The Weight of the World

It's official. I am fat. According to every online chart, every BMI counter and weight calculator, every scale I step on, and every pair of jeans in the juniors section (which admittedly I've NEVER been able to wear), I am fat.

This is not new information.  For the past seven years, with a few stretches of lower weight due to increased gym time in an attempt to avoid the truth and sadness of my dissolving marriage, I have been fat. I have, in fact, at 5'5" weighed nearly the same thing as my 6' construction worker father.  Papa, bald and fit--who looks at least 15 years younger than his 63--carries his weight in his midsection which means he looks barrel chested most days.  Me...ehhh...not so much.

I'm blessed with an hourglass figure from my mother (who incidentally has been dissatisfied with her beautiful face and body every day of my life and, probably, nearly every day of hers).  This figure is most noticeable in pencil skirts that hug my hips and thighs and behind, a tight sweater that denotes my waist and breasts, and high heels that make my muscular calves look positively deadly.  But, seriously, who can dress like a 50s pin up every day?  Dresses are a good option, some skirts, but my body is better suited to fits and fashions of years gone by, so clothes shopping is a nightmare. Pants and jeans either pull across my middle resulting in the ever insulting camel-toe or pool in the lap area to accommodate a pooch I don't have.  If they fit in my thighs, they're too big in my waist; it's a grail-esque search to find things in stores I can afford which means, usually, I scour thrift shops for anything that works on what the world tells me is an overweight, plus sized, inappropriate body.

Despite all of that, most of the time I don't FEEL fat, and by that I mean I don't feel ashamed or worthless or embarrassed.  I am intelligent, well educated, strong in my profession, loved by a good man, surrounded by supportive friends and family, and I know I am beautiful. Not pretty, not cute, but beautiful.  I have near flawless skin, big expressive eyes, thick healthy hair, and my heart is wide and deep enough to love everyone I encounter unconditionally.  But, you can't deny the number on the scale, and that number--though only a teeny tiny rest stop in the brilliant and mammoth map of who I am--can break my heart all night long if I think about it too much .

I've recently been reading Scoot Over Skinny: The Fat Nonfiction Anthology, and it has gotten me to thinking about my weight. I've gained 70 pounds since high school.  70. And I'm starting to figure out where it all came from in a bigger than well-you-ate-too-much-pizza/burgers/pasta-and-drank-too-much-booze sort of way.  My high school boyfriend cheated on me. So did the next guy. And the third, the first real long term relationship I had, kept in close contact with his ex-girlfriends (emails and phone calls) and I didn't know it the whole first year we were together.  I gained 10 pounds for each of those.

Then, later, mom was diagnosed with non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. 15 pounds of fear, loneliness, and terror.

The last 25 came between the end of college and the end of graduate school: a three year period during which I was so lost and terrified that I might not be substantive enough for anyone to want me, that I weighted myself down with food as a means of proving I was real.

But now, exactly 24 weeks to the day until my 37th birthday, I am ready to put this weight of the world away.  Not because I feel so terribly awful about my appearance or because I give two shits what anyone has to say about my body--seriously, fuck anyone who can't see past my size to the heart of who I really am.  It's finally clear to me that I don't need this weight to protect me from anything anymore.  I'm not trying to ward off guys who might treat me like garbage. I'm not trying to fight back the fear of losing someone I love.  And I'm not aimlessly trying to determine who the hell I am.

So, today's the day.  I agreed to participate in a half marathon in April knowing I'll mot liekly walk or jog the whole time, and I've started keeping a journal of how my body feels when I eat and when I work out.

It's time to get back to the healthy, unafraid girl I was at 18 and introduce her to the strong woman I am today.

In the words of the poet Paul Celan,

It is time the stone made an effort to flower,
time unrest had a beating heart.
It is time it were time.

It is time.