And I'm Telling You I'm Not Going.

Not today Satan!

I lasted five minutes.

I told myself okay I’m thirty-three years old and am a functioning *adult (*most days) and have been through hard personal things. Like trying to put on my skinny jeans. Picture me on the floor with a pair of pliers a'la Brooke Shields 1983. Nothing gets between me and my Kirkland signature. No one.  

In an odd way, I was testing myself to see how brave I really was. Could I handle watching the movie that still to this day gives me nightmares? Or was it just Tim Curry? 

I took the necessary precautions. Lights on, the sun was out, and a pint of ice cream on the stand by (Nothing is truly scary with a pint of Ben and Jerry’s unless you have an appointment your cardiologist) and extra sprinkles. Let’s do this I thought. Popping the DVD (Cause I am of the old school. Ask me about my vinyl collection!) I was ready.

NO.

No.

BAD! BAD CLOWN!

Tim Curry how could you!

So that was my five-minute experience with IT.

Don’t think I’ll be going to see the new one in the theaters.

I however may be calling my therapist wondering if there is a Post traumatic IT watching therapy group.

Thanks a lot *Tim Curry.  

*With all personal apologies to Tim Curry. He's an amazing actor and I love him in Clue.

Some Cats Know

The biggest problem I have run into with returning to blogging is finding the narrative to the story in which I have been largely absent for the last four years. Yet when I have sat down to write blog post I work hard to capture the voice of the twenty-four-year-old me that started this story.  However, I am no longer twenty-four and my view point is no longer that this project was going to be a short six-month experiment.

Instead of getting skinnier I truly became the title of the blog. Blake got Fat. When I was complaining that it was unfair that while my friends were all progressing, getting married, getting skinnier, I was in a constant state of arrested development. I believe the words I used were sucky, circular, and some others that I don’t care to post cause you know, vulgarity. After listening to me rant for a good five minutes they raised their hands and said “Listen to yourself this rant is nothing but you are feeling that the creative world owes you something. It does not. Stop expecting your words, your ideas to manifest itself in this convoluted idea of what skinny is. Take the pressure off. Stop writing for a few months. Take up a new hobby and then come back when you no longer feel your writing is this big burden you have to deal with.

So, I did.

I took up knitting again.

I’m not a knitter. Yet I believe every person who has in need of trying to figure out their life needs to try it at least once. It’s not hard. Just rows of two stitches. Knit and purl. Or how I remember it in my brain yarn in back, yarn in front. Getting lost in the simplicity is where I found the ability to continue to tell this story.

Oh. Did I mention it also has helped me not shove the food in my mouth? It’s like driving a stick shift and trying to eat something it can be done but you are going to end up wearing half of what you are eating.   

I think my neighbors are just grateful I didn’t pick up tap dancing. 

It Had To Be You

Marla Hooch. Or me the last few weeks.

Marla Hooch is my spirit animal. Marla is from one of my favorite movies A League of their Own.

This is has been me the last few weeks. Just staring at myself in the mirror going well this is going to be as good as it gets.

Today I just wanted a damn doughnut.

Just a single white glazed doughnut with sprinkles on top.

Not asking for a lot. Yet I knew the second I had one doughnut I would have to make sure the white glazed didn’t feel lonely so I would have to make sure it had its buddy old fashioned. Then to seal the foundation I would need a raspberry jelly filled.

The weird thing is I don’t love doughnuts. I mean I’ve been brought up right if you have one and offer it to me I’m not going to say no…

But when I hit doughnut craving stage I know my life is boarder line out of whack.

Cause sometimes a doughnut isn’t a doughnut.

I’m more an ice cream kind of guy.

When I was sitting at my desk earlier today wondering who I could murder, convince, bribe to get me one I knew I was entering the No-Carb-left behind zone. I view bread-like carbs as nature’s way to physically protect us. My armor isn’t metal its sourdough bread, cookies, cupcakes, pasta, basically anything that would make a gluten intolerant person run in terror is what I use to protect myself.

Today I stood strong.

Today I admitted that what I was feeling was lack of confidence and security. I admitted The Life Changing Art of Tidying Up: The Japanese Art of Decluttering and Organizing: by Marie Kondo scared me.  

I had to hide my car keys.

But I didn’t get a doughnut.

So progress? 

Once in a Very Blue Moon

  The face of one who has lost the magic of tidying up. 

I blame Marie Kondo for this. 

Two months ago, in a rare case of insomnia I lay awake staring at the ceiling. After reading all the instructions manuals in the apartment I finally was going through the books under my bed (small apartment, big book collection one must be creative) when I spotted the small little book shoved by the winter muumuu sweaters. The Life Changing Art of Tidying Up: The Japanese Art of Decluttering and Organizing: by Marie Kondo. Well why not I thought my life may be a mess but there’s no reason for my dreams not to be.

Fast forward to last month when I had all my personal possessions in a big huge pile in my living room holding everything up and going does this bring me joy? At first I said it all quiet like I was scared that someone was going to hear me. After going through my dishes, and the seven (SEVEN! Sets of pot holders) I was tossing things and yelling YES this brings me JOY or AH hells no with abandon.

Then came the hard part.

The closet.

Holding up my favorite tee-shirts and shirts no problem. Then we got to pants. When I held up the big fat elastic style waist pants I had to ask myself do these bring me joy? I suddenly broke down.

Cause they did not bring me joy. In these jeans defense, they are made out of very sturdy Kirkland Signature reinforced denim. However, they are in a size (redacted) and my biggest shame. 

