I'm feeling a bit discouraged today. Once again, I'm fat. I heard, once, that for every extra pound the body carries, the heart has to pump blood through another mile of blood vessels. Mine is taking a trip to the Baja Peninsula every day. I'm tired, my knees creak, and my clothes are tight. I'm confident that people who make the lifestyle changes to lose weight don't do so because of any great epiphany, but because they know they're sixteen ounces away from wearing pajamas to work.
To a large degree, a person's size defines their identity. Think about it. There's the small girl who orders small drinks, has a compact car, readily offers to be lifted by others in any kind of safety demo, and heads straight to the SMALL tab on the clothing racks. She never gives a thought to the length of a seatbelt, the weight limit of a life jacket, or the integrity of a lawn chair. When bare legs come into fashion with dresses, she loves the idea. She has no idea what the best product for chafe prevention might be. She wakes up and navigates her day, eating what she feels like eating, wearing what she feels like wearing, and doing what she feels like doing. She serves herself a small portion of M&M's, and puts that bag away without another thought. M&M's are not love to her. Not consolation, not reward. They're just cute little candies that melt in your mouth; not in your hands!
I'm a smart girl. I know there are small people walking around who navigate the battlefield with food. Who deprive themselves, count every calorie, and still see me in their mirrors. How do you get to be the well-adjusted one?
I have two small dogs. Both are breeds that are prone to overweight if overfed, but they are sleek and fit. My husband is slim and trim. My children are gorgeous; not by any means because of their sizes alone, but they are of normal, healthy weights. I'm the only roller-coaster riding, sweaty, miserable wicker-tester of the bunch. Am I weak? Not intellectually. Not creatively, and not professionally. But this weight thing is something I can't seem to get around. Pushing fifty, I know that my long range health and longevity are at stake. Mine is not a great family medical history. That alone should be an incentive; I look forward to grandchildren more than winning the lottery. I DREAM of retirement, but not one spent inactive and immobile, with doctors' appointments every other day. I want to be the old lady jumping out of an airplane with a hot tandem skydiver strapped to my back! What to do, what to do.
True, I'm the girl who feels pretty smokin' as a large. I'll never have a 'small', or even 'medium', imprint; it's not in the cards, but that's OK. I'm down with the LARGE concept, but I'm pulling XL's over my head. And filling them UP, Kids. Up, up, up.
I know how to lose weight. I've done it countless times. I get on that track and become a paragon of healthy eating and exercise. And the DAY, make no mistake THE DAY, I look and feel good is THE DAY the needle starts going up again. I can't maintain. It's a terrifying, impossible situation. Yeah, I know. I'm in management; we don't use those kinds of words. We prefer 'challenging', or 'opportunities to improve'. Guess what. For me, health and weight maintenance have proven to be im-frigging-possible. There. It's the truth, or I wouldn't be stressing the sofa at this very moment. Reality bites; as they say.
I could embrace it; act like I planned it this way. Book an agent and do a calendar for the Chubby Chasers. Design a plus-size clothing line (which, by the way, I WOULD NOT WEAR). I'm extra-large, not W. There is a critical emotional significance to the difference (further proof of the disfunction; WHO am I kidding?)
Eat, Breathe, Move, Baby. I know the formula all too well. And so, I'll try to put it into pracice.