I never really feel satisfied after eating Subway, because I go in there starving, immediately scarf whatever 6-inch I order, then wail in self-pity for the next half hour because no woman should ingest that much tuna so quickly. You’ll occasionally find me rushing in there after a long bout of hunger, and my favorite sandwich artist basically pours a gallon of Sweet Onion sauce directly in my mouth, and for a brief moment between first bite and last bite, the world is at ease.
What isn’t at ease is the threat to my waistline. The only subs I enjoy from this “healthy” place are the only subs with more than 500 calories. Add chips and a coke, and BAM! You’ve got an entire day’s worth of food, which I’ve successfully inhaled in 4.8 seconds.
I manage to maintain a healthy BMI with one guideline in mind, and it is this: Don’t overdo it. I can’t go to Subway every day. I can’t eat TB… ever… and I can’t incorporate “junk” into my normal repertoire. I don’t deserve it, because I’ve never played a professional-level sport. I’ve never played any sport, really. I wouldn’t even use the popular mantra “everything in moderation,” because it’s not applicable to junk or high-calorie meals. If I were a moderate Subway eater, I would be plump. People would start calling me ugly-people names like “June” or “Bess” and I’d start wearing cartoon “Jammy Pants.”
There was a point to this, I swear.
Oh. Well.
Lost it.
Anyway, I’m fit as a… cello. I say that because, though I consider myself a thin person,
my ass has other plans.
It’s big.
Voluptuous, even.
Someone took the butt off of Kim Kardashian and copy/pasted it onto me, right around my 20th birthday. I tore my jeans. Twice.
This is something I’ve come to terms with. I will never be able to purchase swimwear as a set. Small top, XXXL bottom. Even at my healthiest weight, I will always look weird in skinny jeans, and jeggings?
Image from Westfield, Click here to see their post on Jeggings.
You can just forget about that notion altogether. I admit, I was perhaps the very last person to jump (yes, I have to jump) into skinny jeans. I never felt like I could pull it off like normal-assed people can, so I went with the “Fuck it, this is how I look” attitude and wore them anyway, despite disparaging glances from the ‘Rexies who work at Forever 21.
“Is this the biggest size you have? I’m… this…” I start motioning around my rear-end.
“Oh!” says ‘Rex, hand on her chest in disbelief, “I’ll have to check… in the back.”
“In the back” is retail-speak for “You aren’t allowed to wear clothes from here.”
Rex came back with a pair of pants, still a size too small. “I’m sorry, this is the biggest size we have.” Then, seeing the disappointment on my face, she added,
“Maybe you could wear them once and stretch them out.”
What a little bitch! You know what I did?
…Well, I wore them once and stretched them out, just like she said. I’m wearing them right now, and it looks like someone painted them on.
Perhaps that’s why my sandwich artist always winks at me.
“We didn’t feel like paying to go to that meeting, so we went to our cubicles and did drugs instead.”
