Strange things occupy my mind. I’m the first to admit that it’s a bit of a rat’s nest in there, but this is a new one, even for me. You see, I buzz around the house cleaning up, cooking and baking from scratch, pouring over the sale flyers, making my shopping list, matching up my coupons, in short, trying to get all of our financial ducks in a row. I agonize over the smallest purchases and save like a demented miser with tunnel vision for things like Christmas and the kids extra curricular activities.
We’re a one-income family and we all enjoy the freedom and benefits my being home full-time affords our family. Even just my availability to tend to the needs of our kids, Mr. K.B., our home and our lives, in general, without reserve is a wonderful thing. But it does mean that we need to budget our money. We have enough, we live well and our needs are met, but I like to think that we live smart as well. We do not have flat screen televisions, HDTV, DVR’s, matching stackable laundry machines or new cars. We do have the toys that we deemed important, like my beloved iPad or the Blackberry Playbooks that everyone else in the house enjoy. We are not bereft of luxuries and entertainment. Mr. K.B. works hard everyday while I maximize our budget by shopping the sales, building and maintaining a grocery stockpile and making solid use of the public library system and hand-me-downs. We do this in order to have the family life that we set out to have.
But then this is where things get weird for me. Because I’m fat. Not super-fat, not cut-an-opening-in-the-wall-and-use-a-crane-thingy-to-pry-me-out-of-the-house fat, not lost-a-fork-in-a-stomach-roll-for-three-months fat, not even hasn’t-seen-her-toes-in-recent-memory fat, but definitely on the wrong size of pleasingly plump*, an honest twenty pounds proud of voluptuous*, and a good century beyond tiny.
For the first time in my life, I have back cleavage (not a fan, I wanted bigger boobs on my chest, not my back thankyouverymuch), and for not the first time, my thighs rub when I walk (and please don’t ask about running, because clearly, I just don’t). But even knowing these things, I have been pleased with myself because I have not spent any serious money on new clothes to accommodate my ever-increasing girth, a cheap pair of yoga (*snort*!) pants here, a tenty long-sleeve shirt there, but no full-on retail damage. My reasoning for not spending money on clothes has not been low self-esteem issues, or lack of funds, or feelings of being unworthy of clothes that fit comfortably. Oh no, I have not spent money because i remind myself that: 1) I have a closet (plus) full of nice clothes and 2) I won’t be this fat for much longer (*double snort!*).
But my whole deal is about being frugal, right? I mean, aside from the whole being surprisingly and disarmingly witty and amusing thing, I am actually frugal, right? I have a COUPON ORGANIZER for fuck’s sakes! (Hee hee, funny aside, spell check wanted to change that to “muckrakes” I should have let it, I’d sound all Scooby Doo’ish then). Or maybe, as I am beginning to wonder, it is possible that I am not a pure bred frugalite as I’ve let myself believe. Is frugality merely about saving our loonies and nickels, (since we don’t actually have pennies anymore, I’m switching it up there. Oh and thanks for being an asshole and robbing us of our pennies, Federal Government, I’m a HUGE fan of that move. Not.) or is it also and more importantly about conserving all resources, including money? Like, um, well, food. Does being overweight (a really nice way of saying FAT) make me a frugal fraud?
The answer to that is simple, my friends, yes, simple. The solution is also simple, but makes me sad, so I’m not going into solution-mode right now. The answer, at least the answer to me, is YES. Being overweight does make me a frugal fraud. I have no known medical reason for my fatness. I have no reasonable excuse for my heft. I have no shame in owning my fluff. And to be frank (because I get so tired of being me sometimes) being fat does not faze me nearly as much as discovering that I am a frugal failure. This whole frugality fail really frosts my cookies and makes me fairly irritable. It’s messing with how I see myself and who I believe myself to be. And I really wish the thought had never occurred to me, but it did, so now I must choose a direction to take.
What am I going to do about it? I don’t KNOW yet! I just said that I’m not going into solution-mode right now because that would make me sad as fuck and I am trying to AVOID sad and totally EMBRACE happy. And while frugality is a totally happy thing for me, chocolate happy trumps frugal happy. Every. Single. Time.
So, my fraud and deception will continue. My half-assed efforts at frugality will persist, at least for the time being anyway. And now, would someone pass me a frickin’ Snickers bar already?
*In fairness, I feel compelled to add, that my definitions are my own and that my beloved husband does NOT agree with this classification of my size. To his credit and to my delight, he loves me the best at exactly the size I currently am and this holds true at any point in time. Skinny, thick, fat, fatter, fattest – for him, all of my sizes are created equal, which, while I struggle to understand how that can possibly be, I most definitely believe and appreciate that it is true.
Now, would someone please bring me a shot of Reese peanut butter cups, a pint of salt and vinegar chips and a Snickers bar chaser? Pretty pleeeease?
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