Cracklins & Juicing

By this point I am assuming you have read my last installments of this little wedding we had 9 days ago. If you have you know that  both were about me crying in wedding dresses. Crying over sample sizes or a lack of paper airplanes. Rest assured, I do not cry in a wedding dress in this story. I do not cry at all. This is about my 24 hour breakfast, lunch, and dinner of a champion bride. (From this point forward I shall refer to myself as “champion bride” because quite frankly after writing about my dramatic breakdowns in dresses, I deserve to refer to myself as such.)

I decided about a week out that I would do some juicing. I may be the only bride in the history that uttered, “After the wedding, I will start working out again.” Since Ben and I started dating, I have gained about 20 pounds. Happiness is a beast for one’s waistline. So the juicing…I decided to start juicing as i didn’t want any type of bloating when I zipped up that dress. I drank 2 juices a day and attempted to avoid a lot of salt or breads. So we get to the rehearsal dinner…but first lets back up.

I get one craving most of the time. One single thing that I crave. When I get a strong craving it is for one thing these days. That one thing is cracklins. I want cracklins in the morning. Cracklins at lunch. Cracklins in the evening. I truly believe I could sustain my life on cracklins alone. I have faced some resistance from my digestive system, but I persevere.

So I walk into my betrothed’s parents house to see this…

cracklinsJuicing be darned, I was about to chow down on some friend, salty, piggy parts and love every minute of it.

It wasn’t till about midnight that I started begging the universe, “Please let my dress zip. Please let me dress zip.” I woke up and chugged a glass of kale and pineapple juice hoping that it would help. Then I ate two handfuls of cracklins. I was a hopeless champion bride. Hopeless…but the dress zipped and the wedding day forged ahead.

That’s really the whole story. The previous 368 words were really just my ode to a platter of salty, piggy parts called cracklins. You are welcome. If you are a fast reader you can never get the past 3 minutes back, if you’re a slow reader than, I am really sorry about the 10 minutes you can never get back, but there is a lesson in here.

Lesson to champion brides everywhere: Cracklins, contain no calories and are pretty much equivalent to eating celery. They have no affect on belly size…I don’t care what anyone else says. Eat what makes you happy. Your wedding day is all about setting the stage of bliss, and I can’t think of anything more blissful than cracklins.

Stay tuned, super serious post coming soon over at We Three Kids. (please note that as of August 10, 2014 this post is not up yet…this is for you “Linda with an L.” Give me a chance to write it.”


Sample Sizes

Instead of “congrats” or “best wishes” or “I am so excited for you,” people should say, “Go to the doctor right now and get a perscription of Zoloft.” or “You should consider taking up yoga.” Maybe, “Hope you have a healthy relationship with whiskey.” or even, “You should start juicing today and lose as much weight as possible.”

I figured wedding dress shopping would be fun. I expected not to be able zip them up. What I didn’t expect was that a size 6 is a size 0 in jeans and they are made for pre-pubescent girls. When getting married you should consider having no hips and definitely no butt. Sample sizes do not allow for that.

It was about the time that the lady pulled on the bottom of the top of the dress and kept saying, it’s stuck on something. I had to swollow my pride and say, “It’s stuck on me. That is my hip bone you are trying to get passed.” When she stepped out of the dressing room it took everything I had not to slide down the wall and cry in a puddle of tulle and bridal satin. I kept it together and cried standing up. In the middle of the fourth bridal shop I walked into, I cried. I cried because I was at a point in my life when I was happy with me. These dresses…these sample sizes are ripping that away. My biggest fear was that I would be self-conscious my entire wedding day.

Whit4I would not succumb to the sample sizes. I kept on keeping on. I finally walked into the place I was trying to avoid, David’s Bridal. It wasn’t that they didn’t have beautiful dresses, but they seemed to have the same ones that everyone else wore. They also had other sample sizes. Their biggest size on the rack wasn’t a size 8. They had 10’s and 12’s. By golly they even had a 14 and 16! I put on a dress. I put on another. Each one going over my hips. Some zipped up, some didn’t, but they all went over my hips.
It was about the tenth dress I fit over my hips that I picked one. I loved it, but then there was another. How does one choose. They both made me feel beautiful and not like a killer whale trying to fit herself into a dolphins body. I left without the dress, but came back 2 weeks later and put it on. It zipped again. It wasn’t a fluke. The dress was bought immediately.

