Weightless
A few Christmases ago at my parents’ house, after the presents had been ripped open and our bellies were stuffed full of all sorts of Christmas delicacies, we hauled out the old picture albums and started flipping through them. Much to the delight of my husband and my nieces and nephew (my son was too young to care) there were a plethora of embarrassing pictures of my sister and me. Naked baby pictures, questionable fashion choices, vacation pictures where we all look overheated, exhausted and less than enthused, but have plastered forced smiles on our faces as we contemplate hurling one another over the side of the Grand Canyon.
My first thought when I saw those old pictures of me standing in a tub at about 8 months old being bathed by Oma– “Good Lord, I was chubby even then.” And no, I do not mean I had those adorable, fleshy baby rolls that people coo over and find themselves unable not to pinch. I was fat. Plain and simple. With each turn of the album page, time whizzed by and it was clear that the whole idea that the weight would melt off when I became mobile was a myth. Chubby led to just plain overweight. Taunting and teasing ensued. (I’ve already written about that and it is not the point of my post this time.) Self-confidence and self-worth plummeted. Lifelong scars developed. Heavy in body, heavy in heart.
I feel as though a great deal of my life has been devoted to struggling with my weight. Struggling with my fashion choices so as not to look like I weigh as much as I do. Forgoing foods that I love because I know the effort that I am going to have to put in to burn off the calories makes the extra piece of birthday cake not worth. Missing time with loved ones and get-togethers with friends because I’m terrified that if I miss one gym session instant weight gain will ensue. And sadly, it will. That’s just how my body is…stubborn, belligerent, inflexible.
I know how the system works…eat less, move more. Got it. Do it. And it doesn’t matter. Sure, I might not be at the point where I need two airline seats to travel comfortably or qualify as a contestant on The Biggest Loser, but I’m still technically overweight. I eat better than 95% people I know. I rarely drink alcohol. I workout more than 95% people I know, trekking to the gym at 8:00 at night after working all day, being a mom, keeping up the house, walking the dogs to try to tilt the equation in my favor. And my reward is still being overweight. So I didn’t win the genetic lottery, but you would think simple math would work in my favor.
I’m tired. I’m tired of worrying about my weight. I’m tired of going to the doctor and worrying about what the number on the scale will say. (I don’t own a scale at home – I go by how my clothes fit.) I’m tired of ordering a salad (with dressing on the side – and none of the “good” stuff in the salad) every time we go out. (I do love salad, but I also love French fries and chicken fingers…future post to follow as to why they are called chicken fingers. Even if chickens actually HAD fingers, would we really want to eat them?) I’m tired of working out because I HAVE too…I do enjoy exercise and lifting weights, but I hate feeling like I have no other option except ballooning to a size that I hate even more than my current one.
When faced with no other options, I can only toil forth. My metabolism isn’t magically going to rev up overnight to race horse proportions. My body type isn’t going to wondrously morph into a tall, lanky silhouette; my thighs changing from stocky tree trunks to willowy branches.
Most people I know at least got to be kids…eating what they liked while maintaining a “normal” kid size. Have a lot of them gained weight post childhood? Sure. But for a brief moment in their life they didn’t have that worry hanging over their head, or the belly hanging over their pants. They were just allowed to be. Weightless in the world.
I think I may have written this same post at one time? Yet still more evidence that we are the same person. I was always a chubby kid. Very earliest memories of the pediatrician telling my mom (who is and was a registered dietician) that I needed to lose weight. My Mom making embarrassing special meals for me to take to school. My friends giving me clothes for birthday gifts that I could never wear. And I hear you on the always always always toiling away and still being overweight. I’m there too. I honestly don’t know anyone who works out as much as I do. Or worries about healthy eating as much as I do. I need to be at like 160 to not be considered “overweight”. I’m at least 15# over that right now. I too don’t weight myself, so I really don’t know. But I know my clothes and how they fit at 170. Anyway, you are not alone. I have never, in my memory, not been conscious of being overweight. I too just continue to toil forth. There really is no other option. Commiserating.
OH, and YAY! A post from Angelika!
Last weekend I found a random box of notes to myself that I wrote at church in some kind of “how to be a better person” exercise. I don’t take issue with the purpose behind the exercise. I have no problem with teaching kids that it’s a GOOD thing to always strive to be a better person, and almost all of the notes in the box had great ideas, “I promise to play with my sister more,” “I will listen to my parents,” etc. BUT, one of the notes read, “I’m on a diet.” I was 8 years old.
Oh Gel, how I love you and my heart breaks for your pain. I know that nothing I say will make it better but please know that wou are one of the most treasured people in my life and I think you are beautiful (truly)and fantastic regardless of how your clothes fit or what the scales say. You were my biggest support and advocate thru the bulemia in college and I wish I could somehow help you as much as you helped me. If it helps, probably some of the weight sxtruggle comes from having a baby (which terrifies me, just got over my most recent bulemia bout a month ago and still struggling) but when I look at your beautiful baby boy I see that it will be worth it. You created a precious little man and I hope you can take comfort and pride in that. If you ever want to talk call me. Or if it’ll help I’ll happily wear a gray shirt and make an ass of myself at the gym. I love you and hope that someday you can see yourself as all of us do and love yourself as well.
I didn’t mean to make that about myself at all, sorry! Just wanted you to know you aren’t alone.