Christian Fatty

The Fatty Christian

Think my title is a little harsh?  Let me explain how I came to this finger pointing post.  Before you get all crazy and think I am pointing my long slender digit at you, rest assured it is clearly pointed at me.  I’m first!  And it’s not slender, it’s chubby.

The Christian Lifestyle (insert flashing lights) is supposed to be our model to the rest of the world.  A light is supposed to shine from inside us so brightly that those who are outside of our realm will press their squinched little noses against the windows of our lives.  We are supposed to tackle situations, conversations and confrontations in a way that is just plain different from our secular counterparts.  We are SUPPOSED to HAVE what they WANT.

I think it is high time for a little tough love.  I could be gentle and say that we as Christians have put on a little around the middle.  I could laugh and tell the story of how my kids say I’m fluffy not fat.  The cold hard truth is, the Church has become alarmingly large.  I’m not talking about the number of bottoms in the pews; I’m talking about the resizing of the pews to accommodate the bottoms.  It’s sad, it’s unhealthy, and I guess we have forgotten, it’s sinful.

Who in their right mind is going to want to sign on to the Christian life when the representatives look like death?  Is this the Lord’s Army?  I think we have become a lot less Samson and the ass’s jawbone, and a little more peel me a grape.  With creaking bones, Type II Diabetes, heart disease, and outfits with more material than a circus tent, I would say there is a deep need for a spiritual boot camp in the American church.  I specify the American church because it seems to be the leader in the lard lamentation department.  How much less time would we be praying for the healing of God’s people, and spend more time praying for His workers on the mission field, if, we just put the fork down?

If you are super ticked at me, great!  I am super ticked at myself.  My pastor tells us that even the most poor Americans are wealthy compared to some 90 percent of the world.  We have access to health information, workout regimens and healthy foods.  So?  What’s the problem?  Is this what we are doing to advance God’s kingdom?  Starbucking and scone-ing our way through life?  How pompous and ridiculous we look with our crumbs all over our shirts.

Pastors of churches need to be calling out their congregations.  If the people get up and walk out at least they got some exercise that day.  We can’t afford to let the church become like the doctor’s office.  We live in a society that won’t let a physician tell the patient they are too fat.  WHAT???  Sad to say, if the patient doesn’t like it, they can go find another doctor who will just load them up on meds.  Alive and miserable.  The church cannot be the same way.  We were not called to be alive and miserable.

I’m not talking about the health and wealth gospel either.  I’m talking about lost people.  People who need to hear the gospel.  This world gets more jaded every day and they don’t want to see me coming with my bible and my muffin tops.  I’m not talking about looking like a super model either.  I want to look like I have been set free.  Free and light to travel this earth and meet beautiful people.  I don’t want the flesh to hold me.  I want to tame it.

The taming of the flesh is not just a neat idea; it’s a necessity for the believer.  We are to put our flesh to death every day.  How can I squeeze into my fat pants every day and feel like I have tamed my flesh?  There is a disconnect, a mental block, a wall made of double fudge brownies.  The time has come to break it down.

Maybe it’s gotta start with me bringing carrot sticks to the church pot luck.  Good grief, we’ve got cobblers, pies, crumbles, cakes, cookies, and crisps served up to believers like it’s okay.  You may cry “EVERYTHING IN MODERATION!!!”  Is there any moderation for poison?  How can I do my very best for God’s kingdom when I have my fingers stuck in the giant moderation pie?  It simply doesn’t work.

I am putting out the call.  It’s time to stop wallowing in our Honey Buns.  Time to wake up and get moving.

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I Have Lumps On My Head.

That's Cassiopeia. Check my head for reference.

I’m sitting here with a hot sock filled with rice on my head.  Why?  I have lumps on my head.  Sebaceous cysts.

They are gross.  I hate them.  I have had them since high school.  They keep me most humble.  You can’t think you’re too beautiful when you have M&M’s shoved under your scalp.   I had one at the nape of my neck for years.  It finally burst.  I thought the issue would resolve, but instead it grew.  Quite literally.  I had to leave work and head to the emergency room.  People gasped when they saw what was going on back there.  A quick cut, plop and stitch took care of that sucker.  Gone.  See ya.

Problem was, I had about six more placed in the shape of the Cassiopeia constellation on my head.  I tried to convince myself that they were a map to new galaxy.  Or, if pushed in the proper order, my head would pop open.  They made dating bizarre.  If a gentleman caller wanted to run his fingers through my hair I had to warn them about my “secret”. Some hair stylists would FREAK when they discovered one.   Doctors told me they were harmless and removing them would be cosmetic.  (read: to remove them, I had to shell out the dough.)  So I suffered until about two years ago.

