Weight for It

The first time I identified as overweight may have been when Robert C and his friend Eddie, who had at least 30 pounds on me, started making fun of me.

In first grade. 

When I was five.

Honestly, it might have been even earlier. I think I was aware that my arms, legs, and middle were thicker than those of my friends. My cheeks were ruddy and round, not just in a cute and healthy way, but in the I-ate-too-much kind of way. 

I don’t know when Western standards of beauty begin to dictate to young girls what they should look like. My daughter at four has begun to label girls in her class as pretty. However, I have never heard her discuss anyone who is not pretty or who has any weight issues. So I’m really not sure.

Bottom line – by the time I was five, I considered myself fat. It bothered me. I remember going shopping with my mom one day, trying on a black sheath dress with a little plaid overcoat that hid my upper arms, of course, and thinking I didn’t really look too bad in it. I thought I’d really show Robert up in that dress. I couldn’t wait to see the look on his face when he saw how decent I looked in the tightfitting material.

But I never wore the dress to school. Robert always teased me. I guess somewhere along the line I stopped being in classes with him. I don’t remember anything he specifically said to me, I just know that the words hurt deep, and the ideas still haunt me to this day.

Sidenote: when I was in college, I used to see Robert working out at the same gym I went to. I have no idea if he recognized me or not, and I certainly never wanted to speak to him. I got satisfaction, though, from working out in the same place he did, staying in shape largely in part due to words he said to me early in my life. Not that he has any idea of the damage he did, or any good it may have done in the future.

In second grade, we had a New Year’s resolution assignment in which I described my resolve to be better at kickball. I wrote openly about how distraught I was to be picked for gym class teams last every time, to have classmates laugh at me, or say things like, “Move in!” when I was up to kick. My teacher was appalled when she read this and ended up reading it out loud in the entire class. She encouraged the six and seven-year-olds in the room to do better. The next time we played kickball, I was one of the first ones picked for a team. When I got up to kick, my entire team cheered loudly. While I didn’t kick the ball far, a series of overthrows by the second grade baseman still allowed me to make a home run. That triumphant, glowing feeling can still be recalled 32 years later.

That moment felt like a heartwarming, underdog movie, but for the most part, my life hasn’t been like that. 

In fifth grade, I was still content with a Chicken McNugget Happy Meal from McDonald’s. My best friends were into the two cheeseburger value meal - not a double cheeseburger, but two separate cheeseburgers with two separate buns. I got the same meal when I was with them once, but I think it defeated me. I certainly never had the desire to get it again. Meanwhile, they ordered it regularly, and have regularly been thinner than me.

I went through Middle School identifying as a fat kid. I never played sports, though I did dance for many years. It made no difference to my figure.

I had crushes that were not only unrequited but that I got bullied for, and compounding that with how I felt about my weight only led to feeling worse about myself. 

I remember going to the beach with a friend during these trying years. Just before we left for home, she ordered a chicken sandwich that we had to wait for her to finish. Not as a lunch - as a post-lunch snack. Meanwhile, I was limiting myself to fruit and pretzels. This girl had not a care in the world about what she put into her body, while it was at least 50% of what I thought about, and she was still thinner than me. 

I’m not saying I didn’t eat my fair share of bagels and cream cheese. Or frequently make nachos or ramen as an afterschool snack. I’m just saying I know plenty of people who did those things in their teens too and didn’t have to struggle with their weight. 

At the beginning of every middle school year, our gym teachers sat us in the bleachers and called us one by one to weigh and measure us. It was a day I dreaded. In seventh grade, I clocked in at a weight that is more than my current one by about 20 pounds. My kind gym teacher could see my distress, and he told me I just hadn’t had my growth spurt yet. (Still waiting on that one.) The school nurse discussed her concern for my increasing poundage, and she instituted a routine where I came in to get weighed once a week. There was no teaching me about healthy ways to lose weight. Just more weekly anxiety.

Early in my high school career, my mom, who has also had this lifelong struggle, got a treadmill for Christmas. I started walking most days after school. Sometimes on weekends I threw in an old video tape of Richard Simmons’s “Sweatin’ to the Oldies” for good measure. Sometimes I would even just throw on Mandy Moore’s self-titled debut album and dance around like I was on stage myself.

And yes, these were actually healthy habits to build. But they were interspersed with my writing in my journal in all caps about my unhappiness with my weight. And a period of time where I weighed myself everyday and got excited to see a full pound difference on the scale in a 24 hour period but completely distraught if there was even a fraction of a pound gain. And pinching big chunks of stomach and hitting myself for my inability to not just be a normal fucking teenager who could eat whatever she wanted and still look amazing.

Eventually, I realized my unhealthy mind games with the scale and quit it altogether. Then I finally did start to need some smaller clothes. But though I had a few very-not-serious boyfriends, I didn’t get as much male attention as I would have liked. Because in my mind, I was still the fat girl. Or, if not fat, not as thin as boys would want, surely.

