I’m about thirty pounds overweight. I weigh four pounds more than I did the week I delivered Maeve. There have been flashes of seasons when this wasn’t the case. My stint on the weight watchers diet for example. Or that time I was on the correct dosage of thyroid medication, but it made me cry and shake, so I quit. That other time when I made it to yoga every day for a month. Those times I got tantalizingly close to my “goal weight.” I’ve spent so many years wanting to be skinny, or fit, or something other than a little bit fat, and I’m starting to think it might not happen for me.
There seem to be this whole class of people for whom this is not a struggle. Seems like most of the Mom’s at my kid’s school belong to this club. Apparently these individuals do not wake at 2am and feel around their nightstand for the chocolate snack they were indulging in right before bed. I guess they probably don’t own a drawerful of eager and pretty work out duds with the tags still attached. They are the people who get up at five ready to do life, the ones who congregate on a Saturday to run a 5K and then go out for margaritas. That’s not me. I spend my Saturdays perhaps making the rounds on a riding lawnmower before I treat the bathrooms to a really good scrub. Or binge watching a netflix show while I wade through the heaps of laundry and ironing. On a really pleasant Saturday I might like to sit a lot, and watch my kids play in the pool, perhaps making my way though a bag of mini milky ways.
At present I’m on the “I’ll start tomorrow” train. Been on this bitch for a while, and it’s getting old. Every day I make it until about noon before I put my day on hold to go purchase a Hazelnut Ritter Sport or a Lake Champlain Caramel. Those things cost five dollars a piece. I spend as much as a two pack a day smoker on my chocolate habit. It used to be worse. I used to indulge in all manner of cakes, pastries and muffins. But my thyroid is broken, so I quit gluten. At least now I don’t seem to be as bloated anymore.
I’m not obese. I’ve watched women friends struggle with this and I know the health risks are real. I’ve watched my sister battle an eating disorder that nearly made her invisible. When I go to the doctor’s office they do not scold me for my weight, my blood pressure is always pretty, and that makes them happy. My blood tests are even relatively normal although I don’t see how I am going to make it to old age without acquiring a diabetes diagnosis.
No, my situation is more of just a perpetual state of “meh.” I love clothes. I have lots of them. Sometimes they make me feel pretty. I do not love fitting rooms. Or swimsuits. Every year I wait till the last available hour to purchase a swimsuit from whatever Walmart or Target the town we are traveling through has to offer. I’ll wear it a handful of times, so I am not being a total killjoy on vacation, and then I’ll trash it when we get home because next year will be different. But I’ve embraced high waisted pants. And I wear pretty kimonos to hide my arm chub. It works out alright. We can even wear boots now in the summer with the right boho look.
I don’t have anything profound to say. Maybe I’ll think of something in a minute. Sometimes I see other women like me. They are in their just right outfit, the one that makes them feel good. It’s the perfect color, and it covers up the wobbly bits. They’ve put on a bit of lipstick and they’re having a day. I think we should have more of of these days. Lets dress these bodies up that walk us through life, that suffer our abuse, and birth our babies. Maybe one day we’ll respect them enough to cut out some of the sugar, take them out to yoga before dessert. maybe work toward being a little less fat, and that will be good enough.