Fatter Than Bridget Jones

I’ve had the treadmill for almost two weeks now and have been using it on the regular. I’ve also become better at running for slightly longer periods of time; nothing that anyone who runs would think is anything significant or even for real, but for someone like me, who hasn’t run as exercise for more than 10 years, it’s significant enough. I find that I dislike using the terms “working out” or “running” to describe what I’m doing, so I usually describe my plans as “I’m going to go deal with the treadmill in a minute.”

I can’t read while I use it, both because there’s no attachment to hold any reading material and because I don’t know how anyone reads anything when they’re bobbing up and down and in danger of falling on their face/getting shot into the wall behind them. I also don’t like listening to music, which shoots down Stephanie’s theory that I’ll get really into dance music or, as she refers to them and I have added the Z, “booty poppin’ jamz.” Some songs are too long and I notice the parts I don’t like more when I’m trying to count down the seconds until I can stop running and go back to my ultra-fast, giant-stride walking. Which is actually only a shade faster than I normally walk, which is why most people don’t like walking around in public with me, because apparently it’s rude to stop in the middle of a parking lot and wait for someone else to catch up. I prefer to watch movies while I deal with the treadmill. Stupid comedies are best. 80’s movies are good, too. I’ve also started watching tolerable romantic comedies, like When Harry Met Sally or Bridget Jones’ Diary.

You know what I realized last night? I am fatter than Bridget Jones. If you don’t know anything about Renee Zellweger movies or British people, Bridget Jones’ Diary is about Bridget Jones writing a diary, and every entry is prefaced with her weight, number of cigarettes smoked, and number of alcohol units consumed. My cigarette and alcohol unit consumption are way below anything in her diary – I’ve never smoked and I drink far, far less than I used to – but the weight is bizarrely low for someone of Bridget Jones’ lifestyle. 136 pounds? Are you shitting me? The 6′ foot tall, wrist-thin girl in my office weighs about that much, and I could probably pick her up and use her as a javelin. I haven’t weighed 136 pounds since maybe my freshman year of high school. Even when I was very thin, I still weighed more because I have bones and teeth and shoulders like a Russian peasant. Maybe it makes sense because Renee Zellweger is much shorter than I am, but still, 136 pounds seems a lot lower than the average in both America and Britain.

It was a big deal when Renee Zellweger gained weight to play Bridget Jones. When the movie came out, I was in my very thin phase and thought that wow, she really did put on some weight for the role. When I watch it now, I think oh, come on, it’s not that bad. Yeah her thighs touch, but her collarbones look okay and Spanx still do their job. Then I remember that I am thinking about an industry that rewards raw foodism and the Olsen twins, and I realize that nothing I think while dealing with the treadmill matters.

Because I’m not going to be 136 pounds. I’m almost 30, that shit is just ridiculous now. I like food and beer and sleeping in when I can. For me, 136 pounds would require that I cut out at least 2/3 of what I eat, stop drinking altogether, and wake up before dawn every day (which I already do for work, which means my wake up time would be at 4am instead of 5:30, and that is just unacceptable) to do sprints through the neighborhood. And even then I might not make it, because I’m not built that way. I don’t even own a scale because like I need that kind of bullshit every day. The only numbers with the ability to frighten me are the ones in my bank account, which is exactly how it should be. At this point, the only thing that will make me lose that much weight is crystal meth, or, because I think almost exclusively in memes by this point:


Obviously I won’t do crystal meth. First of all, I’ve seen Intervention. Second, I’m not an idiot. Third, I have things to do, like work and maintaining a home and conducting a relationship, and those are on top of the optional things like writing here and for KDHX (two new reviews this week: Heartless Bastards at the Firebird and Craig Finn’s “Clear Heart Full Eyes”), as well as hitting the post office today to mail CDs to Mike 1 and Mike 2, and then a happy hour tonight followed by the Craig Finn show, and then hanging out with Jake tomorrow and doing a podcast with Deanna on Sunday after which THE WALKING DEAD COMES BACK TO TV! That’s a shitload of stuff to do and I’m on vacation right now.

Plus I got some Ronnoco French Roast and added it to the Ethiopian coffee from my friend’s sister and coffee doesn’t have this effect on me anymore but I am fucking wired. Crystal meth wouldn’t come close.

About erineph

I'm Erin. I have tattoos and more than one cat. I am an office drone, a music writer, and an erstwhile bartender. I am a cook in the bedroom and a whore in the kitchen. Things I enjoy include but are not limited to zombies, burritos, Cthulhu, Kurt Vonnegut, Keith Richards, accordions, perfumery, and wearing fat pants in the privacy of my own home.
This entry was posted in I Eat, I Just Can't, The Pop Life, Writing. Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to Fatter Than Bridget Jones

  1. Stephie says:

    Even at my thinnest in the past 5 years, I was still in the 130’s. Though to be fair, 136 is actually 4 pounds over the doctor’s recommended weight for someone my age/height. I’m aiming for right in the middle of the recommended range, which is a number that would make you punch me in the face. I’m short (but I can keep up with you on a walk! Have you seen my fiance?).

    I was actually about to write an entry like this. Justin and I were watching Six Feet Under last night and David and Keith were looking at possible surrogate moms. “How about her?” Keith asked about one, and David said, “She’s [MY HEIGHT] and [MY WEIGHT]; I don’t want our kid to be OBESE.” Then they talked about how huge this girl was for like 5 minutes while Justin sadly patted my back. I wear 8/10 pants! What the hell!

    How far are you running now? Not to poke fun, but to be proud of you. I’d say it took me at least a year before I could run a mile (though, I was smoking a pack a day at the time).

    • erineph says:

      Distance is a funny thing, in that I only count it at the very end of whatever program I’m doing. I can run for about 5 minutes at a stretch now, and then I walk for five, and then I run for five, and so on. Which is not impressive at all, but it’s better than my previous type of exercise, which was walking out to the dumpster with a plastic bag of cat shit in my hand. AND walking back to the house.

Comments are closed.