Fat Camp Update

I am so bored by fat camp. The food is very bad and the exercise is constant, and on top of all that we are supposed to be enthusiastically participating in some sort of "Color War" while all I want to do is obsess online about the real freaking war in The Holy Land and shit. I have, however, lost some weight (8.5 pounds so far!), acquired a new nickname (Shappy, which sounds best in a North Dakotan accent because they say their "a"s funny), made new facebook friends (facebook facebook ad infinitum), and climbed a mountain. Also played sports and shit, which is fun. Did I mention the horrible food? You've never seen chicken this dry. This chicken just went through the spin cycle on Delicates, and it is D-R-Y dry dry dry. And I missed the pudding last night. And now I have to go swimming, which is why I'm in the library blogging, of all time-consuming things. Oh, and I went to Canada and got rained on and bought an outdated Expos hat post-semi-ironically, but I can't wear it because it's blue and the Color War is Blue versus Orange and I'm Orange and nothing rhymes with orange (unless you count doorhinge, Frankie's dad always says).

So, okay, I should go swim, or cheer people from the sidelines and say I can't swim because I have a leg cramp (totally not a lie). But before I do, I'm going to share my Past and Present essay, which was a mandatory part of the system of obtaining privledges like phone time, computer time, and trips (like to Canada). It's an essay about My Food History, or, Why I Am At Fat Camp Now, Even Though I've Been Fat A While. My group therapy cohorts thought it was the funniest thing ever, and called me very sarcastic and a dry wit. I felt bad, because theirs were kind of sad and they are all fatter than me, technically, but I am still counted as fat because I am short. One girl is shorter than me and that's fun, but she's 23 so I don't get to feel superior at all. The point is, My Fat History.

The first thing I did after being born (besides screaming myself hoarse, mind) was suck my mom's finger so hard, she says she feared it would come off in my mouth. I was certainly a good eater.
My family life was pretty great. My parents are of a fairly liberal, lenient sort. Most notably, they never forced me to eat anything I didn't particularly want to. Thus began my lifelong avoidance of all things vegetable, fruit, or, essentially, remotely good for me.
I was an active child--my mother describes an incident in which I ran wild about the house for two hours straight, finally collapsing in a heap. This is notable because at the time, I had a 103 degree fever.
My eating habits have always been a source of cafeteria conversation. It begins with me refusing a salad in the lunch line, or a friend acknowledging the lack of healthful component in my brown bag. It then becomes an incredulous chorus of "they NEVER make you?" and "No veggies at ALL?" Then I am compelled to list the foods I DO eat. This repeats itself each time I eat with someone new. At subsequent meals, I am peer-pressured to try new things, taunted by vegetables thrown unto my plate, and eventually, ignored, or treated as an irritation, a stubborn and unhealthy fool.
As I aged, so did my little sister. We were brought to parks together, and placed in various little league sports. It quickly became clear that while I was an enthusiastic and good-natured sportsman, she possessed actual athletic skill. Gradually, I ceded the arena of exercise to her sole provenance.
Suddenly, in fifth grade, I hit puberty. With that came blood, sweat, tears, breasts, and rapid weight gain. In addition, fifth grade was the first year we were allowed to wander the streets of New York to purchase our own lunches, and I became a regular customer at the candy shops of the neighborhood.
A pattern began to emerge, one that continues to this day--my mother would nag me about losing weight, and I would ignore her and eat Hostess and Hagen Daaz to excess. In 8th grade, mom begged me to join the fledgling school "running club", ostensibly because my sister was joining (of course) and wanted company. I eventually joined, and while I was never able to run, per se, for more than a minute at a time, I walked a couple miles twice a week and lost about ten pounds. Mom was thrilled--prouder of me than of my sister's 6 minute mile.
High school was a fairly neutral time, weight-wise. I regained the running club weight within a year or two, and each summer a new gym membership or exercise program was purchased for my eventual disuse.
Our nagging/eating pattern continued until the 12th grade, when a routine blood test (I was on a dermatological medication that required monthly testing) revealed disturbingly high insulin and testosterone levels. A few more test revealed it was nothing serious yet, but I was officially pre-diabetic and at high risk for a cadre of other diseases. By that time, however, it was time I headed out for college.
Naturally, college was not a great place to lose weight. I gained ten pounds my first semester, disturbing my mom and the doctor's greatly. I promised to find the gym second semester, but around February, I entered a significant depression. I took to sleeping all day (except for the occasional class) and watching illegally downloaded television and eating cookie dough all night. I regularly ordered an entire pizza (sans cheese, of course, I was still a weirdo) AND a 12" hero sandwich to wash it down. I was up to three hot dogs a day.
My parents took note, and as soon as I got home I was pumped full of anti-depressants, forced to actually visit a gym, and told that I should seriously consider coming here. I agreed to that proposal, because it's not like I enjoyed being 80 pounds overweight. I complied with the exercise, told my employer of my upcoming absence, and ate less, if not yet well.
And here I am.