Fat Bottomed Girls You Make the Rockin' World Go Round

In the first so-called "shocking" ouster of the current season, Mandisa was voted off of American Idol. I enjoy her, but, due to my long ago solidified Elliot fangirl status, (which remains constant despite the fact that he definitely messed up Gavin DeGraw's lyrics two weeks ago), I guiltily cheered in my head a bit when her Daniel Powter funeral montage began. (I think it's rather amusing that they use "Bad Day" for every single, "final glance of the nice person you evil, tonedeaf, teenage Americans who actually vote sent packing this week" video this year. Sure, it is fitting and catchy enough, though unfortunately overplayed at this point, but there is something to be said for variety. I just hope the guy made a significant amount of money out of that deal and that he, unlike me, did not allow himself to become another one of American Idol's countless bitches.)

Here's the deal. Mandisa is undoubtedly talented. I think that most people who've listened to her sing during some of her better performances would have a difficult time disagreeing with that statement. She has a powerful, booming, borderline shouty voice - a standout type of vocal style that is lauded and revered year after year by both the American Idol judges and the viewers . . . or at least the viewers who are manipulated into believing that the judges truly know what they're talking about. In any case, it is strikingly obvious that, more often than not, bigger = better on this show, at least in terms of singing style. It is not so much the case, however, in terms of body size.

When she was first featured in the audition rounds, I was automatically on Mandisa's team. That's how I work. I find myself, through some kind of habitual, mechanical impulse, rooting for the chubby kids. I guess I must feel as though I can empathise with them, assuming that they have been taunted or left out or criticized or humiliated in their pasts. I know it's not practical to make assumptions about people I've never met, and I know that most people, no matter what their size, likely go through periods of time in which they are treated unkindly. It just seems like a given, in my (potentionally dillusional) opinion, that the chances are particularly high in situations in which the individual is overweight, especially during his/her formative years. I guess I just worry that they will be publicly criticized for their looks or deemed less worthy than their less talented, yet more conventionally attractive competitors and end up broken and defeated or something.

Needless to say, I was happy when Mandisa made it to the top 12. The girl is stunningly gorgeous. She presents herself with such a huge level of confidence and poise, and it is safe to assume that the girl is legitimately comfortable with herself and how she looks. I find myself feeling rather envious and a bit shamed in her (television-induced) presence. Throughout her appearances, she never seemed to feel the need to hide her body or to even wear clothes that might be slightly more slimming. I've heard multiple comments about how she should never wear jeans or bare her arms. I don't know, maybe the sight of her exposed, fleshy skin or the stretchy fabric clinging to her thighs started burning holes in their retinas. My retinas must already be scarred from too much tanning bed exposure, as I happen to think watching her perform in such clothing is relatively painless and pretty awesome. Why must flattering always equal slimming, anyway?

Mandisa, in my opinion, was voted off before less talented and more annoying people. Examples include, but are not limited to: Kellie Pickler (who seems to be attempting to market herself as a twangier, stringier-haired, smaller-boobed, and stupider version of Jessica Simpson. I know that seems to be an impossible feat, but she is working it pretty well thus far.); Ace Young (I yell at the tv every time I see him because he's a crappy-voiced tool, and I can't see the hotness that everyone is always fawning over); and Bucky Covington (who seems like a nice enough guy, but is a mumbler who is out of his league. My brother and I enjoy referring to him as "Bonko" for no particular reason.) While I do consider myself to be a cynical viewer, I am not a conspiracy theorist, at least on most days. I merely think that a lot of Americans are dumb or easily manipulated, especially those who vote. Regardless, I have developed a theory about Mandisa's depature that might make you roll you eyes. I don't necessarily believe it. Despite the fact that I'm devoting an increasingly lengthy post to this silly reality show, I try not to spend too much time overanalyzing its outcomes. I'm sure it was a combination of a couple of things. I wonder if her proselytizing played a part. It can definitely turn people off, but I wouldn't think it would be an issue in the eyes in the majority of voters. It's likely mostly due to the fact that she had 2 subpar performances in a row, but I'm still going to go ahead and theorize for the hell of it.

