Chubby Mommy

That old saying “You can never be too rich or too thin” may be wrong after all. See, just as money doesn’t buy happiness, being thin doesn’t guarantee it, either. In fact, it appears that women are happiest with themselves and their lives when they’re size 14.

In a poll of 3,000 women, size 14s rated their general happiness higher than any other female shape, with a quarter saying they liked their appearance.

Almost half said they were completely happy with their career, while a third rated their love lives as the best possible.

Satisfaction levels for size 8s and size 16s were on par, while women size 6 were only slightly happier than women wearing a size 20. But unfortunately the survey doesn’t reveal the reasons why a size 14 woman would be happier than her more slender counterpart.

I can guess, though: size 14 women aren’t afraid of having a cookie or two; they’re simply smart enough not to eat the entire box.

I am, once again, sick. Actually, it’s pretty much the same sickness that’s been hanging around in my body since earlier this month, only now it’s complicated by additional tangent illnesses because I didn’t get to the doctor in time. Yes, that’s partially my fault: the first half of the month I was insanely busy with work, while the second half involved entertaining a string of house guests. Oh, and since my doctor was on vacation for a good chunk of that time, I’d hoped to avoid an office visit with her substitute altogether. No such luck.

Yesterday I finally broke down and went for a visit knowing full well what my diagnosis would be, as well as which prescriptions I’d need. One hour later I left with prescriptions for the exact meds I knew I’d be given. Naturally, I was charged $95 for the privilege of having my self-diagnosis confirmed.

To make matters worse, the doctor acknowledged that he was only giving me a one-week prescription and that I’d probably have to come back for yet another appointment to get it renewed since he was pretty certain it would take longer than 7 days of meds to knock this out of my system.

Not surprisingly, I’m a bit miffed. After all, if he knows it’s likely to take longer, why not just authorize a refill? Why make me find time in my schedule to come back to his office, where I’ll be charged for yet another visit and where, because doctor’s offices tend to be filled with sick people, I’m likely to pick up yet another bug that will have me back there yet again? Answer: built-in job security. For him. Got it.

What he doesn’t get, however, is that such practices only serve to make me an even bigger fan of using an online pharmacy. Not one of those fly-by-night places that spams me, mind you, but one with factory-fresh medications. As it is, my insurance company actually gives discounts for online pharmacy orders at certain locations and the savings on my co-pay are pretty significant. Plus there’s the convenience factor: my prescription arrives on my doorstep, usually the very next day, which means I don’t have to stand in line at the store waiting around while I feel absolutely awful. But, as I said, that discount only works at their recommended sites, which still don’t always offer the best savings.

While I’d never recommend that someone self-prescribe a medication they’ve never taken before, I don’t understand why a person shouldn’t be able to buy Xanax online from less-expensive yet reputable overseas sources, for instance — or medications to treat acne, impotence or to help with weight loss — if they’ve got a valid prescription.

Ordinarily, I’m not a big fan of reality TV. Strike that: ordinarily I absolutely, wholly and truly despise reality TV.

Then along came Ruby, whose show on Style Network I stumbled across while doing some Nyquil-induced channel surfing last week. If you haven’t caught the show, it’s about a woman (named Ruby, not surprisingly) and her quest to slim down from almost 500 pounds.

Ordinarily, that number alone might make some folks tune into the show, some out of a morbid fascination as they wonder how she got to be that size (a question which Ruby, like every woman who gains a significant amount of weight, asks herself), and some in the hope of finding tips and tricks to their own weight loss (which is what first got me hooked).

After a couple of episodes, though, it’s pretty clear there aren’t any magic secrets behind Ruby’s persistent and impressive weight loss — she’s under 400 pounds in just a few months! It’s all about the same thing most of us overweight folks try to avoid: eating less and exercising more. Ruby has a personal trainer, a nutritionist, an obesity specialist and a psychiatrist working with her, and while it’s easy to think that losing weight must be more simple with such a team, the fact is that she encounters the same problems the rest of us do. After all, the experts can’t eat (or not eat) for her. That’s all on her, and she’s doing such an impressive job.

Within just a few episodes, I was hooked not just on the inspiration that Ruby provides but on Ruby herself. Between her Southern drawl and her sunny outlook, she’s the kind of woman that everyone wishes they knew. And she’s got true Southern grit. Then again, taking her weight loss journey public like this pretty much means she’d have to, ya know?

