ever-expanding figure, I tried to find tofu and celery, but was force-fed butter - breaded and deep-fried in pork lard - by the barbaric locals.
I attempted to find rocks to climb, but found “Lower Alabama” to be woefully devoid of mineral deposits—nope, just swamps, red clay, and scorched earth.
Flailing in my swampy, humid pit of despair, I turned to others whose husbands had gotten them into the same mess. They were a great comfort to me, and I enjoyed shopping trips and yoga with them. But then they all got pregnant—and I never saw them again.
Fearing their condition to be contagious (not pregnancy itself, duh, I went to health class. Acute onset “Baby-Fever” is a highly contagious mental affliction which thrives in godforsaken places of the world where proper time-consuming activities such as employment or shopping are unavailable.), I quarantined myself and attempted to channel my rage into exercise. I ran. Every morning. For about 6 weeks. And I lost about 10 lbs.
This worked marvelously until about June 3rd, when suddenly, the trapdoor to Hell was flung open. My thermometer continued to rise until it reached something like 350 degrees Fahrenheit and simply burst into flames.
I attempted jogging a few more times, even at 6 am to beat the heat. But my shoes simply melted to the pavement and I nearly died of heat stroke.
Then my athletic friend Brenna (She is pregnant too, but she’s Mormon so I excuse it on religious grounds) returned from Utah and we began swimming together. We swam 2000 meters every morning, which is something like 1.25 miles. I’m not sure how much weight I lost, but I certainly felt much better.
Then Brenna’s kidneys grew into a stone factory and she spent weeks in and out of the hospital and I hadn’t the heart to leave her side.
I weighed myself yesterday and the scale topped off at 169.4 lbs sterling. (I wish it was sterling, but alas, it’s just lard and bones.)
Sigh
All these 8.5 months, I’ve been trying to lose the 5 lbs I gained after nursing school. (I’ve actually been trying to lose it for about 2 years now.) No joy. But I’ve had massive success in gaining an additional 20.
I blame the State of Alabama.
I blame the shameful lack of sidewalks, trails, and rock formations. I blame the lamentable grocery selection and the shocking absence of pork-free vegetables. I blame the alarming pregnancy rate amongst my peers. I blame the heinous weather, which prohibits outdoor activities and thereby saps my body of precious vitamin D stores. I blame it for sucking so thoroughly and nastily and depressingly much.
So now it’s time to return home to St. Louis for a wedding. And now I understand how my cousin felt when she spent a semester with my family in the US, gained like 3 lbs, thought she was fat, and had to return to Germany, embarrassed to have succumbed to our eating habits.
Stephanie, I will stand on stage, looking ridiculous, oozing out of that dress you picked out—only because I love you. ...but I will not consent to be photographed.
When I return, hopefully refreshed, head cleansed of Southern laziness and gluttony, I will empty my house of sweets and lipids, and seek full time employment to keep myself occupied.
This has gone far enough.
I'm doing 23 things