During her final performance, Mandisa sang Shania Twain's "Any Man of Mine." It's a novelty type of song, and they never seem to impress anyone too much. Her arrangement didn't allow for too much super special shouty singing and she was apparently off anyhow. (I am not the best judge of such things, as I am entirely tonedeaf.) The lyrics clearly indicate that the singer expects a man to treat her well and fulfill her desires, etc. I should probably be pondering the state of my mental health for actually pausing to take Shania Twain's lyrics into consideration, but that is another issue. So I find myself wondering if maybe Americans found a woman of her size singing those lyrics to be offputting. Like someone that big should feel lucky to have a man at all. That she is in no position to be making demands and presenting herself as sexy and desirable and worthy. She certainly lands far outside the stereotypically meek, obedient, apologetic, voiceless, invisible fat girl box. And maybe people grew tired of seeing that. I'd like to believe otherwise, but I'm not entirely convinced . . .

I know, everything isn't about fatness and feminism. It's just a thought.

And brevity is the soul of wit. I'll work on it.

Blast From the Past

For one reason or another, I reluctantly agreed to arrange an appointment with a doctor I had seen off and on throughout college for a follow-up of sorts. If I were to compile a list of people, dead or alive, that I would least like to be stuck alone in a room with, he'd probably make the top 10, falling somewhere below Adolph Hitler and Jerry Falwell, but slightly higher than (present day) Charles Manson. At the very least, Manson presents the opportunity for entertaining discussion, and I'd know with certainty that I wasn't the craziest person in the room. And if a lull in conversation did occur, we could always start belting Beatles tunes together to pass the time away. Plus he's old and probably drugged up in jail. I'm a good kicker and have mastered the basics of self-defense, thanks to the so-called expert ladies who gave us a lesson in the class Becky and I took 3rd term of senior year called "Growing Up Female In America." We naively believed the course would center around reading and writing about girl stuff. (Silly us, for blindly buying into the description in the course catalog. Even sillier us, for not taking 6 credits of dance, like every self-respecting senior who doesn't need to take any more credible courses for graduation should do.) The class would have been more aptly titled "Seemingly Free Group Therapy Sessions for Confused 19 Year Old Lesbians." By the fifth week, repeatedly hearing tearful stories that often started out along the lines of, "I loved reading this section so much because I like totally identified with her. When I was 13 . . .," became more than a bit wearying. More than anything, I felt embarrassed for them, having done more than my share of draining overspeaking during my younger days. But I digress . . .

So, yes, on most any given day, I think I'd prefer Charles Manson's company to this doctor's. Sure, that's a bit exaggerated and unfair and unscientific, as I've met one and not the other, but I think it speaks to the degree to which I find interactions with him to be unpleasant. And I consider myself capable of, at the very least, tolerating just about anyone. Someone may act stupidly or selfishly or annoyingly, but I understand that people are complex, their motivations are sometimes misunderstood, and their backgrounds are often unknown. Under normal circumstances, I am more interested in attempting to understand where another person is coming from, rather than automatically dismissing his/her opinions. I try to be, anyway. With this man, though, I make no attempts. If prompted to describe him, I tend to come up with something similar to, "a fucking arrogant, pill-pushing asshole who is totally judgmental and disinterested in listening to patients. He's also really really mean." I know, a statement like that just oozes with charm and eloquence. But that is what seeing this man does to me . . . I allow myself to instantly regress into juvenile thought processes and behaviors. For whatever reason (I don't even necessarily remember too many details from the first couple of encounters), he is cemented in my mind as a bad guy in a steady, unchanging position. In the past, I, at times, had to almost literally be dragged in to see this man. I'd cry, mumble, refuse to communicate with him. To be fair, these moments occurred in the midst of my drama queen days, in which I was ridiculously self-involved and far from the most emotionally stable person one could encounter. Looking back, I recognize that I was difficult enough to handle as a friend, let alone a non-compliant patient.