Once I started college and had a lot of free time to fill up and independence about how to do so, I started going to the gym. At first it was all about yoga class and the elliptical. Eventually a friend of my roommate’s introduced me to light weight lifting. I posted pictures of Britney Spears above the small fridge in my room to force me to think twice before grabbing a mindless snack.

I’m guessing I reached one of the lowest weights of my life my freshman year - again, I’m unsure due to scale phobia. But I was also EXTREMELY unhappy due to distance from my family and boyfriend and a complete falling out with the small group of friends I made.

A lot of people are emotional eaters, and most of those people eat when they’re feeling sad. The emotion that triggers me to eat more is happiness. If the sun is shining and spring is creeping back into the air after a cold winter, I deserve some kind of seasonal Starbucks beverage. I’m more likely to mindlessly munch on fried string beans or my side of French fries when I’m out with friends chatting away. 

So I put on some weight my sophomore year of college when I transferred to Montclair State University and became much happier than I had been at Coastal Carolina University. That summer, my mom decided to start Weight Watchers, and she invited me to join her - not as a criticism of my weight, but because she knew I was unhappy.  (Side note: when I went to Weight Watchers, I was glared at and asked why I needed to be there by others attempting to lose. A lot of people there need to shed more than 15-20 pounds, so my needs seemed unnecessary to them, even though I did fall into the "overweight" Weight Watchers classification. These people refusing to see me and negating my struggle added another layer of insecurity.)

Weight Watchers altered my relationship with food. I loved the points system, and I memorized a lot of numbers through repetition. I knew what foods I could eat at a restaurant and fit into my plan. To this day, I don’t look at the entire menu at a diner. I know I always did well with egg white omelets, so that’s what I gravitate towards. Things like fried chicken and hamburgers get the quickest of cursory glances. I’ve trained myself to see those as absolutely no-goes. (I remember that a ¼ cup serving of fried calamari was worth more points than I was supposed to have in an entire day, so fried chicken has to be in the holy-shit-this-is-never-going-to-be-an-option category.)

While Weight Watchers and most diets do emphasize that all foods can be enjoyed in moderation, there are some foods that I never have more than a few bites of. My mental sanity would go out the window if I ate an entire bacon cheeseburger. All I’d think about was hot much weight I’d gain from such a high fat food.

Because with the help of Weight Watchers, I was able to take off maybe 15 to 20 pounds. I felt a lot better about myself, a lot more confident. But I was about to embark on another life journey that would throw things a little out of whack.

After a year of WW, I planned to study abroad in London for a semester. The WW staff encouraged me to “declare a goal weight” that was actually 10 pounds over my goal. Once you “reach goal” in WW, if you maintain it or continue to lose for the next six weeks, you become a “lifetime member.” Then as long as you stay within two pounds of your goal, you can attend meetings anywhere in the world for free. The staff wanted to ensure I’d be allowed into meetings in London, so I went ahead with their suggestion. 

As it happened, I never went to meetings in England. Many meetings in the US are held at special centers, but English meetings are almost all held in churches. The one near where I lived was in a church with a glowing green neon cross on top. It was a bit too Jesusy for me to ever step foot in it. 

I did try to keep up a workout regimen while I was away. I did cardio workouts as best I could in my minuscule closet sized excuse for a room. I did briefly join a gym nearby, but I only ventured to their weight room once. It was full of screaming, grunting, muscle-head men, so I stuck to the treadmills upstairs. And then I went back to small space cardio if I did anything. 

While most of the food I ate pretended to be healthy, I did my share of justifying brownies with cream and scones with clotted cream and jam since I wouldn’t have access to the delicious cakes forever. By the time I left England, I had more than likely put back on all the weight I had lost.

Not terribly long before I got married, the school I was subbing in regularly started having Weight Watchers at work meetings. I started going again since I’d had so much success on the program the first time. I was beyond lucky to have the leader I did. Dayna was (is) one of the caring, personable people I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. Each week, Weight Watchers sends its leaders topics to cover in their meetings. While Dayna would touch on those topics, she spent more time getting to know her members and letting their comments and needs drive her time with them. I attended Dana meetings for years. I brought friends and family members along. 

Just before my wedding, I actually reached my goal weight. Like for real this time. The number I saw on the scale matched the one I wanted to reach in my head. In fact, I even got to 2 pounds lower than I had dreamed.

But reaching my goal truly taught me that weight is just a number on a scale. Because even though I got the number I wanted, my body didn’t look any different to me than it ever had before. I still had that little tummy pooch that so many women want to get rid of. Even when I thought it would be gone, it lingered like the ghost of too many cheeseburgers and too much cookie dough.

I had significantly upped my workout regimen though. The P90X program had recently become quite the fad. I took to doing a combination of that and a highly intensive cardio mixed martial arts style workout called Body Combat, which is probably still my favorite workout to this day. You sweat like crazy, and frequently you can feel your muscles burning too. When I first started with Body Combat, I had to stop frequently for fear of vomiting. Sounds like fun, right? I just adored overcoming how difficult it was for me in the beginning. Now it’s something I happen to be really good at, which, for me, makes it worth the struggle.