Thanks to Ruby, I’m exercising again… though it’s pretty light right now since I’m suffering from strep throat and other maladies. I’m TiVo’ing every Ruby episode that airs and watching it while walking slowly on my treadmill. Hey, I figure if Ruby can find the gumption to do it, then so can I!

Check your local listings to find the Style Network in your area. In the meantime, don’t miss Ruby’s blog!

Have you heard about Michelle Duggar, the Arkansas woman who just gave birth to her eighteenth baby?

Eighteen kids. Holy crap!

As my son hops, twists, stomps and races around the house this morning thanks to a “snow day”, I’m sitting here realizing that I’ve got over two more weeks of this non-stop noise now that his Christmas vacation has started early. It’s only 11 o’clock in the morning, but I’m already wishing for a Valium and a cocktail to calm my frazzled nerves.

Then I read about Michelle Duggar’s brood and imagine that noise, chaos and incessant demand for attention multiplied eighteen times. Talk about nerve-wrecking! Then again, perhaps that kind of stress explains why a woman who’s popped out that many kids doesn’t have the hips and abs of a woman who’s popped out two entire baseball teams.

Of course, I can’t begin to imagine how they can afford it, and I’m not talking simply about feeding that many mouths. Can you imagine what she must have to spend on incontinence products?!

Every time I think I’ve whittled my obligations down to ensure I’ll have time to exercise daily, every time I get the motivation up to actually diet, every time I rid the house of all fattening foods and temptations, something comes up to screw with my efforts.

A couple of months ago it was family health problems that meant I was pulling double-parenting duty, a situation which left me with little time and even less interest in exercising. Then it was a busted knee.

Now? It’s a cold. Or the flu. Or maybe it’s the plague. Whatever the hell it is, it’s got me laboring for breath like a mesothelioma patient while my temperature roller coasters from barely 97 to well over 102. Repeatedly. All freaking day long.

And, of course, I can’t remember whether I’m supposed to starve a cold or feed a fever — just as my body apparently can’t decide which it has. Which is fine, since I don’t have the slightest interest in food, anyway. All that hand-to-mouth action wears me out.

So, basically, I’ve been living on Nyquil all weekend long with the occasional supplement of hot tea, hot water with lemon and hot toddys when the Nyquil alone isn’t enough to knock me out. (Yes, that does happen.)

One would at least think all of this feverish sweating, followed by all of the teeth-rattling shaking when the chills set in, would be good for burning calories.

But have I lost weight? Oh, no. No, I have not.

In a world where even beauties like Jessica Alba are air-brushed so their hips look like a boys and their breasts jut from their chests like tv stands, what hope is there for normal women?

No wonder so many of us, constantly struggling to lose weight, already feel like we might as well go eat worms.

Then again, perhaps those worms are the secret to looking like Jessica Alba after all?

Somehow, my manicure miraculously survived housecleaning and cooking two separate Thanksgiving dinners. Frankly, I was rather surprised since I’m notorious for chipping a nail at inopportune moments… like 15 minutes after the salon’s closed for the weekend, or three minutes before I’m due at an event where I’d hoped to look pulled together.

My husband — for whom nail maintenance consists of a monthly chewing — just couldn’t understand my smug gloating. In his mind, the time and money I spend getting my nails done is just a waste. “Why do women bother?” he asked.

So I explained to him that at some point in ancient history — shortly before my mother-in-law was born, I believe — lacquered nails on a woman were a sign of her husband’s financial prowess. If a man was wealthy, his wife could afford to keep her nails painted and hire servants to do all of the menial labor. Then, at some point, men decided they looked hot so women of all income levels began painting their nails.

Ditto with suntans. Pale skin was, for centuries, what distinguished well-heeled women from their menial laboring counterparts whose daily drudgery exposed them to harmful rays and, thus, turned their skins tan. A woman so wan she practically glowed? Why, that was a sign that her husband was wealthy enough to keep his woman pampered. Then, as with the lacquered nails, men decided that tans were hot so women of all income levels began tanning.

Heck, I told him, a woman carrying excess weight was historically considered attractive and proof of her husband’s affluence, too. Consider the ample endowments of Ruben’s plus-sized painting subjects. Extra amplitude on a woman signified that her husband could food — lots of food — to keep her fed, and also servants to perform work so she could keep that extra padding packed on.

“So,” my husband said, “what your saying is that between your nail appointments, your fear of direct sunlight and your never-ending efforts to lose weight you’re actually retro?”

“Exactly, though I prefer to think of it as vintage,” I told him. “But, you know, I’m only doing this to make you look good.”