So, when presented with the opportunity to return to see him after a couple of years of blissful avoidance, I decided to give it a go. If I were to oversimplify things, I'd claim to be a totally different person at this time in my life. However, that's a misguided and banal phrase. More accurately, I have a different perspective at this time in my life. I am fairly mellow, far less dramatic, and certainly more competent and capable than I was a few years ago. Still the same old me, but a much more palatable version. So I viewed this visit as an experiment of sorts. I wanted to go into it with as much of an open mind as I could conjure, in an attempt to see if the caricature I'd created in my mind was at all accurate and to discover whether or not I'd unjustly demonized someone.

After considering calling to cancel on multiple occasions, I went on Thursday morning. I was brimming with anxiety, not surprisingly. I don't really care for doctors in general. I think it has something to do with the fact that they try to inform patients about what is best for their bodies. I seem to have some kind of underlying "it's my body, I'll do what I like with it" resentment about that. Plus, there is the whole lingering dread that they will start spouting unpleasant news indicating that one is not normal or about to die or something like that. Not that the latter was really a factor in this certain situation, but it must play a part of my overarching issue with doctors.

Shortly after entering his office, my blood pressure was taken. It was highish - 160/70, as I expected. It was taken again a few minutes later, and the reading remained the same. I figured it'd be worse. I don't think I've pulled off a normal blood pressure reading in a doctor's office in the last 10 years, at least. It's kind of pathetic, really. They call it "White Coat Hypertension," which is basically a whole load of nothing. I apparently get myself so worked up about doctor's appointments that I am constantly accused of having high blood pressure. And I don't especially appreciate it because, according to my brain, a person having high blood pressure at my age must be fat. Whether or not that is an accurate assumption, I can't really say. Regardless, I don't enjoy people insinuating that I am fat, so I don't take blood pressure discussions all that well. Now, when I was 13 or so and they started telling me that my blood pressure was high, at least I was legitimately overweight at the time. So I could maybe kind of see it. My family doctor finally stopped bugging me about it long ago once I proved that when I take my own blood pressure at, say, Wal-Mart, it falls within the normal range.

Well, this guy didn't seem to find anything more pressing to focus his lecture on, so a portion of our conversation proceeded as follows:

HIM: "Wow, your blood pressure is high."

ME: "Yeah, I know. It always is. It's not really high, though. Just pretend high."

HIM: "That's just not acceptable." (to the nurse) "Take it again."

ME: "She already took it twice. It'll still be high."

HIM (chewing his gum obnoxiously): "Well, you need to be medicated for it."

ME: "No, I don't. It's only high when I'm nervous. I've been like this for years."

HIM (flipping through the pages of my chart for the first time): "Well, it's been high every time I've seen you. 160/70, 160/70, 160/60 . . . "

ME: "It could have been worse, considering that . . ."

HIM (cutting me off): "Well, we can't keep ignoring it. This is obviously a problem and we need to treat you for it."

ME (twirling my hair): "I swear it's not really high. I just don't like doctors."

HIM (seeming to completely ignore me): "Well, it's not like it's a big deal right now. But, when you're older, you'll just get heart disease and die."

In retrospect, I wish I had followed that statement with, "Well, we all have to go at some point." Instead, I just listened to him talk at me about recording my blood pressure twice a week in order to "prove him wrong." He eventually moved on, and I proceeded to attempt to honestly answer a bunch questions that he read off the standard checklist. He gave me some suggestions, and I'm still considering whether or not I will take them. Overall, it was probably the most painless encounter I've had with him. His cavalier attitude, blatantly dismissive reactions to my opinions, and haughty tone of voice still make him extremely offputting. I'd never recommend him to a friend, which is unfortunate, as I have nothing but praise for the other professionals he is associated with. Oh, well. And while I've now established that I am capable of acting in a mature and civil enough fashion while trapped in a room with him, I don't intend to make a habit of it.

