Imagine... one week your local weather girl who rocks the most basic bodycon dresses that leave nothing to the imagination, but gives everyone a good strong reason to wake up early goes on leave... imagine she is replaced by me.

The station manager is a closet Fat Admirer. He makes sure it is in my contract to wear her dresses and her dresses alone with no alterations. The only problem is that she is a size 12 and I am a size 22.

The first week, because she only wears spandex, I am ok. Sure the spandex is spread to thin that you can see the outline of my large pancake areolas through most of the dresses, but it's ok I guess. I'm only subbing for her 11pm newscast, after all.

As the weeks go on, I start to stress eat more than ever before. The strain on the fabric is almost too much... not only are the dresses hanging on to my ever expanding curves for dear life, I am starting to get tweets and Instagram comments from people who are noticing that I have gone from having 4 rolls on my back to 6.

They notice everything, these people. My self-replicating rolls are not the only thing they point out. My one chin has gotten in on the act and multiplied to two chins and a possible.

So, now I'm stressed about making sure the weather report is right...stressed about fitting into these clothes...stressed about my weight gain caused by ----you guessed it ----my stress eating! So, what do I do? The only thing I know how to do: inhale everything in sight.

Fridays are always my favorite, because the station managers bring in bags of Krispy Kreme donuts. Dozens and dozens of hot donuts at my fingertips is enough to make me start plotting on how to stealthily suck down at least a dozen for myself. Even the anchors and crew know that when they bring donuts, everyone better beat me to it, because I've been known to scarf dozens by myself. They are right...these days, food practically has to be bolted down if it has any chance against my non-existent willpower.

After the first bag of donuts are left alone, I swoop in, opening my mouth and managing to fit 5 warm pastries in my mouth easily -- before I hear someone call my name. "30 seconds until live."

I brush my face off and hope not too many glazed crumbs are left in my heaving cleavage, but I know it is a futile attempt. I run back to my green screen, reapply a sparkly glaze to my lips and press them together. As I pull down my dress and the stage director points at me signaling that I am live, the unthinkable happens...