An Open Letter to My Fat Cells

Dear Fat Cells,

I have a bone to pick with you. You are a million tiny dark clouds that, en masse, have been growing inside of me, haunting me. Terrorizing me, really.

You are like pigeons who hang around garbage dumpsters, waiting for half-eaten burritos. You are scavengers who lie in wait scooping up pancake molecules that swish past you in the current, feeding on them like starving savages. You are evil and you are not wanted here. I’m thinking of having you exorcised. I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy who has talked about a guy known as a gym priest, a personal exorcist, if you will.

First he will come a calling and clean out all signs of the gastronomic devil: Hostess Cupcakes, Oreo Cookies, Cheetos Cheese Puffs, oh I could go on. And that’s the problem.

This black-outfitted, lean-muscled priest will exorcise you, making me scream in pain as I repeatedly and incessantly flap about. He'll yell at me. Or you. It’s hard to tell, frankly.

“Get out!” he will yell. “Get out of this body!” Oh, he’ll be talking to you, then.

Every twenty minutes he will sprinkle holy water on you by making me drink bottles of the blessed stuff. I will beg him to stop.

“If it hurts, that means it’s working.” The personal exorcist’s lips will curl with a sardonic smile. I imagine he will not like you.

When the exorcism is done, he will mutter something about what a fine job I have done.

“This body needs work, but now there is less poison.”

He'll say the only reason you hang around, the reason you “possess” me is because I keep feeding you, enabling you. If I quit throwing bacon cheeseburgers and Mother’s Iced Oatmeal cookies into my dumpster, you will leave me and look for sustenance elsewhere.

But I don’t know if I can. You tempt me so. I fear I’ve already sold my soul to you and it’s too late for redemption.

The priest will strongly suggest that the only path to salvation is to attend his church regularly, like three to four times a week!

“A pound for a pound.”

But I’ve seen his church and it’s full of freaks. These people hit it religiously.

But they do have fewer fat cells. And they do look happy.

But then they want you to evangelize. To recruit your friends and family. And I’m not really comfortable with that. Pushing a belief system on someone else when I’m having my own crisis of faith.

Maybe I can just do this on my own. At home. I mean, church is where two or more gather, right? And my husband has just announced that dinner is here: Pizza and Cinnamon Twisters.

Hey, stop tickling me! I’m still mad at you guys.

Sincerely,
Nanny Goats