In Which I Discuss My Weight. And Use Real Numbers.

I’m just under 5’2 and I wear a size 6. And I’m going to talk about my weight.

If you don’t think you can stomach that without the need to let your eye balls roll right out of your head, I suggest you stop reading now.

Still with me? OK. But you’ve been warned.

I went to the doctor yesterday for my required “Yes the meds are working, please give me more” check-up. I had barely walked through the closely guarded secret door before they threw me on a scale.

Oh yeah, I thought. This is why I hate doctor’s offices. That’s right.

137.5 lbs.

And while the nurse assured me that they would automatically deduct 2 pounds for my clothing and shoes (because sandals are heavy, people. Very, very heavy.), the image that seared itself into my brain was the digital gray on gray screen flashing 137.5

That’s awfully damn close to 140. Too close for comfort.

Much, much too close when I thought about how far I had come.

Hey. I saw that. Your eyes are rolling, aren’t they?

Listen. I get that 140 lbs is no big deal to a lot of people. Hell, 140 lbs is below goal weight for a lot of women. And I get that, I do. I also get that it is important – no, crucial – for a woman to be able to see the beauty in herself whether she is a size 2 or a size 20. And I also get that sickly thin is not only not healthy, but not entirely attractive on a grown woman.

I get that. I hear you.

Now please, hear me.

3 years ago I was about 40 lbs overweight. I’d just had my second child and I had to face the fact that the forgiveness society was giving me for my roundness because of a recent pregnancy was misplaced. I’d been carrying around those rolls for years before Emma was conceived.

40 lbs on a 5 foot nothing frame is a lot. Getting dressed in the morning had turned into a daily nightmare with me struggling to disguise myself underneath a carefully concocted costume of layers. I no longer recognized the face that stared back at me from pictures. Dressing rooms and floor length mirrors taunted me as I tried to find a shadow of Me in my reflection.

And so I made a decision.

I was done hating my body. I was done bitching and moaning and hiding from myself. I was absolutely sick and tired of my body coming between me and the rest of my life.

I started a low carb diet.

I didn’t go crazy, but I cut out bread and sugar and potatoes. I drank more water and even exercised on a regular basis.

And I lost weight. Damn near 40 lbs of weight to be exact. And suddenly getting dressed in the morning was fun. Taking my kids to the pool didn’t cause an anxiety attack because I had to get into a swimsuit.

The more weight I lost, the less it mattered what the fuck I looked like. It was freeing and liberating and empowering all at the same time.

I’ve kept most of the weight off for 3 years now. Sure, I fluctuate 5 lbs here or there from time to time. But for the most part, I’ve stayed on track.

At least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself. I ignored the fact that my pants were getting tight again, because hey! size 6! technically still fit! I tried not to think about how uncomfortable it was becoming to be in a swimsuit. Because – well – it could be worse. Right?

Right. It could be worse. It has been worse.

But quite frankly, I don’t want to live my life by the “it could be worse” standard. Especially not when I know that I’m capable of better.

Watching those numbers pop up on the scale yesterday was a kick in the gut for me. I’d worked my ass off for three damn years, and then gotten lazy and cocky over the last few months. I haven’t gained back all the weight, but a good fucking chunk of it. And at this rate? It’s only a matter of time before I’m right back to where I started.

I can’t go back there. I won’t.

So, I’ve made a decision. Again.

Enough is enough. I remember what it’s like to be able to forget about your outsides long enough to work on the inside. I know how great it feels to be in control of your body, the sense of pride and accomplishment that comes from taking care of yourself. I know the inner dialogs that answers back to the quips that “it must be nice”, the reminder to yourself that “yeah, it is nice. And I earned this all on my own through a lot of hard work and commitment, thank you very much.”

Karl and I have already committed to one another to quit smoking this month. The official date is August 15th, but I’m going to be spending 24 hours in the car this weekend, so… um… let’s be realistic.

But Monday we start fresh.

Monday, August 18th, the kids go back to school and I take my damn body back. No more cigarettes. No more french fries. No more cheesecake as big as my head. No more mindless stuffing of the pie hole when I know it’s a cheap exchange for the long term results of taking care of myself.

Enough is enough. And 140 lbs for ME? Is enough.

OK, so raise your hand if you’re thinking I’m a vain, shallow whore right now? GREAT! Then you’ll love tonight’s radio show! Avitable and I will be hosting another battle of the barbs on “Clearly, You’re Retarded” at 9pm EST. Tonight’s topic: Cosmetic Surgery (And all the other lengths women go to for the sake of vanity) Click here to listen live, poke fun at us in the chatroom, or download past episodes.

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