Recently, someone commented that I seem to be very conscious of my weight.
This is true, more or less.
Although, it’s not so much my weight, exactly, as my size. Mostly the size of pants I can squeeze myself into without having to wear a maternity top or stand up all day.
I have a longstanding obsession with my stomach, ass, and upper thighs. You know, the places (besides my boobs) where all the fat gathers on my body.
I’ll admit it’s a little worse now than it was for a while because I’ve been at a desk job for the last year and a half and have gained at least ten pounds. Since I’m sitting a lot, the weight gain has been in those areas I have more of it anyway, mainly my lower stomach and butt.
I have a ghetto booty.
Like, a vanilla one.
From the vanilla ghetto.
This means I still wear the same size dresses and shirts I did a year ago, but none of my pants fit.
Pants are the devil, anyway.
But it’s still incredibly frustrating for me.
I try very hard not to obsess over what I look like, especially after having read this. But it’s difficult to change something that has been so completely ingrained into the back of your mind.
While I was growing up, the only woman I was around who didn’t criticize her body all the time was my crazy grandma. But that was probably because she coated everything in butter and bacon grease. She was never a really big woman, but she was never a corpse, either. And, lucky me, I inherited her bootay.
My mom grew up with two sisters, both of whom were more slight of build than she was. She also apparently got the boobs of the family, too. My mom has fabulous legs, but she will never be the kind of woman with a teensy waist. Being so close to her while I was growing up means there is a small voice in the back of my mind telling me I will never look great in a bikini or saying that I hope someone shoots me before I get as big as that woman I saw in the Ross parking lot.
Also contributing to my size issue are my past sizes themselves, which is actually something I deal with in my disturbed mind on a daily basis. I was crazy skinny until, like, sixth grade. Once my school started forcing kids to do PE, running was no longer fun for me and I refused to do it. I also spent most of the summer between fifth and sixth grade watching Saved By The Bell re-runs on USA and eating nachos.
This is also when hormones started kicking in and I got little hips and little boobs. Until the summer after eighth grade. When my little boobs became big boobs.
Fuck you, eighth grade.
I was still pretty skinny (though, I did have a little teeny layer of fat below my belly button that I obsessed over while doing crunches with Denise Austin), but didn’t realize how skinny. Then my grandma, in a move that I am still holding a grudge over, told me that I was going to just balloon up the minute I turned 17.
I mean, I totally love my grandma. I really do. Both of them, actually.
But, come on. That was a dick move, grandma.
Thus, through the curse of words grandmas say without any thought to the consequences and your future, I gained a good thirty pounds practically the minute I turned 17. At 20 I gained probably another 15 pounds at my first desk job. So I spent all the years between 17 and 21 feeling awkward in my body, like it didn’t fit my properly and I didn’t belong in it.
Then, around my apartment exodus, I lost a lot of weight. Ultimately, it added up to close to 50 pounds.
I don’t know how I did it, other than stress and lack of food. But I was back to a weight where I felt sort of comfortable. And good about myself.
So, I promised myself I would never allow myself to get that heavy again.
The thing is, despite the new healthy habits I learned and keep doing from Lent, I still have some terrible habits and love some terrible foods.
And fancy coffee.
Despite the voice in my head, I don’t feel as if I have unreasonable expectations for my body.
Yes, I would love to fit into the pants I wore when I was 14 again. But I’ve realized how very much I actually need to work out.
So, if jogging and eating a lot of yogurt help me lose weight (or inches, rather, since I flat-out refuse ot weigh myself), so be it. If not, it won’t stop me from eating nachos and hamburgers.
I pretty much have no willpower.