This is interesting. Kind of disheartening, especially if this serves as any sort of representation of how "typical" American men think. However, I'd bet my paycheck that few of the people who posted these comments have IQs that actually hit triple digits. And stupid/ignorant people make me want to vomit, so I guess prejudices exist all around.

I Like it Like That

I'm back! It's nice to re-enter the world of the communicative after a lengthy enough hiatus. I am attempting to make myself start writing something (anything, really) again, but it is hard for me to find a starting point. (Shocking, I know . . .) To kick it off, I am going to go the easy route and list some things I rather like at the moment.

* Grey's Anatomy

I adore this show. It's well-written and well-acted, with a nice balance of hilarious and sober moments. And I wouldn't mind playing doctor with Sheppard or George . . .

* James Blunt, Back to Bedlam

I listen to this cd on an almost daily basis, during my work breaks and while I work out. While most of the songs would be what most people would consider to be the antithesis of motivating work out music, I just can't help myself. I like every song on the cd (which I find to be a rarity)and I love most of them. (And it should be noted that You're Beautiful is probably the worst song on the album.) He's talented, he's British, he's rather attractive . . . Terry is going to see him in concert in Japan, and she intends to convince him to marry her.

* AdvantEdge Carb Control French Vanilla Shakes

These have become a huge staple in my diet. I may be obsessed. They have 100 calories and 15 grams of protein. They don't taste too weird, though the color is a rather offputting muddy yellowish brownish cream. It must be the soy . . . Regardless, I've never found such a harmless way to supplement my protein intake. I drink them for lunch, before work-outs, when I wake up in the middle of the night . . . I buy them in bulk and actually start to get panicky when my local grocery store runs out of them (which should be impossible because I can't imagine too many people around here are stockpiling them, but it has happened.) Then I have to ration them until the shelves are someday restocked or I can secure a trip to Wal-Mart (which is no easy feat in these parts, as it's 12 miles away, my car is currently broken, and I don't have an abundance of free time.)

* Psychotherapy Clothing

I'm sure some of the others would probably be fitting, depending on the day, though I'd shy away from some of the heavier labels. I doubt I'd suggest walking around in a shirt proclaiming one's tendency to hear voices or shamelessly start fires, but to each his own, I guess. I kind of appreciate the the entire idea, though. It's similar (though more self-depracating and silly) to the man in Aimee Bender's An Invisible Sign of my Own who wore a number around his neck each day which was indicative of his current level of happiness. The best part of the whole deal is that you can send shirts to other people anonymously

* Elliott Yamin

He is my current American Idol favorite. To sum him up, he is a 1/2 deaf type 1 diabetic with unfortunate teeth who sings well, cries, and gives lots of hugs. Plus, the judges aren't trying to manipulate the public into voting for him (probably because they think he's too ugly or something because they are cool like that). Additionally, I love his name. If I do end up having kids someday, my new boy names are Eliot and Auden, after T. S. Eliot and W. H. Auden. I explained to the girls at work that I would want my sons to be sensitive thinkers. They explained to me that my kids will get beat up often.

* the long shirt trend

This is the nicest thing the fashion industry has ever done for people like me. I finally have some shirts that extend beyond the entire length of my stomach and hit at my hips. It is a lovely, lovely feeling.

* 43 Things

I stumbled upon this site through Allison's blog. Simply stated, it allows you to make a list of up to 43 things you want to do with your life. You can find other people who have similar goals and intentions and presumably make friends or find accountability partners, I guess. I'm more interested in just merely figuring out my ambitions, from the seemingly insignficant to the likely unrealistic. It's a good way to force myself to think about being proactive about my life, rather than allowing myself to stagnantly exist. Suggestions are always appreciated.

I need this shirt!

