Wednesday, March 5, 2008
A Quick Rant
My ass can stop shrinking any time now. No, really, it was cute at first, this irritating habit of only losing weight in my butt, but it's accelerated alarmingly, and I'm sure my back would appreciate a little weight off the front of me more than belt makers appreciate my custom.
Monday, March 3, 2008
I Sold My Soul for a Pair of Pants
Oh, yes. I totally sold out for jeans.
Background: Old Navy recently stopped selling plus-sized clothing in its stores. It touts that its plus line is an "Online Exclusive!" as if being forced to take sizes on faith and then run around returning things that don't fit is like being in a wonderful, secret club. It's not. It's a pain in the ass, and while I'm a fan of online shopping, if I have to try it on, I prefer heading out to the store to make just one trip.
Right around the time ON was exiling the fatties from stores, Lane Bryant decided that the jeans they'd been making that were perfect for me weren't good enough, and went to Wrong - oh, excuse me - "Right Fit" jeans. I heard people rave about these jeans, about how the sizing was so much better, and when my old pair of Venezias gave out, I tried them. But the rise was too high, the "petite" inseam was way too long, and there was no other option. It was X size (which wasn't even a normal number, so I had to try on like 5 pair to begin with) or nothing.
Which meant "nothing", at least for me. I need a low or extra-low rise, bootcut, short inseam jean. That's what works on me. "Petites" almost never do - the rise is always too high, and the inseam tends to be too short, as well.
So I gave in and tried Old Navy. It didn't help that I needed a new performance dress (read: Black, suitable for church, with sleeves) and ON had the only one on the internet that wasn't over $100, either. Lured in by the dress, I skimmed the jeans, and lo and behold: I could order low-rise, bootcut, short-inseam jeans, in regular women's sizes.
They fit like woah and like damn. I mean, even the Venezias I loved didn't fit this well. I'm ashamed to give my money to people who don't think I should be seen in their stores, but I have tried on every pair of plus-sized jeans in my price range, and nothing works like these do.
So. I sold my soul for a pair of pants. And I can't say I'm sorry.
Background: Old Navy recently stopped selling plus-sized clothing in its stores. It touts that its plus line is an "Online Exclusive!" as if being forced to take sizes on faith and then run around returning things that don't fit is like being in a wonderful, secret club. It's not. It's a pain in the ass, and while I'm a fan of online shopping, if I have to try it on, I prefer heading out to the store to make just one trip.
Right around the time ON was exiling the fatties from stores, Lane Bryant decided that the jeans they'd been making that were perfect for me weren't good enough, and went to Wrong - oh, excuse me - "Right Fit" jeans. I heard people rave about these jeans, about how the sizing was so much better, and when my old pair of Venezias gave out, I tried them. But the rise was too high, the "petite" inseam was way too long, and there was no other option. It was X size (which wasn't even a normal number, so I had to try on like 5 pair to begin with) or nothing.
Which meant "nothing", at least for me. I need a low or extra-low rise, bootcut, short inseam jean. That's what works on me. "Petites" almost never do - the rise is always too high, and the inseam tends to be too short, as well.
So I gave in and tried Old Navy. It didn't help that I needed a new performance dress (read: Black, suitable for church, with sleeves) and ON had the only one on the internet that wasn't over $100, either. Lured in by the dress, I skimmed the jeans, and lo and behold: I could order low-rise, bootcut, short-inseam jeans, in regular women's sizes.
They fit like woah and like damn. I mean, even the Venezias I loved didn't fit this well. I'm ashamed to give my money to people who don't think I should be seen in their stores, but I have tried on every pair of plus-sized jeans in my price range, and nothing works like these do.
So. I sold my soul for a pair of pants. And I can't say I'm sorry.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
I'm A Fat Slut
She gets too hungry for dinner at eight...
That's why the lady is a tramp.
Fat: affluent, cushy, fertile, flourishing, fruitful, good, lush, thriving.
Won't dish the dirt with the rest of the girls:
That's why the lady is a tramp.
Slut: bimbo, floozy, harlot, hussy, jezebel, slattern, strumpet, tart, tramp, trollop, wanton
She's all alone when she lowers her lamp:
That's why the lady is a tramp.
