Jenna Bergen - Your Big Fat Boyfriend: How to Stay Thin When Dating a Diet Disaster

Copyright 2008 by Jenna Bergen

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Number: 2008929115

eBook ISBN: 978-1-59474-835-6
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-59474-290-3

Designed by Bryn Ashburn
Illustrations by Neryl Walker
Edited by Sarah OBrien

Quirk Books
215 Church Street
Philadelphia, PA 19106
www.quirkbooks.com

v3.1

I still remember the moment. That awful, clarifying instant when I realized Id gone from thin to not-so-thin. It was a freezing Friday in February, and it had been, quite completely, the day from hell. Id intended to leave the office early and arrive home in time to wash and blow-dry my hair, shave my legs, and look verifiably amazing by the time he rang the bell at 8 P.M.

I walk in the door at 7:45 with coffee on my shirt and a run in my stockings nearing hooker proportions. Im on a mission to look good and look good fast: My boyfriendwell leave names out of this story in order to protect the incriminatedis on his way to pick me up for a little aprs workweek dinner. Which is why, at 7:50, I am on my knees, halfway into my closet, blindly searching for my totally hot, erase-ten-pounds, make-my-ass-look-amazing jeans. Where are they? I need to feel hot, attractive, desirableinstantly. I need those jeans.

While unearthing the bottom of my closet, I spot one jean leg dangling over the back of my desk chair. I lunge toward the chair, feeling a shot of relief course though my body as I confirm: We have liftoff. They are the jeans.

Theyre a little wrinkly, but theyll work. I shake them violentlymy only form of ironingand then shove in my right foot and try to yank on the leg as I hop toward the closet to grab my go- to black V-neck.

Ooh, thats weird , I think, as I struggle to pull the denim up and over my thighs. Suddenly, a terrible feeling washes over me. They feel too tight.

I wedge my hands into the front pockets and push the denim away from my body. I do a deep squat, attempting to loosen the material. Theres no givethey dont fit. I try to channel my yoga instructor and breathe deeply. Dont panic. Just take a breath

No. They have to fit. I violently pull the V-neck over my head and yank down the hem, trying to cover the now-lumpy bulge that should have been my waist.

I look at my reflection in the mirror. I try to reason with myself. I have them on . The button still fits through the hole, so, technically, they fit. But just barely. I turn to the side and check out my profile. Instead of being perfectly snug around all the right curves, theyre tight everywhere , and I have an unattractive, extra bit of myself hanging over the top of my jeans.

I suck in, hollowing out my stomach and puffing out my chest. The result is no better: I look like some sort of disproportionate linebacker. I exhale loudly and my spine sinks back to its normal five foot four frame and the excess belly reappears. My thighs look painted in denim. This cannot be happening.

My mind frantically tries to problem solve: Maybe I can get away with wearing them. With a loose, flowy top and some cute heels, maybe no one will notice. I stiffly walk to my bed. I attempt to sit. Ow. Okay, no. Theres no way these are going to work. Not unless I want to sit like a statue hoping the crotch doesnt rip while I sip on nothing but lemon water all night.

I am hopping on one foot again, but this time in a frantic attempt to peel off the right pant leg. I lose my balance and fall sideways onto the bed, where I continue my totally unattractive struggle to remove the spiteful clothing from my body. Finally! I toss the offending jeans across the room and flop onto my back, staring up at the ceiling wearing only my bra, underwear, and a frown.

How had this happened? How had I gone from wearing cute, adorable jeans and tight tanks every night to this ? I work out. I am the queen of veggies.

Maybe it was the dryer , my kind, compassionate little ego tries to console me.

No. It wasnt the dryer. I remember a time three months ago when Id pulled on the very same jeans. They had been snug, but wearable. Still, that night I had opted for total comfort and grabbed my super-soft sweatpants instead. Why be anything but totally relaxed? My honey and I were just going to spend the evening watching movies and eating takeout

My mind flashes to nights of us sitting side by side on the couch as I happily neglect my chicken and string beans and share his sesame chicken straight from the box; forgoing my light beer for a full-bodied brew he wants me to try; sharing not just popcorn, but popcorn, candy, and soda at the movies; matching him bite for bite on the calamari or baskets of nacho chips he talked me into ordering; allowing him to pull me back under the covers instead of making it to my yoga class. Oh my Godits him!

I never used to order appetizers! I yell, with only my walls to hear me. I hop off the bed and scurry to the bathroom. I hate scales and I hate weighing myself; and I have a strong belief its not really necessary if youre working out and eating healthfully, but I knew the time had come. I braced myself. I closed my eyes. I took a breath, tried to make myself as light as humanly possible, reminded myself it had been three hours since I had last peed, and then looked down.

My naked feet bracketed the red numbers on the scale. Holy Lord, Hail Mary13 pounds!

It was then, at that moment, that I realized something: I didnt just have a BF. I had an FB! No, not even. A B FB. I was dating a Big. Fat. Boyfriend.

I ADMIT, I HAD WARNING SIGNS

We were in the same class at college. I always came directly from the gym, wearing my Ithaca sweatshirt, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, sipping water to rehydrate after my 45-minute elliptical jaunt. Each morning he rolled into class with earphones filling his ears and a sleepy, just-rolled-out-of-bed kind of cool. He was adorable, with big brown eyes, a mop of thick, just-curly-enough-that-you-want-to-touch-it hair, and he hardly spoke a word. Half of me wanted to ask him about his writing, but the other half was put off (okay, repulsed) by his mid-morning eating habits. While I plopped down my notebooks and apple, he procured a Snickers and a caramel Twix. Hed unwrap one, down it in four bites, and be on to number two before our professor even had her papers situated. And each morning, I watched him with a sort of disgusted fascination.

Thats your breakfast? I finally asked him one day, as other students were still filing in.

Yep. His eyes met mine for the first time. He smiled. I wrinkled my nose in feminine disgust. Still, we hit it off, and the images of discarded candy bar wrappers soon faded from my memory.

However, I knew something was definitely wrong with him on our first date, when he efficiently fished out all the bits of celery and carrot from his cup of chicken noodle. I hate vegetables, he told me, when he noticed me eyeing the growing pile on his saucer. And then he grinned, a smile so adorable that at that moment I could not have cared less if he ate vats of lard for every meal.