You Weren't Supposed To Notice

I'm fat. I'm not a girl with a few extra pounds. I'm not pleasingly plump. I'm not thicker than a snicker and I definitely am not one of those who just has a little extra weight in all the right places. I'm fat. There, I said it and though I don't like it, I can at least admit it. I mean, that's the first step to recovery, right? Having said that, I still seem to have a problem when other people realize I'm fat too. Sure, for years now I thought I was carefully camouflaging all my bulges, rolls, meats, and cheeses with some pretty cute clothes. I knew how high my pants needed to be in order to contain my stomach(s). I knew that fitted tops also helped to contain my middle mass. I had control top panties for those special occasions and I even mastered the art of showing off the smaller parts while covering up the not-so-small ones. I thought I was doing quite well there for a while. Things were looking pretty good until I received a My Space friend request from a man I found to be quite attractive. My immediate thought was, "Oh boy! Someone cute wants to be friends with me. He isn't trying to sell me anything. He isn't some rapper who wants me to listen to his crappy music and he isn't the usually creepy, ugly weirdo who wants to ask me out on a date as if." To say the least, I was excited. I quickly approved his request and went to his page to lustfully look at his pictures. When I opened his page, to my chagrin, I found that everyone of his top ten or so friends were women who were at least a size 16 and up....up....up. My ego and my size 14 body immediately felt deflated (which should have been a good thing, right?). Was this man a chubby chaser and was he now adding me to his list because I fit the bill? See, it was all good when I thought I was the only one who knew I was fat. It became a different situation when others started to notice. My feelings were soooooo hurt. My fitted top suddenly felt tight. My control top panties began to roll down and I suddenly felt the need to open the top button on my carefully chosen jeans. Not only did I know I was fat, but my secret had gotten out to the public. Granted, I know I'm nowhere near a size 18 and I'm certainly not knocking any woman who is. That just isn't what I want to be. I want to be back to my once comfortable size 8 or 10. Yes, I work out and I fret about what I eat but I haven't put in the real work I know I must in order to make at least five of my seven stomachs go away and that's my choice. It's usually not too much of a problem to manage until I find myself being compared with some women who have me by at least fifty pounds. I suppose there isn't too much I can do about the perception of others now that my house of mirrors made of big panties with lots of spandex in them has been destroyed. I'm going to spend more time on the treadmill and less time in the drive thru. Hell, maybe people will notice that I'm actually getting smaller.