If you're a woman who's made it to adulthood - or even just to age 14 - you've probably been called fat, or a slut, or a fat slut.* The words aren't merely their definitions, aren't merely their synonyms. They are the words most likely to wound deeply, because they are the words that identify everything that a woman should not be. They are the arrows that come already loaded in the quivers of adolescent girls, the weapons we, as a society, hand to our daughters with instructions to use them against the girl who is different, the girl who is defiant, the girl who insists that she knows best for herself.
At some point, we are all that girl, that different woman, that strange defiant female. At some point, we are all fat sluts.
I've been one for roughly two decades now. I was the early bloomer, the girl who woke up one day to find herself all lush curves and bountiful breasts and nowhere to hide them, the envy and the terror of her peers. The name-calling and the snubbing were almost instantaneous, and I reacted with an even deeper shame for my bigness, my "huge" hips, my "flabby" thighs, my breasts. I was Fat.
Fat can be overcome, if one shows enough shame and enough self-denial. But I was never good with self-denial: there is far too much joy to be had in a perfectly-baked cupcake or a perfect little bite of chocolate to forswear them in pursuit of approval, and I couldn't be counted upon to stick to the diets that would have rendered me acceptable to the girls I knew. I was Fat, and I was going to stay Fat, and if I ever thought to forget it, someone would remind me.
Fat, however, is nothing next to the brazen shamelessness of being A Slut. While Sluts are most often the girls who enjoy sex, enjoy men, and enjoy themselves without reservation or shame, they can also simply be the girls who don't like the other girls. The women who find other women's conversation impenetrably complicated, who never cottoned to the rules of calling other women names behind their backs while inviting them to dinner parties to their faces, who will never be "Rules Girls", who don't understand when being useful and forthright went out of style. A Slut finds the social rules for men to be far more sensible, and lives by them.
After spending my pre-teen years being Fat, I embarked upon my high school career as A Slut, as well. Why I would want to spend time with girls who'd done nothing but berate, ridicule, or condescend to me was beyond me, and I ignored them in favor of easier, quieter, more honest friendships with boys and men. They expected that I would be exactly as I appeared to them, and wouldn't stand for my constant self-deprecation or useless self-denial. The identity I formed during my teen years was a strong, useful, honest woman, one loath to deny herself what she wanted simply because it wasn't seemly for her to want at all. What was the point of feminism, after all, if I had to play by a complicated series of rules in order to be acceptable to the world at large? Wasn't that the sort of thing our mothers had tried to eliminate for us, this constant focus on appearances above all else, even unto tending to the appearance of good character, rather than the cultivation of such? Shouldn't I be caring more about how I changed the world than about how I looked to it?
Unfortunately, that wonderful woman was hidden away behind the fad diets and the bitchy machinations of my "friends", and I only ever felt comfortable when I was alone, or with my boys. I was always on my guard around my girlfriends, and I know they knew it, because I was always "stealing" someone's boyfriend or eating the wrong things or wearing the wrong things. I tried, but I was, and would always be, A Fat Slut.
Upon learning that I was having a daughter, I panicked. I knew nothing about how to raise a girl, I told my now-husband; I didn't like princesses and pink and everything dainty and feminine. I didn't know how to teach her to move in the world of women, because I'd never been able to figure it out. What on earth would I do with a girl? I asked him.
"Teach her to be like you. What's wrong with you? Aren't you a woman?"
I hadn't known what to say in return, because that seemed so obvious. Yes, of course I'm a woman. But I'm also A Fat Slut, and I can't teach our daughter to be one - can I?
The answer? Of course, I can. Because if I don't teach her to embrace herself, and damn the consequences, then we'll never be able to be anything but Fat Sluts. We'll never simply be useful people, unique people, if "fat slut" is still allowed as a term of hatred, as a badge of undesirable "otherness".
So there it is: I'm a Fat Slut. I'm a tramp. I'm not afraid of my lush body, or my quirky personality, or my decidedly non-vanilla relationship needs. I'm not afraid that my daughter likes dinosaurs better than dresses, or building better than ballerinas - or baby dolls better than Hot Wheels.
I'm a Fat Slut.
Are you?
*I know there are those out there who were called the opposites: Skinny Bitches and Skinny or Fat Prudes. For this argument, it all comes under "Fat Slut".
That's why the lady is a tramp.
Fat: affluent, cushy, fertile, flourishing, fruitful, good, lush, thriving.
Won't dish the dirt with the rest of the girls:
That's why the lady is a tramp.
