I am not a small person. I used to dance competitively, years ago. And even then I was still the tallest girl with the biggest boobs. So when I tore a bunch of ligaments in my ankle and they told me I could never wear pointe shoes again, my body decided enough was enough. My passport photo from 2000 had me at a slender 110 pounds, by the end of my freshman year of college I was up to 150. And my emotional eating has continued to help me combat the horrors of being thin. So yesterday, when I finally broke and Sir forced me to go to an urgent care I can’t say I was all that surprised when the scale tipped in at 192.
Who am I kidding, I was a mess. I know I can justify it by saying that I am older, that I have had two kids. But somehow blaming my two adorable boys for my fat ass doesn’t seem quite fair to them. But at the same time, turning the blame where it belongs, at myself, just sends me to more emotional eating. Quite the vicious cycle.
I shouldn’t care, right? I mean, I don’t aspire to be a pornstar. And Sir doesn’t seem to mind. More to love and all that. And he’s not perfect either. But that number, it’s so big. And one of my cousin’s closest friends passed away last December from a heart attack. He had just turned 37. What’s terrible is that my own vanity seems to be motivating me more than the loss of this man. That number taps into some visceral fear that Sir will wake up one day and crave some skinny, narrow hipped stick insect. That probably won’t really happen, but my brain doesn’t always think the most logical thoughts.
So, what do I do? I would tell Sir to start regulating my food, but I have a feeling that crackers and water will get old fast and I will just end up rebelling and eating spoonfuls of peanut butter in protest. Punishment be damned. I should start running again. Cross country kept the number at bay through the rest of high school. I could at least try to balance my love of mayonnaise with a few laps around the block. Or an indefinite number of crunches.
So I’ll muddle through errands today. Pushing a cart and chasing a three year old counts for something. I’m sure it doesn’t burn more calories than my morning four cups of coffee, but every little bit helps.