I had begged to be referred to a surgeon.  Let me go a little off topic here, but what happened to general practitioners or dermatologist who had a working knowledge of a scalpel?  The only reason I had the one removed was because it exploded.  I guess ER docs don’t mind a little cutting.  I went to a dermatologist who after seeing me would not return my calls.  I had another one burst in Washington.  I went to an urgent care doctor who was all “Ain’t no way I’m touching that!”  He sent me home and told me to see my regular doctor TWO DAYS LATER.  By the time I got in, they hemmed and hawed and talked about giving me antibiotics first.  Then she touched it and it burst.  THAT’S why I want them cut out before then people!!!!

FINALLY, I was sent to a general surgeon.  I told them I would pay for the removal, I understood all the blah blah blah blah blah, just please remove the friggin M&M’s from my head.  (Which now numbered around ten.)  He removed six of the big ones.  He said he didn’t feel comfortable removing all of them in one visit.  Ohhhhh-kayyy.  So I had him remove the ones that were most obvious.  All was better in the Lizzieverse.

Then, two months later I noticed several little ones had taken the place of the removed ones.  I am back to having several of them again.  From everything I have read, I should only have ONE or TWO of these in my life.  What is wrong with me?  Am I using a chemical that is blocking my glands?  Shampoo?  Conditioner?  Diet?  What’s the dang deal.  At this rate, I will look down right scary as an old woman.  (Stay away from old lady Clements!  She has HORNS!)  I have thought of cutting them out myself.  I’ve tried to drain them with syringes.  HAHAHAHAHAHA.  NO, it didn’t work.  So that brings me to the hot sock.  Supposedly heat will make the sebum brick dissolve.

I am pretty sure I just burned my head.   Maybe I should look up health tips on Pinterest.

Exercise Induced Hysteria

There's High Fructose Corn Syrup All Up In This!! And??

 

I can’t do a push-up.  Not one.  Not even a girl one.  I can get in the position.  I can begin to lower. myself. gasp. down. gasp.  I can see the floor getting closer and when I am about a foot from smelling carpet I quickly push back up.  Does that even count?

I started to work out about two months ago without much fanfare.  I found a website that puts up 12-15 minute work outs every day. (bodyrock.tv for those who care.  NO PRESSURE!)  I figured I could handle 15 minutes.  Guess what!  I can! Buuuuuut.  Two months later, I still can’t do a push up, and my pants are tight.  I decided it was time to ramp it up, I followed a friend and went on Slim Fast.  Remember that old stand by?  Yay!  Now I am down about 5 pounds and my pants are still tight.  Pirate Argh.

When I was a lanky, chesty teen this regimen would have sent me plummeting to about 130 pounds.  (Not great for six foot tall ladies.  Sigh.)  Now that I am old, THE FAT only seems to feed my hysteria about NEVER BEING IN SHAPE AGAIN!!!  I mean really, if slugging back two shakes full of chemicals (gasp) and doing 600 jump squats in 15 minutes won’t budge the pudge, what will?  One of my pharmacy CE’s was about lab rats who were kept on a near starvation diet.  They were healthier and lived longer.  Maybe that’s what it’s come to.  I just need to starve.

Yes, I know, I know we HAVE to eat.  Oh yes and we NEED carbs.  I don’t want to hear that.  What I want from you is the magical formula.  The one that lets me eat whatever the heck I want.  I want to laugh with a big open mouth and shake out my fabulous hair when someone asks me how I stay in such great shape.  “Well, I just don’t worrrrrry about it dahling, I eat anything I want.  Exercise shmexercise!”

I worked at a Wild Oats deli when Jon and I lived in Florida.  There was a lady who did commercials for a car company that was a fairly regular customer.  (There was a juice bar and wheat grass shots in the deli.  A beacon for crunchsters and health nuts.)  She had incredible arms and was in super duper shape.  I unabashedly DARED to ask her what how she achieved such an awesome physique.  Okay, she LOOKED me UP and DOWN and sneered, “I WORK OUT.”  Then she rolled her eyes and giggled at her also super fit companion.  After that, I threw garlic in her carrot apple ginger juice. (It tastes weird?  Hmmmm, I have no idea.)

In closing, please reply with the magic formula.  Unless it involves illicit drugs, cutting into my flesh, or witchcraft.  Anything else, I’m game.