Slut: bimbo, floozy, harlot, hussy, jezebel, slattern, strumpet, tart, tramp, trollop, wanton
She's all alone when she lowers her lamp:
That's why the lady is a tramp.
If you're a woman who's made it to adulthood - or even just to age 14 - you've probably been called fat, or a slut, or a fat slut.* The words aren't merely their definitions, aren't merely their synonyms. They are the words most likely to wound deeply, because they are the words that identify everything that a woman should not be. They are the arrows that come already loaded in the quivers of adolescent girls, the weapons we, as a society, hand to our daughters with instructions to use them against the girl who is different, the girl who is defiant, the girl who insists that she knows best for herself.
At some point, we are all that girl, that different woman, that strange defiant female. At some point, we are all fat sluts.
I've been one for roughly two decades now. I was the early bloomer, the girl who woke up one day to find herself all lush curves and bountiful breasts and nowhere to hide them, the envy and the terror of her peers. The name-calling and the snubbing were almost instantaneous, and I reacted with an even deeper shame for my bigness, my "huge" hips, my "flabby" thighs, my breasts. I was Fat.
Fat can be overcome, if one shows enough shame and enough self-denial. But I was never good with self-denial: there is far too much joy to be had in a perfectly-baked cupcake or a perfect little bite of chocolate to forswear them in pursuit of approval, and I couldn't be counted upon to stick to the diets that would have rendered me acceptable to the girls I knew. I was Fat, and I was going to stay Fat, and if I ever thought to forget it, someone would remind me.
Fat, however, is nothing next to the brazen shamelessness of being A Slut. While Sluts are most often the girls who enjoy sex, enjoy men, and enjoy themselves without reservation or shame, they can also simply be the girls who don't like the other girls. The women who find other women's conversation impenetrably complicated, who never cottoned to the rules of calling other women names behind their backs while inviting them to dinner parties to their faces, who will never be "Rules Girls", who don't understand when being useful and forthright went out of style. A Slut finds the social rules for men to be far more sensible, and lives by them.
After spending my pre-teen years being Fat, I embarked upon my high school career as A Slut, as well. Why I would want to spend time with girls who'd done nothing but berate, ridicule, or condescend to me was beyond me, and I ignored them in favor of easier, quieter, more honest friendships with boys and men. They expected that I would be exactly as I appeared to them, and wouldn't stand for my constant self-deprecation or useless self-denial. The identity I formed during my teen years was a strong, useful, honest woman, one loath to deny herself what she wanted simply because it wasn't seemly for her to want at all. What was the point of feminism, after all, if I had to play by a complicated series of rules in order to be acceptable to the world at large? Wasn't that the sort of thing our mothers had tried to eliminate for us, this constant focus on appearances above all else, even unto tending to the appearance of good character, rather than the cultivation of such? Shouldn't I be caring more about how I changed the world than about how I looked to it?
Unfortunately, that wonderful woman was hidden away behind the fad diets and the bitchy machinations of my "friends", and I only ever felt comfortable when I was alone, or with my boys. I was always on my guard around my girlfriends, and I know they knew it, because I was always "stealing" someone's boyfriend or eating the wrong things or wearing the wrong things. I tried, but I was, and would always be, A Fat Slut.
Upon learning that I was having a daughter, I panicked. I knew nothing about how to raise a girl, I told my now-husband; I didn't like princesses and pink and everything dainty and feminine. I didn't know how to teach her to move in the world of women, because I'd never been able to figure it out. What on earth would I do with a girl? I asked him.
"Teach her to be like you. What's wrong with you? Aren't you a woman?"
I hadn't known what to say in return, because that seemed so obvious. Yes, of course I'm a woman. But I'm also A Fat Slut, and I can't teach our daughter to be one - can I?
The answer? Of course, I can. Because if I don't teach her to embrace herself, and damn the consequences, then we'll never be able to be anything but Fat Sluts. We'll never simply be useful people, unique people, if "fat slut" is still allowed as a term of hatred, as a badge of undesirable "otherness".
So there it is: I'm a Fat Slut. I'm a tramp. I'm not afraid of my lush body, or my quirky personality, or my decidedly non-vanilla relationship needs. I'm not afraid that my daughter likes dinosaurs better than dresses, or building better than ballerinas - or baby dolls better than Hot Wheels.
I'm a Fat Slut.
Are you?
*I know there are those out there who were called the opposites: Skinny Bitches and Skinny or Fat Prudes. For this argument, it all comes under "Fat Slut".