I guess if I could tell any bride about wedding dress shopping who is above a size 8, it is this. “Sample Sizes are not indicative of how beautiful you will feel on your wedding day. You will find your dress…save the tears for your vows.”

Now there was everything else to worry about. Invites. Pictures. Decorations. Food. Guest list…oh the guest list.



This blog is the first of a series. You can catch the next installment over at Paper Rainbows.

Big things!


So big things are in the works for this site. There will soon be some new contributors and a bit of rebuilding! We can’t wait to get this site in shape. It is on a 14 day make-over plan. Please stay tuned. Stay patient.

Gloves are going on and time to get to work!

Dear Ben…the other one

Have you been busting a move? You know as it stands Forrest is kicking our butt. So this is my proposal.

About a year ago I remember the three of us doing a 21 work out. Weights over our head. Sit ups. Squats. We were in beast mode. We didn’t quit. We rocked it. I don’t know about you, but I probably wouldn’t make it through. So here I am…starting over.

Let’s start over together. I challenge you to the 21 work out come July 12. July 12, 2014 we show down. You in?



The Fat Chick

Look, the lack of posts around this joint are pretty indicative of my work-outs and the plethora of cokes going into my belly. One might say I fell off the wagon. I didn’t mean to. I could give you a million reasons (i.e. excuse) why this happened but the sad truth is, I forgot why I wanted to quit drinking cokes, stop eating dessert with every meal, work out, etc. I lost my connection with the honor that my body deserved. This all became quite clear in the last 48 hours.

I looked in the mirror the other night and had on a tank top. I hated the way it hugged my pooch. I turned to the side and hated the dimples in my thigh. I got really close to the mirror and hated the bags under my eyes. I hated the way my arms sat against my body. I hated everything that I saw in that mirror except my hair. I didn’t know the girl looking back at me. She was tired and lost. I had never despised what I was looking at so much. The only saving grace was when the boyfriend, God bless his soul, who knew none of the thoughts in my head, came up and kissed the back of my head and whispered, “Damn Whit, you are hot.” I will tell you it took everything I had not to cry in that very moment, but I held it together and just gave him a hug.

I wondered if he knew what was going through my head. Then I reminded myself who I was dating. Of course he didn’t. He just calls it like he sees it, and he certainly isn’t one to sugar coat or stroke an ego. I wanted so badly to see what he saw, and I was so angry I didn’t cause not even a month before, I was starting to see the “hot chick” in there. Then last night happened.

I work part-time at a bar. Hey, holiday season is rough y’all. A gentlemen who had come in a couple of times came and sat down. We were chit chatting and trading first kiss stories. Specifically, “last first kiss stories.” It was pleasant. We went back and forth about his wife and my boyfriend. All was quite pleasant. I was sitting down chatting with my boyfriend feller when my regular came and said, I need a picture to send to my friend. I never looked up, and just said no. As the night progressed and the boyfriend left, I was sitting and chatting with my regular.

He said, “The picture I took of you was terrible.”

“What?” I was quite confused.

“Look.” As he showed me the picture he made on fatal mistake. He went into the text convo instead of the picture itself. The picture where as it wasn’t my best, it was not the worst, but the comment that was before it in the text thread broke my heart. “send me a pic of the fat chick.”

I felt every part of my soul cringe. I was the fat chick. Do I say something? No cause I would start crying if I did. You can not cry at a bar, especially if you are working. I just ignored it. I didn’t know what to say. How could I be angry, I looked in the mirror not even 24 hours prior and thought the same thing, “Look at that fat chick staring back at me.” I was so angry too, and not at him, but at me. I believed him. I believed that I was nothing more than a fat chick. I had for the past week.

When did I start calling myself fat again? I hate that word. It makes me cringe. Furthermore, when will we, myself included, stop defining ourselves and others by their physical appearance? When did we become so callous? When did we start being so hard on ourselves and each other?

I guess if I could do it all over, I would say, “Thank you for reminding me what I lost. I lost sight of my good, tangible and intangible. Thank you for waking me up. Thank you for reminding me that I may never be able to change you, but I can change me. I can change how I honor myself. I can change my health. I can change my outlook, but you young sir, you I can not. I am sorry that in our conversations I, still, was nothing more than “the fat chick.”

Here’s to being the fat chick, who can bounce a quarter of her ass.