Confessions of a Former Fat Girl
If I’m being honest, which I suppose I am, the title of this should really be, “Confessions of a Girl Who is Not Quite As Fat As She Used to Be, But is Now More Socially-Acceptable Because She Can Fit Into Clothes At The GAP.” I’d like to be honest, but let’s face it- titles are supposed to attract an audience, and something that cumbersome isn’t really attractive. Let’s just chalk this up to another instance where size matters.
I spend a lot of time thinking about size. I think about portion size, pant size, dress size, my size, and occasionally her size. “Her” being any woman that isn’t me, of course. I think about what size I am, what size I was, and what size I would like to be (16, 24, and 12, respectively). There was a week, right before my wedding when I was a size 14. That week probably would have been a lot better if I had been eating real food, you know- the kind you chew- instead of slurping my meals through a plastic straw. Oh, the things we do for beauty.
I was never a small child. I was “big-boned,” which is parent-speak for “overweight and inactive.” I wasn’t particularly a fan of sweating, so physical activity was never my first choice. My mother tried to remedy the situation by limiting my sweets, thus initiating my extremely unhealthy courtship with secret eating. It’s amazing how many Oreos you can shove in your mouth in the laundry room, with the lights out, before anyone notices that you’re gone.
It’s been said before that ignorance is bliss, and in my case, it was. I was blessed with amazing friends who never mentioned my weight, parents who constantly told me that I was beautiful, and sporadic boyfriends that made me feel wanted. Who could ask for more? Sure, I wanted to be able to shop in “normal” stores and wear what other girls in my class were wearing, but my personality was quirky enough to allow me to get away with dressing a little “differently.” I had what I considered to be a pretty full life. That is, I thought I was living a full life until I stepped into a “women’s fitness center” and realized that I was fat, and therefore, pretty disgusting.
My outlook didn’t change overnight. No, the first 20 pounds I lost led to a feeling of immense pride, instead of the disgust that would soon follow. I can’t quite pinpoint when the change occurred, but somewhat suddenly, the praise I received from others sounded less like encouragement for a healthy lifestyle, and more like stern condemnation of the life I had lived before.
After I had lost about 40 pounds, I started noticing men looking at me. Not just looking at me, but really noticing me. I didn’t like it. I had always been a pretty girl, a cute girl, but now there was an element of sexiness that was comprised of more than just my sarcastic with and bright, blue eyes. I got angry, and a little disgusted; after all, I was the same girl I had always been, wasn’t I? Why should the size of my pants concern anyone other than myself? Where were these men when I was inching towards 300 pounds?
Now, to be completely honest, I need to state that not all men found my sex appeal proportionate to my waistline. In fact, when my husband and I first met, I was wearing a size 22 skirt and an XXL t-shirt. He liked me for me, as the song goes, and he continues to feel that way. He’s even promised me that he’d still love me if I gained all the weight back, and then some. He tells me repeatedly (and sometimes I believe him) that the only reason he likes me at my current weight is because I like me at my current weight. If only he knew.
When I was down 60 pounds, compliments became challenges. When someone would say, “wow! You look really great,” I heard, “you look good, but imagine how you’d look if you lost another 10 pounds!” I was losing about 5 pounds a month, and not in the same “healthy” manner that I’d initially begun losing. I started exercising three-or-more times a day (it helped that I worked in a gym), and restricting my calorie intake far below the recommended amount. However unhealthy I was becoming, I looked better than ever according to everyone I knew. Isn’t that novel?
Prior to my wedding, I had lost almost 90 pounds, but I still wasn’t happy with my body. When I wore a bikini on my honeymoon, the disgusted looks I got from other vacationers told me that I wasn’t the only one.
When the honeymoon was over, my worldview shifted, and weight loss was no longer a huge priority. Instead of counting calories, I was facing an imminent job loss, navigating through the housing market, and enjoying a bevy of celebratory social activities. Needless to say, it wasn’t long before my pants started getting a little snug. Once again, I was disgusting.