Friday, February 8, 2008
A Bit About Me
You'll notice I added a new link over on the left: the website of The Church Music Association of America. It looks a little odd, mixed in with the romance novel reviews and fashion snark, but my one great passion right now is music, and sacred music in particular.
I've always sung in school choirs and church choirs, and never really thought much about it: I could carry a tune, and church choirs always needed another voice. Then in 2006, I had the opportunity to not just sing with my parish choir, but to actually be hired on as a professional vocalist for the Diocese of Phoenix. The salary wasn't huge, but the honor of being compensated for my talents was tremendous to me. I'd never considered myself that great, and while I'd taken a few classes toward a music minor in college, I never finished, and never thought myself any great shakes at singing.
But I'm versatile: I've been a soprano, alto, and tenor at some point in my life; and I read music well, which is a boon especially in volunteer choirs.
I dearly loved my Phoenix choir. (If you're ever there, do stop by Ss. Simon and Jude Cathedral for the nine a.m. Mass. You won't regret it.) They're the only thing I miss from Arizona, and I wandered around Denver for a few months trying to find a choir I liked, a choir I fit with, and most importantly, a choir that sang appropriate Catholic music.
I auditioned for Dr. Horst Buchholz in January - the same Dr. Buchholz who is the vice president of the CMAA and director of the Cathedral Choir in Denver.
This choir? Is amazing. I'm having a fantastic time singing, and I feel useful at Mass again. And the music is - heavenly. If you enjoy classical music even a little bit, I urge you to check out polyphonic pieces written for the Church. The music is exquisite, is transcendental, is so perfectly to the glory of God that though I feel exhausted and taxed beyond my capabilities trying to learn it, I also feel freed and comforted by being so close to His most wonderful works.
Lent began on Wednesday. I rarely give things up, but instead try to do things. I usually try to be a better housewife, because I'm terribly lazy, or to be more patient with people. This year I think I shall try to use all the talents God gave me, in a deliberate spirit of usefulness. That is, I will try to be conscious that my talents did not spring forth from me alone, and that they are not intended to be used solely for my gratification, but that I can be of use to others better than I can be of use to myself alone.
And to be a better housewife. Seriously. I'm really lazy.
I've always sung in school choirs and church choirs, and never really thought much about it: I could carry a tune, and church choirs always needed another voice. Then in 2006, I had the opportunity to not just sing with my parish choir, but to actually be hired on as a professional vocalist for the Diocese of Phoenix. The salary wasn't huge, but the honor of being compensated for my talents was tremendous to me. I'd never considered myself that great, and while I'd taken a few classes toward a music minor in college, I never finished, and never thought myself any great shakes at singing.
But I'm versatile: I've been a soprano, alto, and tenor at some point in my life; and I read music well, which is a boon especially in volunteer choirs.
I dearly loved my Phoenix choir. (If you're ever there, do stop by Ss. Simon and Jude Cathedral for the nine a.m. Mass. You won't regret it.) They're the only thing I miss from Arizona, and I wandered around Denver for a few months trying to find a choir I liked, a choir I fit with, and most importantly, a choir that sang appropriate Catholic music.
I auditioned for Dr. Horst Buchholz in January - the same Dr. Buchholz who is the vice president of the CMAA and director of the Cathedral Choir in Denver.
This choir? Is amazing. I'm having a fantastic time singing, and I feel useful at Mass again. And the music is - heavenly. If you enjoy classical music even a little bit, I urge you to check out polyphonic pieces written for the Church. The music is exquisite, is transcendental, is so perfectly to the glory of God that though I feel exhausted and taxed beyond my capabilities trying to learn it, I also feel freed and comforted by being so close to His most wonderful works.
Lent began on Wednesday. I rarely give things up, but instead try to do things. I usually try to be a better housewife, because I'm terribly lazy, or to be more patient with people. This year I think I shall try to use all the talents God gave me, in a deliberate spirit of usefulness. That is, I will try to be conscious that my talents did not spring forth from me alone, and that they are not intended to be used solely for my gratification, but that I can be of use to others better than I can be of use to myself alone.
And to be a better housewife. Seriously. I'm really lazy.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Of Breasts and Beauty
Via Shapely Prose, I have to comment on this photo from the Uncovered photography project. (Photo from Jordan Matter Photography.)
