Last night I did an experiment. I laid still in bed and listened. Sure enough, my bed was squeaking. It had been squeaking while I played a game on my phone which I thought was slightly unreasonable. It only takes one finger to play Bejeweled Blitz you know. You don’t have to be so dramatic, bed. But it continued even when I did nothing but breathe. Was I shaking? I consulted with the internet and it turns out I don’t have Parkinson’s, multiple sclerosis, or lupus. I might have a condition called shaking-bed-itis. Or I might be a paranoid asshole with a cheap bed frame. I like to think there was a mild earthquake (that only I noticed because I’m so super special and important). A forty five minute one.
I’ve actually broken a bed before. Twice really, but the first time I weighed one hundred pounds less than I do now and it was sex related, so that doesn’t count. The second time, I had a wooden bed frame. For a couple of weeks before the incident, my bed creaked every time I got on. I ignored it for some reason, maybe figuring that was just what wooden beds did. A friend came to visit and spent the night. My friend was roughly my size but quite a bit taller. Deep in the night I woke up to a sudden horrid CRACK and the mattress then dipped down on the left side. We got up and sorted ourselves out. We rearranged the remains of the bed so that the mattress and box spring were on the floor. All of the rumbling woke up my mom who texted me, “What’s all that noise? Is Sofia cleaning?” Implying that cleaning was needed. Also implying that my daughter, perhaps five at the time, would be more likely to clean than either my myself or my friend. Pretty clever jab for it being the middle of the night, I have to admit. The bed, under warranty, was repaired and broke again in the same spot two years later. I threw it out.
Being obese has led to some strange and sometimes humiliating situations. I took a bowling class in college to fulfill a kinesiology requirement. I couldn’t bend over to put on the bowling shoes. Well, I could have, if I’d unbuttoned my pants. I was unwilling to do this so I slipped the shoes on and then contorted in all kinds of unattractive ways to tie them. I wore stretchy elastic waist pants to bowling from then on. For my second kinesiology class I took weight lifting. This was much more fun than bowling. You know how some women are afraid to weight train because they think they’ll bulk up and it’s complete bullshit? Well it’s not bullshit at all in my case. My muscles were born to bulk. I don’t mind though. I took weight lifting in high school with the same result. I was leaning on the desk at work one day and a co-worker poked my arm and then demanded, “what the hell is that?!” Followed by more jabbing and squeezing. He was amazed at the hardness of my arm and I was proud.
After graduation, I went back to school for my master’s. I decided to take advantage of the gym and even hired a trainer to help me get the most of my workouts. She encouraged me to get on the stationary bike. It was tall, I’m short, and I expressed my doubts. I worried it would tip while I mounted it. She cheered me on and helped me up. I rode two happy miles before moving on. My tailbone (and really my entire body) ached later. As the soreness wore off, my tailbone hurt even more. I figured that was the price to pay for putting 286 pounds of pressure on one small bone, on the bike. Three days later I was in terrible pain. I thought I’d fractured it, and as there’s nothing to be done for a fractured tailbone, I suffered on. On Sunday it began to bleed. I decided to go to the ER where I was surprised to learn I had a fever. And a pilonidal cyst. And a staph infection. I was on antibiotics for a month before it healed. Had I not been obese, I wouldn’t have thought my weight caused me to fracture my tailbone. I would have gone to the Dr sooner. Maybe. I still have a lump so I’m aware it could act up at any time.
I clipped my toenails the other day for the first time in forever. My daughter’s father was fond of saying that I could climb trees with the claws on my feet. Clipping them was difficult and I did a shit job.
I’m really not proud of all this. Getting it all out is so much better than holding it in, though. I don’t want to go through any of this anymore. Eating at home is good for me but I need things to move along a little faster. Time to get drastic.