I sat in my car on a Monday afternoon, enjoying my lunch break by annihilating a box of Twinkies. I was aware that it was a very unhealthy venture, so I washed it all down with a 1.75-liter bottle of açaí berry juice. The container said it promotes "Beauty and Energy", not like I needed one of the two. My job barely required energy as it was.

I did, however, realize that there was something inherently sad about a twenty-five-year-old pigging out on America's favorite snack cake inside a locked sorry-looking maroon Toyota Camry, windows rolled down a few inches, during the hottest hour of the day in summer. I was sweating. I could feel the layer of foundation and concealer on my face melting. Worst of all, I could feel moisture on my upper lip. There is nothing more unattractive than a sweaty upper lip that you are unable to wipe off because [1] you are double-fisting Twinkies and [2] you do not want to smear your lipstick all over the back of your hand.

With a furtive glance around me to make sure there were no other fellow humans within sight, I jammed the whole Twinkie I held in my right hand into my mouth. As I chewed, I reached into my center console and grabbed a napkin. I kept a wad of them from my many trips through the KFC and McDonald's drive-thrus. I dabbed my upper lip as daintily as I could, considering I looked like a hamster with my mouth filled with sponge cake and white cream. I also used that same napkin to dab the beads of sweat along my temple. An inspection revealed I had lifted off much bronzer and foundation because the once-white napkin was now a lovely shade of sandy beige courtesy of Maybelline's Fit Me 210 and Milani's baked bronzer.

I used the remaining minutes of my lunch break to contemplate how I had gotten to that point in my life. How had I resolved to eating ten individually-wrapped cakes in my car and thought that was okay? If I pinched my midsection with both hands, I can probably get at least two inches of excess skin. Granted my decline from crop top-worthy body to spare tire carrier began over a year ago, there was no excuse as to why I didn't make more of an effort to bounce back into shape when the problem wasn't as bad.

My height has been a subject of much speculation. My Kaiser check-ups state that I am five feet, two inches tall, but during routine medical check up for the California National Guard, I was told by a medical officer that I was five-foot-three. What was amusing, though, were the bets the drill sergeants made about my weight. They all thought I would clock in at around a hundred pounds. They were surprised when I stepped on the scale and was declared ninety-eight pounds. With my height and weight taken into consideration, and the fact that I took over twenty minutes instead of the average twelve to run a mile (something that gave my drill sergeant a change of heart because he went from screaming angrily to cheering me on towards the end), they informed me that I was underweight and needed to work on my fitness. As if I didn't already know that. (That didn't stop them from assigning me a job as a "fuel specialist" stationed in Mather Air Base. Imagine me carrying a huge gas hose for jets. They must've been nuts. For a completely different reasons, I asked to be discharged from the National Guard before they could ship me off to basic.)

But while I have gained seven more pounds in the four years that have passed since then, my BMI barely register me as normal weight, not that BMIs really matter (I read somewhere it is utter bullshit). I did use the information about my fluctuating height to my amusement. My driver's license states that I am "5'-04"". If I get pulled over and the cop questions that detail, I can tell him that Asians shrink as they age. It's true! I used to look up at my mom and now she's shorter than I am.

I have three theories concerning the spare tire growth around my waistline: [1] I quit martial arts and the sudden inactivity caused the fats in my body to accumulate around my belly; [2] a month after quitting, I tried to gain fifteen pounds in fifteen days for a bet, which I won--unfortunately, now that I think about; and [3] I dated a guy who appreciated good food.

Cha was a horrible influence on my overall physical and emotional health. Not only did I stop going to Kovar's at least four times a week like I used to, but I also partook in much wine and weed. The emotional rollercoaster he shoved me in was the syrup-dipped cherry on top of the fat girl cake I baked for myself.

Because I was a sex-crazed fiend, I cut my Kovar's sessions from four times a week to around twice a month so I could hang out with Cha after work. Not a good way to spend the $150 dollars a month that I was paying. So I quit. No more sit ups, push ups, squats, and sessions with Bob and the Wavemaster. Thinking about it now, I don't know why I chose Cha over the Thai pads and Gordon's esoteric Archer references in between lessons. He said amusing and insightful things such as what I think was the single most golden piece of information I learned about baseball, America's pastime: "If you have time, you guys should go. It is a game, a free-for-all barbecue, and an MMA fight all in one."

A month after I retired my black Kovar's-issued gi, gloves, and newly-acquired violet belt, Cha proposed a bet. He would bring me to the Halloween Ball at Cal Expo if I upped my weight from 100 to 115 pounds by October 15th. It was September 30th. I agreed, because I was dumb and slutty like that. I was also competitive, and I Challenge-Accepted it like I know Barney Stinson would.

Over the next two weeks, I ate like that fat kid in Matilda. I went to Target for a calorie-rich grocery shopping spree. What I did was compare all the items of one kind of food and pick the one with the most calories. Oatmeal, milk, cereal, bread, protein bars--the higher the calorie content, the better. I even bought a mass gainer from a vitamin shop. I gorged in an effort to meet my near-impossible goal. I weighed myself twice a day to make sure I ate the right amount or to check if I needed to increase my intake.

I won that bet. Of course. Cha bought our tickets and I squeezed into my Baby Doll from Sucker Punch costume. I was going to wear my slave Leia outfit but the way I looked bloated wasn't sexy. I then spent that night pregaming with two different Four Loko flavors, rolling on four molly tablets, and smoking joints with whomever handed me one. The next day, Cha took my hungover self to Golden Corral, of all places. Cotton mouth, the smell of greasy food, sweaty lunchgoers, and screaming children did not ease my rolling stomach so I had half a plate and promptly passed out for twelve hours as soon as he took me back to my apartment.

I left Cha a month later and started dating Dru, who ironically had suggested I do an In-n-Out diet when I asked Facebook for weight gain tips. Dru liked to cook and take time crafting our sandwiches. My idea of a sandwich was two pieces of white bread held together by two layers of peanut butter, Nutella, or Speculoos cookie butter--easy and ready in under a minute. Dru's sandwiches were ground turkey molded into fat patties, brushed with barbecue sauce, and topped with shredded cheese and strips of bacon in between toasted sourdough slices. I simply did not have the patience to prepare that kind of meal. Thankfully, he did, so he kept us fed.

His semester with an Environmental Studies class affected my diet for a good while, as well. Because I was a supportive and curious girlfriend, I offered to watch the videos for that distance learning class and take notes for him so he could focus on his other courses. That led to me being interested in going zero waste and watching vegan-centric documentaries such as Food, Inc., Earthlings, and Vegucated. I realized our meaty meals were offensive to the environment. But no matter how hard I tried to push salads and more leafy greens into our diet, the more he waved bacon in my face. So I relented and let him feed me turkey sandwiches.

It would be unfair for me to blame Cha or Dru for my present state. Instead, I will blame my tenacious sexual libido and competitive nature for clouding my better judgment regarding the following:

• my abandonment of the only legitimate exercise I had in exchange for guaranteed sex, which at the time I thought was "the only workout I need"
• my agreement to binge-eating for a bet that meant I got to party, get high, and have sex
• and bacon, because who doesn't get wet for bacon? (Answer: the vegans, that's who)

After the Twinkie party, I walked back across the short parking lot and into the break room to clock back in. By the time I sat back down on my desk, I was red-faced and panting. I won't blame my poor health on that, either. It was the hot sun, I swear.