If you can't read the text, it is as follows:
When you're forty, men stop looking at you. You sort of disappear and
become a non-sexual entity. It's a very strange thing to have been interesting
to strangers your whole life and then suddenly it stops overnight and you ...
disappear.
Now, I don't know about you, lovely readers, but I have never been interesting to strangers. Men have never looked at me. I find it fascinating to read things like this, stories of women who took such notice for granted, women who thought such notice was sure to continue indefinitely. What must it be like, to be considered a thing of beauty? What is it to know that you'll never have to pay for a drink or have an empty bed?
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Random Roundup
Headless Torso has an excellent video up today.
Fat Bloggers made the New York Times!
And I have to talk about something that's been bugging me since it happened.
I have a Rack of Doom. My breasts are rather ridiculously large, and I have to buy bras roughly every six months. I usually try to get a fitting once a year, because they're not as young as they used to be, and they've started their southerly migration already. My band stays pretty steady, but I need bigger cups.
So I've recently moved to Colorado from Arizona. Being in a nicer climate has me out-of-doors more often, and in general, getting more exercise. I've lost about a dress size since moving over the summer, and I will probably lose more. It's not something I talk a lot about, because honestly? I find it irritating. I finally had a wardrobe full of lovely clothes that fit beautifully, and now I have to shop again, or take things in, and since I wasn't unhappy with myself, it's hard to see the changing of my body as anything more than an imposition on my time. Of course, no one I know will listen to my whining about "magical" weightloss, so I just keep mum and try crap on.
But the result of said loss is that I desperately needed new bras and a fitting. I had gone to an independent lingerie shop in AZ, but headed up to Nordstrom's this time after hearing wonderful things about them.
I get into the fitting room and tell the woman I'm currently wearing a 42H. The band fits okay, but not perfectly, so I don't know if I need to be down a band or not. The cups, on the other hand, are overflowing, and I'm not sure if I should look for I-cups or J-cups. She asks what prompted the fitting: I tell her I've lost some weight, and it's been a year or so since my last fitting, and my bras are falling apart.
She measures me and says my band measures right at a 42. Good - one question solved. She never measures my actual bust, but leaves the room to get things for me to try on. She comes back the first time with a 44D. She keeps coming back with various sizes, none of which are even close to my cup, and finally says, "I think you're a 44F. We don't have any in stock, so I'll email you when they come in."
And I hear you all: So what? It was a bad fitting. We've all had them.
And you're right - I've gotten them before, too. (For the record: I came home and had my husband measure me. I'm a 42J.) But what made this one particularly uncomfortable for me was that the fitter repeatedly made comments about how wonderful it was that I'd lost weight, how I was sure to lose more, and she looked forward to finding me even smaller bras. And won't it be wonderful when my breasts get smaller? And I was doing such a good job at sticking to it!
I didn't know what to say. I was a deer in the sizeist headlights. I just had absolutely no idea how to go about explaining that I was really annoyed to change sizes, that my breasts have done nothing but get bigger since I was 10 years old - no matter what my weight has done - and that I'd hate to be a size-whatever on the bottom and a size bazoomba-huge on the top because of these stupid boobs.
I had no idea how to say, "I'm perfectly happy with my size, and am not actively trying to lose weight." And that made me feel like a liar.
I came home and shared my thoughts with Bacon's Dad (while he measured me correctly.). His take? "Well, wouldn't it have made it more uncomfortable to say something?"
Sure it would have. But if I say I'm a Size Acceptance activist, if I tell other people every day the facts about fat and health and the beauty myth, aren't I obligated to do the same with strangers? Isn't my silence a tacit acceptance of the opinion that getting smaller is a good thing, no matter what I believe?
Looking back, I probably should have been prepared. I know how society views weightloss. I know how society views fat women, and I knew I was going to be shirtless in front of some random person literally taking my measure. I guess I didn't expect to be asked why I needed a fitting - it's pretty obvious, even when I'm clothed, that something isn't fitting properly.
It's just so difficult to boil everything down to something short, sweet and acceptable. "I like being fat; let's move on" seems abrupt and cold, but giving a ten-minute spiel on SA seems a little over-the-top. Surely there's something in between the extremes - and I have a feeling that I should try to find it, because I'm only going to run into more fitting rooms and more salesclerks trying to make conversation.
What would you have said?
Fat Bloggers made the New York Times!
And I have to talk about something that's been bugging me since it happened.
