In my early 20s, I wore size 24 jeans and my enormous boobs demanded an H-cup bra, a letter no woman should have to associate with lingerie sizing. I couldn’t fit into restaurant booths or through the subway turnstile. I even once held up an entire roller coaster ride at Six Flags so I could get back onto the platform when the seat belt wouldn’t buckle around me — a character-building experience to say the least. I’d dropped out of college, didn’t have any job prospects and I was in a serious romantic relationship with a man who was actually gay (and a little nuts). It was a dark, lonely time in my life mired in lots of bong-hitting and double-cheeseburgering.
After surprising myself by punching said gay boyfriend in the mouth one night during a screaming match (to which he responded by pulling my hair for 20 minutes – so gay!), I met my own ugly rock bottom. What came next was a brief stint as a homeless, fat girl living out of her Honda. There was, as they say, nowhere else to go but up. Keep reading »