Strong Evidence Supporting The Fact That I Should Either Be Nominated For "What Not to Wear" or Put on Medication

For the past couple of nights, I have donned Christmas pajama pants. They are somewhat subtle. The lightweight, cozy material is colored a soft, bath bead green and accented with white and watery and grassy colored triangle trees. And snowflakes. In all honesty, they more closely resemble flowers, but, as they are clearly wintery pants, that doesn't make the most sense ever. You might not know they are holiday pants from, say, 15 feet away. And because it's not yet Black Friday and there is currently no snow on the ground, every time I put them on, the first thought that pops into my head is, "I really hope I don't die in my sleep tonight, because it'd be awful embarrassing to be found dead wearing Christmas attire prematurely." Then I rationalize my decision by assuring myself that it'd be even more humiliating if it were to happen in July, so I haven't yet hit rock bottom. Plus, I probably won't care so much if I'm dead. So then I realize that the situations I should actually concern myself with are ones that I will potentially survive to realize that my faux pas has been exposed, such as a fire or sudden overnight kidney failure or falling off the couch and giving myself a concussion. And then I start to ponder what life will be like when the fire engulfs my house to the extent that I am forced to wear my Christmas pants until the insurance money comes in or someone decides to lend me a pair of jeans (and hopefully a bra, as I'd likely be out of one of those, as well.) Sometimes, it is tiring inside my head.

On a similar note, the other day I wore a hot pink tank top under a lavender t-shirt shirt under a red sweatshirt, accented by green and blue striped socks. While it should be noted that the tank top, t-shirt, and socks were never visible, it just felt so wrong. If only I weren't hindered by severe time constraints and an unfortunate aversion to washing clothes beyond those necessary for work (hence the green socks, which perfectly matched my work polo that I decided to shed because layering green, red, and pink shirts struck me as an unflattering and cheap combination of Christmas + Valentine's Day. And, again, we haven't even hit Thanksgiving yet, people. Plus, I like to take off my work clothes, no matter what they are, as soon as I clock out for the day, for some unexplored reason. It helps me relax, maybe. Socks seem to be the exception.) So, throw "unforgivably mismatched outfit" into the "unfortunate attire to sport while meeting one's death" category and add "horrific car accident or falling down (or up) the stairs in front of a room full of high school kids or being abducted and dumped in a ditch" into the "catastrophic event" slot of the abovementioned scenario, and you'll have a pretty clear idea of what played out in my brain as I was rushing out of the house.

I may be a wee bit crazy, but I often keep myself entertained.

(from this week's postsecret)

What Do You Do With a BA in English?

Apparently not too much. One would think, considering that I am going to be paying for this degree until I die, that I would, at the very least, possess competent spelling abilities. I bet I edit my posts an average of 3 times for silly spelling errors and still miss some. I suck at life!

The Internet is for . . . Bush Bashing?

Last weekend, in an attempt to entertain my younger brother, I started looking for the rumored, um, adult site that can be accessed by typing whitehouse.com or .org or .something. (I do feel the need to justify my actions and explain that it's not as though we intended to look at pictures or anything. I just merely wanted to see if it existed as stated.) Needless to say, we did not stumble upon the supposed site. We did come across some fairly interesting findings. We especially enjoyed the kids' letters to the president. We are suckers for anything bearing the phrase "tee hee" because it reminds us of the good ole days, when I used to encourage Brett to run around the house, flicking his wrist and squealing like a southern school gal when he was around 5 or maybe 10 years old. I bet my father would consider permitting my mother to get a new kitten (we fear she is two steps away from becoming a crazy cat lady at such a young age) if she promised to name it President Bush.

Anyway, I found what I read of the site to be rather humorous. I'm all for satire, parody, smart, and even not so smart humor. When we filled my card-carrying conservative father in about what we were looking at, he muttered something about disgusting filth. I attempted to briefly explain satire's place in society and the canon through Swift's "A Modest Proposal," but he would have none of it. I quickly realized that republicans probably don't sympathize too much with the poor Irish folks who are all already dead, so I kind of gave up.