Cause every time I slid them on I could hear them go “Oh Look! The fat kid needs us again! He thought he was better than us but look at him sneaking us on like we don’t know he was eating HAAGAN DAAZ with a container of sprinkles! UM HMM GURL I told you he’d be coming back asking for forgiveness”. For being a pair of reinforced denim, they sure packed a lot of judgement in their polyester cotton blend.

Did they bring me joy? No. Not one bit. In an defiance of Kondo’s rules I called out to Saintly Bonnie*(not her real name) who normally listens to me moan, make the appropriate oh honey sounds and then proceeds to make me see the world in a better light. However, when I called her and started the same script she was not having it. Not one bit. You just stop it right there (as I was a boo-hooing something awful) and look at those jeans as things that held you up when you felt no one else could. Think of the good you did in them too. You let your story get away from you again. Stop letting the pants write the story. You write it. You hear me.

Loud and clear Saintly Bonnie *(not her real name) loud and clear. I held them up again and asked do these bring me joy.

No, they do not.

So, they are on their way to Deseret Industries.

And I slept great that evening.

Sit Right Down and Write Myself A Letter

I'm fatter in person.

From the desk of the editor of Blake Got Fat:

Dear Skinny people,

Can we talk?

Several months ago, I was at a party when the person who unsolicited began telling me all the things I needed to do lose weight.

If she had the heard the comments inside my head she would have taken to her bed and told small children that I was a bad man. They were so dark that even dangerous gangs would have avoided that neighborhood.

Yet I stood there with a grimace trying to make it look a smile saying no really go on about this point system…

For those of you wondering it is never okay to give a fat person unsolicited weight loss advice. We don’t wake up and stare at the mirror and go oh dear how did that happen? Also introducing us as your fat friend? Not cute. Or saying Are you going to eat all that? Doesn’t help. In fact, I will eat more in a fat sense of 

defiance.

We could probably give you advice on all the various diets we have tried plus our various successes and failures. And if one more person says it’s really simple just eat less and move more I’m going to stab you with my fork. Plus, with a jury of my peers (aka fat people) they would deem me innocent and have you give me a settlement just saying.

As the person drifted away and headed home I knew that they had sat in the car and said oh I made a difference tonight! Yeah lady. Big difference you helped me choose Haagan Daz over Ben & Jerry’s way to be a mother Teresa.

This is why I always offer a sympathetic ear and empathy I will never give you unwanted advice. However, I will give you the links and tools that I’ve been using. If they work for you GREAT! If not keep on trying and if you are taking a break that’s okay too.

So, the moral of the story is. Keep your unsolicited advice to yourself and the world will be a better place.

K?

Thanks.

Love the fat man in the Lulus.

Into the Wild

(Lauren in movement) 

Last night the stars and the moon were out and I was sitting on a cold metal bleacher watching my cousin get thrown around the ice like a rag doll. Or simply I was just watching the close of the 2017 Sun Valley Ice Show.

The Ice show has been a part of my memories since I can remember. Started at the resort by Sonja Henie the show runs through the summer season bringing the premier Ice skating talent to Sun Valley Idaho. Figure ice skating in the US tends to get forgotten till the Winter Olympics. I never knew the level of dedication it took to be a skater except for watching The Cutting Edge (TOE PICK!) and making the random Tonya Harding/Nancy Kerigan reference.

In the big randomness that is my family  no one really stands up and says HEY look at me I’m super talented and you need to pay attention to me. It wasn’t till recently that I realized how rare it is to have a Figure skater as your cousin. My cousin Lauren from the time the first pair of skates were strapped on to her feet she was going to be a skater.

Leaving home at sixteen to pursue this dream, we haven’t seen her at a Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, but thankfully she’s able to fit us in for Hawaii. She tells of her adventures all over Europe, a cruise ship, the middle east as she travels with various professional ice shows and has the best stories of life of traveling performer.   

Watching Lauren skate is like watching the art of grace in movement. Skating is hard for the fact that it is ballet, tap dancing, and ice hockey all rolled into one while smiling, and having a partner throw you around by your ankles.

The world is often cruel to those who chose to share their talents publicly. Yet Lauren skates and gets reviewed always pushing herself harder knowing the more practice, the more focus, the better the show, knowing that dedication and passion brings forth movement.

While you will never see me on skates in a show I was grateful for a brief movement while the moon was high I had someone share their talents with me and teaching me the art of dedication and passion.

That and I got to see Johnny Weir be himself but that’s a different post for another day.

Look at What You Made Me Do

Trigger warning: Serious White people problems ahead. You have been warned.

I was as they say in polite society, having a moment. See this morning my deaf boy alarm didn’t go off.  Which as we all know sets the theme for the whole day. While I was grateful that it wasn’t so late in the morning that I would have to do the walk of shame, it was however the time I normally leave my house I did the panic dash into the shower.

Cause I am not cute enough to rock the homeless look.

Driving into work I turned on my Dolly Parton, when you are going to work 9-5 you might as sing it at the top of your lungs. Shut up. I have you know I’m the best car singer I’ve had the pleasure of meeting. That and seeing the carpool Mom’s eyes when I hit the high notes was. PRICELESS.

After dealing with three school zones and being followed by the high way patrol I finally walked into work. Ever want to know if you are a person of routine if someone parks in “your” spot if your reaction is HOW DARE they you know you might need to shake things up. Plus, when I got to the work fridge having to throw 15 of the same salad dressings (I’ve watched them. They have been there for two months. AM. NOT SORRY.) I finally was ready to get the day started.

Fast forward of a lot of meetings and me making two fortune catchers and playing a mean game of M.A.S.H with myself it was time to put this work day to an end.

While I felt unsettled all day I realized that maybe it’s a good thing once in a while to shake up your life a little.

But if someone parks in my parking spot** again we may have to have some words.  

**There is no assigned parking**