So even though I still had a tummy, I know I was in really good shape. I remember a of friend of mine commenting on how great my arms look at my wedding. A proud moment for sure.

But post getting married, I was happy. We already addressed what that means for me. Though I kept up my intense workouts, also completing programs like Insanity and P90X 2, I stopped closely tracking my food. A BLT(bite, lick, or taste in Weight Watchers speak)  here and there, not measuring the amount of rice or pasta I was having, and slowly but surely, I was back to my higher weight. 

I tried new workout programs like the 30 Day Fix and PiYo. I continued eating egg white omelets at diners, and one of my go to lunches became a salad with a veggie burger. I got a FitBit and took up walking in place to get my step count up. Early on in my Fitbit journey my goal was 15,000 steps a day. I have been asked by more people than I can count if I have to pee while in line at the grocery store. I was also asked to stop by a friend because my steps made her nervous. Okay. I went back to Weight Watchers, but Dayna had retired to Florida, and without her, the scripted meetings were lifeless and repetitive. 

Not a lot of loss happened.  And then I got pregnant.

Since scale numbers are a huge trigger for me, I was scared of the increases pregnancy would bring. I asked my doctor to not tell me my weight each time I went. Thankfully, I had no trouble losing weight after I had Lily, and I figure I ended up not at my magical “goal weight,” but weighing less than I thought I would with little struggle. 

But inevitably, life finds a way. The weight came back on, despite all the self-imposed no-go foods and working out 5-6 days a week. 

I got sick of not looking like I work out as much as I do. I get tremendous anxiety when I don’t work out, so I get it in frequently. And still I’ve maintained the stomach pooch, the jiggly arms, and the thick thighs. What am I doing wrong?

Inspired by a coworker who became a bodybuilder, I decided to pursue working with a personal coach. I know how to lose weight - I’ve done it often enough before. But I don’t yet know how to look slim and toned, and that’s the new goal. So at  almost forty, I am again changing my relationship to food, and now the relationship to working out as well, in the pursuit of personal aesthetics.

All of this is an incredibly long winded history that has led me to a single sad revelation: I have literally never been happy, satisfied, or accepting of the physical appearance of my body.

Sure, I have found some outfits that do a good job of hiding the areas I don’t love. I have even occasionally caught my arms moving in the mirror out of the corner of my eye and thought, wow. All that lifting, and my muscles are finally starting to show up.

But my stomach? My legs? My upper arms? Forget about it. When I look in the mirror, it’s hard to see anything but lumps and rolls.

I have always felt that my relationship to food is unfair. I don’t remember eating any more than my friends as a child. I don’t remember eating anything that was any more unhealthy than they did. If anything, I remember times in my life when I ate markedly less. 

And yet I still struggle.

I am aware that a tremendous amount of this struggle is self-imposed. If I hadn’t been made fun of so much so early on, or if the idols of the late 90s and early 00s hadn’t been exclusively six-pack ab toting young women like Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera and I hadn’t so desperately wanted to be a pop star like them, maybe I wouldn’t still have this warped view of myself. I wouldn’t stress about someone unexpectedly declaring that we were going out to eat or playing with my daughter or relaxing instead of getting in a scheduled workout. The healthy habits I’ve acquired wouldn’t be matched by unhealthy mental self-judgements and labels.  

I do not want to be so married to these ideals. I want to feel satisfied with the way I look. I want to look in the mirror and think, Yes. That is the true reflection of what I want to look like. That is me in all my power and glory. That is the strength and beauty I deserve to see.

And really, it shouldn’t take a certain amount of protein or weightlifting to get to that point. I wish I were one of those brilliantly fierce women who could look in the mirror and feel that way just being me. But I can’t. Is that fair? No, of course not. But it is, for now, the truth.

I hope that one day I can get there, whether my stomach ever flattens out or not. I hope that one day I can be in awe of my body that works perfectly well, for which all parts function, that grew new life in it, that gets through every day with minimal aches and pains.

More than anything, I hope to raise a daughter who does not feel the same dissatisfaction with her physical self that I do. And this, my friends, is why ad campaigns with full figured models and actors and actresses of varied body types is so important. Why body shaming anyone is so vastly damaging. Why saying things like, “She’d be so pretty if she lost x  pounds,” is so damn destroying. 

There is, of course, an actual health component to this. Being overweight is bad for your heart, muscles, and bones. Working out and eating a healthy diet is good for all of those things. And my warped perception of myself is grateful that my early trauma has shaped my healthy physical habits. 

But there has to be a way to raise our children to be into healthy habits while still loving themselves for who they are. Being skinny isn’t who we were all meant to be. Funny enough, I think slightly less than skinny women are the most beautiful. There’s a body type for everyone, and they’re all acceptable and beautiful and fierce. 

We can want more for ourselves while still knowing we are enough. 

Now go look in the mirror and tell yourself you’re beautiful. 

And mean it. 

You, and I, deserve it.