I have a Rack of Doom. My breasts are rather ridiculously large, and I have to buy bras roughly every six months. I usually try to get a fitting once a year, because they're not as young as they used to be, and they've started their southerly migration already. My band stays pretty steady, but I need bigger cups.
So I've recently moved to Colorado from Arizona. Being in a nicer climate has me out-of-doors more often, and in general, getting more exercise. I've lost about a dress size since moving over the summer, and I will probably lose more. It's not something I talk a lot about, because honestly? I find it irritating. I finally had a wardrobe full of lovely clothes that fit beautifully, and now I have to shop again, or take things in, and since I wasn't unhappy with myself, it's hard to see the changing of my body as anything more than an imposition on my time. Of course, no one I know will listen to my whining about "magical" weightloss, so I just keep mum and try crap on.
But the result of said loss is that I desperately needed new bras and a fitting. I had gone to an independent lingerie shop in AZ, but headed up to Nordstrom's this time after hearing wonderful things about them.
I get into the fitting room and tell the woman I'm currently wearing a 42H. The band fits okay, but not perfectly, so I don't know if I need to be down a band or not. The cups, on the other hand, are overflowing, and I'm not sure if I should look for I-cups or J-cups. She asks what prompted the fitting: I tell her I've lost some weight, and it's been a year or so since my last fitting, and my bras are falling apart.
She measures me and says my band measures right at a 42. Good - one question solved. She never measures my actual bust, but leaves the room to get things for me to try on. She comes back the first time with a 44D. She keeps coming back with various sizes, none of which are even close to my cup, and finally says, "I think you're a 44F. We don't have any in stock, so I'll email you when they come in."
And I hear you all: So what? It was a bad fitting. We've all had them.
And you're right - I've gotten them before, too. (For the record: I came home and had my husband measure me. I'm a 42J.) But what made this one particularly uncomfortable for me was that the fitter repeatedly made comments about how wonderful it was that I'd lost weight, how I was sure to lose more, and she looked forward to finding me even smaller bras. And won't it be wonderful when my breasts get smaller? And I was doing such a good job at sticking to it!
I didn't know what to say. I was a deer in the sizeist headlights. I just had absolutely no idea how to go about explaining that I was really annoyed to change sizes, that my breasts have done nothing but get bigger since I was 10 years old - no matter what my weight has done - and that I'd hate to be a size-whatever on the bottom and a size bazoomba-huge on the top because of these stupid boobs.
I had no idea how to say, "I'm perfectly happy with my size, and am not actively trying to lose weight." And that made me feel like a liar.
I came home and shared my thoughts with Bacon's Dad (while he measured me correctly.). His take? "Well, wouldn't it have made it more uncomfortable to say something?"
Sure it would have. But if I say I'm a Size Acceptance activist, if I tell other people every day the facts about fat and health and the beauty myth, aren't I obligated to do the same with strangers? Isn't my silence a tacit acceptance of the opinion that getting smaller is a good thing, no matter what I believe?
Looking back, I probably should have been prepared. I know how society views weightloss. I know how society views fat women, and I knew I was going to be shirtless in front of some random person literally taking my measure. I guess I didn't expect to be asked why I needed a fitting - it's pretty obvious, even when I'm clothed, that something isn't fitting properly.
It's just so difficult to boil everything down to something short, sweet and acceptable. "I like being fat; let's move on" seems abrupt and cold, but giving a ten-minute spiel on SA seems a little over-the-top. Surely there's something in between the extremes - and I have a feeling that I should try to find it, because I'm only going to run into more fitting rooms and more salesclerks trying to make conversation.
What would you have said?
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
What could you do with $5,002?
Sandy Szwarc has an excellent post over at Junkfood Science today.
Apparently, the average woman spends $5,002 per year on losing weight. For that spectacular outlay of dollars, she'll lose a whopping 3 pounds - and, of course, gain it all back. Over a lifetime, that works out to roughly $310,000.
$310,000. One house. Eleven cars. 88 diamond rings. 3100 fancy gourmet dinners.
Or three pounds.
You do the math.
Apparently, the average woman spends $5,002 per year on losing weight. For that spectacular outlay of dollars, she'll lose a whopping 3 pounds - and, of course, gain it all back. Over a lifetime, that works out to roughly $310,000.
$310,000. One house. Eleven cars. 88 diamond rings. 3100 fancy gourmet dinners.
Or three pounds.
You do the math.
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