In terms of politics, when prompted, I will sometimes claim to be the most moderate person you've ever met. (Of late, this title that I have bestowed upon myself is becoming increasingly inaccurate.) I am a registered independent and have no intentions of declaring a party alliance anytime soon. I don't really care that much about money matters (beyond having enough of my own to support myself), I can't imagine living long enough to collect social security (though I do wish the elderly were currently being better supported), and I can (sometimes, though it is becoming increasingly difficult) see both sides of the war. I think most effective politicians are showy smooth-talkers and I don't think liars are cool, so I remain a bit put off by politics in general. I tend to let factors like candidates' backgrounds, looks, families, and speech-delivering abilities mildly affect my decision about whom to support. I refused to vote for Kerry because he gives off a skeevy vibe and his wife seems like a nasty lady, though I didn't mind John Edwards because he is kinda cute and has a dead son. (And yes, with that statement, I acknowledge that I am probably invalidating any point I am trying to make, if indeed I even have one, with my admission of ridiculous and thoughtless decisions. Such is life.) As far as republicans go, I enjoy John McCain because he seems to be a middle of the liner, plus he's a cute old guy who was a POW in Vietnam.

Admittedly, I have refrained from becoming especially invested or well-versed in a lot of the issues. Those more aggressively involved in politics may fault me for taking the easy way out and refusing to take sides more often than not. That's fine. I can take it. I can admit it, even. I think our society still, albeit more subtly, dictates that girls shouldn't necessarily hold strong opinions. "Nice" girls don't discuss politics and religion, right? Anyway, I have no intentions of launching into a lengthy feminist diatribe. I do believe that, at first, my moderate views resulted from my desire to be utterly inoffensive and universally accepted. During the latter part of my teenage years and the very early part of my early adulthood, I transformed from a loud, vivacious, and, at times, slightly obnoxious girl to a mumbling someone who constantly played with her hair and could barely make eye contact or speak without covering her mouth with her hand. This change in demeanor was also accompanied by a complete disinterest in expressing or even holding any strong opinions about much of anything.

Now that I'm old and wise and no longer consumed by such an insane degree of self-consciousness, I try to retain my moderate status for more empowering reasons. I like refusing to allow a group of people to attempt to dictate my beliefs regarding a particular issue. I like considering both sides, weighing the positives and negatives and sometimes refusing to pick the lesser of two evils. I like disliking both President Bush and Michael Moore. I recognize that this is overly simplistic and that many people do not blindly follow party lines, but many do.

At the same time, I may be becoming a bit radical. My father would love to be BFF with GWB and my younger sister is in a conservative cult at Penn State. (No matter how much I disagree with her political beliefs, I can give her props for figuring out what they are and rolling with it.) The tv in my parents' room is left on Fox News for approximately 19 hours each day. Needless to say, for entertainment purposes, someone has to play devil's advocate and get everyone worked up every once in a while. (And, yes, I have few friends/no life.) Most recently, we have been going at it about gay rights and abortion, because I seem to get most riled up about those two topics. I won't go into the conversations, but we never get anywhere. I will say that choosing to have an abortion, in my opinion, is a very personal, complicated, and potentially haunting decision. I believe that, ultimately, beyond the messy debates over when life begins and who's killing whom, denying women this right will set our gender back about 40 years. At the same time, I can respect the opinions of others, especially concerning such a touchy and emotional issue that is often deep rooted in people's beliefs. I do tend to get a bit fiery in the comfort of my own home, though.

So the other night, some anti-abortion group called our house and spoke with my mother. My first reaction was, "what kind of mailing/calling lists did my father put us on?," which was quickly followed by, "oh, she should have let me talk to them." They called back a few days later, and I regretfully did not answer the phone. Apparently, they were calling regarding the $30.00 pledge my mother made during their previous conversation. Ooooh. So not cool. She claims she just made it to get them to shut up and had no intentions of paying them. (Of course, providing a perfect example of an adherence to the rule that women should play nice rather than risk offending someone with what they truly think.) This morning, my father started talking about how some man named Sam will hopefully be the newest Supreme Court Justice and stick it to Row v. Wade. I gave him my standard, "Well, then I'll be moving to D.C. to protest in an 'I Heart my Vagina' tee," response. Then, I explained if the crazies call back and I happen to answer the phone, I will respond with, "I think you have the wrong house. This is what we do for fun here," and immediately start singing, "kill the babies" to the tune of "Oh My Darling, Clementine." And, yes, I sang it out. My father was far from impressed. Maybe I should have changed the lyrics to "terminate the pregnancies," but there are too many syllables and I've never been one to speak in euphamisms. My brother and I were amused (it doesn't take much), though I worry that the little ditty may have been a "had to be there" moment that comes off as harsh, less than articulate, and one-sided on paper (well, computer screen). For the record, I actually enjoy babies and do not promote the killing of anything. (I was even a tiny bit saddened when I was forced to squash a spider to spare a coworker's sanity the other day. She ran away from her desk, screaming, "Sara, if you don't want to be working by yourself today, you need to kill that thing." Poor little dude.) Ultimately, I had a strong reaction based on a firm belief, and for that, I will remain unapologetic.

I Feel Your Pain, Hester Prynne

The low carb kick in my office has (at least temporarily) ended. We are playing a version of The Biggest Loser, eye doctors' office style. The competition started 2.5 weeks ago and will last until Christmas break. Everyone, with the exception of 3 people, is participating, including the doctors. The rules are as follows:

1. Liz is the official weigher inner. I assume she was chosen because she seems to be the least gossipy/catty/interested in what anyone else weighs.
2. One must pay $1.00 weekly to participate.
3. One must pay $1.00 for each pound that is gained at the weekly weigh in. (I, being a slightly masochistic dumbass who tends to get a bit overexcited about new weight loss games, created this rule.)
4. If one loses weight, one must choose a colorful star sticker bearing an encouraging word to display on one's nametag for the duration of the week. I was Super Sara for week one. Apparently, due to the fact that they are men or the bosses or people who get to wear lab coats with their names embroidered, this rule does not apply to the doctors.
5. If one gains weight, one must choose a letter sticker that represents an unflattering word to display on one's nametag for the duration of the week. This rule was fashioned in an homage to The Scarlet Letter. This week, I am "h" Sara. I chose "h" due to a limited number of "f's," (too many gainers for our measly sticker supply) and because it is so versatile, potentially standing for huge, heavy, heaviest, hippo, humongous, hippy, etc. The doctors also do not have to participate in our oh so literary take on public humiliation, despite my protests.
6. If one maintains the same weight for two consecutive weeks, one must pay $1.00.
7. If one chooses to quit participating at any point in the competition, one must pay $20.00.
8. At the conclusion of the competition, the person who loses the most weight profits from everyone else's failures. I lobbied (okay, whined) rather intensely at the beginning for the results to be based on percentage of weight lost, rather than total pounds. I had a few people on my team, but was sadly overruled by the greater game authorities. As this was my only realistic hope in coming close winning, I am aware that I am likely wasting my money. Oh, well.(I sometimes consider trying to instate a no laxatives clause, as some people think they are fun, but they seem to be far my idea of a good time. No need to piss anyone off, though.)

So, I was down 3 lbs week one, and up 6 lbs week two (probably due to some dunkin donuts, some taco dip, some kickboxing skipping, way too much beer and an unfortunate decision to move the weigh in to Monday. I was down 3 lbs by the next day, but was not permitted to reweigh. The brats . . .) I think it is funny. I am out $9.00 so far. It'll be interesting to see how things progress.

*** Note: I stand corrected. One of the doctors was sporting the letter "f" on his lapel today. Either I am a dirty, less than observant liar, or someone guilted him into it between yesterday and today, because I hadn't noticed it.***