It’s odd to think that when I was enjoying my life, instead of focusing on weight loss, I was happy with my body.
I’ve realized, sadly, that too many women find their self-worth in their waistband. I have started a healthy workout regimen and a nutritious diet, but I still get nervous if I have to see someone that I haven’t seen since I was at my lightest. Honestly, how many people would notice that I’m 20 pounds heavier? Over coffee with one of my best girlfriends, we compared tales of woe over not fitting into last year’s pants, but I never would have known about her struggle to fit into her jeans if she hadn’t told me.
Why are women so tied into the number on the scale? If my husband gains weight, he just walks around with his pants unbuttoned, or we go shopping for new pants. If I gain weight, I mourn the fact that I may never wear my brown plaid slacks again. I struggle and wriggle on the floor in an attempt to fit into my favorite jeans, instead of just buying a new pair. I refuse to buy new clothes, because if I do, I’ll be condoning my behavior, which is obviously wrong.
Why shouldn’t I be able to have a cookie when I want one? Why should I be embarrassed to have a piece of cake during a party at work? Why do I feel like I have to dispel every Fat Girl Stereotype all by myself?
The human body is an amazing piece of art. Why shouldn’t I be able to celebrate mine- love handles, saddlebags, saggy boobs and all? I want my body to be healthy, but I don’t think that has to be synonymous with skinny. I’m sorry world, but I have hips, and a butt, and that’s okay. I jiggle. My upper arms are toned, under a sturdy layer of fat. If I’m lucky, this body will get me where I need to be. If I’m even luckier, this body will one day help me to bring another body into this world. If I’m lucky.
I want to say that I’m going to throw away all of my old clothes, buy a hot new wardrobe, and toss my scale out the window, but once again…that honesty thing. Long ago, a switch was flipped, deep inside of me. Unfortunately, before I can turn it off, I have to find out where it is.
I spend a lot of time thinking about size. I think about portion size, pant size, dress size, my size, and occasionally her size. “Her” being any woman that isn’t me, of course. I think about what size I am, what size I was, and what size I would like to be (16, 24, and 12, respectively). There was a week, right before my wedding when I was a size 14. That week probably would have been a lot better if I had been eating real food, you know- the kind you chew- instead of slurping my meals through a plastic straw. Oh, the things we do for beauty.
I was never a small child. I was “big-boned,” which is parent-speak for “overweight and inactive.” I wasn’t particularly a fan of sweating, so physical activity was never my first choice. My mother tried to remedy the situation by limiting my sweets, thus initiating my extremely unhealthy courtship with secret eating. It’s amazing how many Oreos you can shove in your mouth in the laundry room, with the lights out, before anyone notices that you’re gone.
It’s been said before that ignorance is bliss, and in my case, it was. I was blessed with amazing friends who never mentioned my weight, parents who constantly told me that I was beautiful, and sporadic boyfriends that made me feel wanted. Who could ask for more? Sure, I wanted to be able to shop in “normal” stores and wear what other girls in my class were wearing, but my personality was quirky enough to allow me to get away with dressing a little “differently.” I had what I considered to be a pretty full life. That is, I thought I was living a full life until I stepped into a “women’s fitness center” and realized that I was fat, and therefore, pretty disgusting.
My outlook didn’t change overnight. No, the first 20 pounds I lost led to a feeling of immense pride, instead of the disgust that would soon follow. I can’t quite pinpoint when the change occurred, but somewhat suddenly, the praise I received from others sounded less like encouragement for a healthy lifestyle, and more like stern condemnation of the life I had lived before.
After I had lost about 40 pounds, I started noticing men looking at me. Not just looking at me, but really noticing me. I didn’t like it. I had always been a pretty girl, a cute girl, but now there was an element of sexiness that was comprised of more than just my sarcastic with and bright, blue eyes. I got angry, and a little disgusted; after all, I was the same girl I had always been, wasn’t I? Why should the size of my pants concern anyone other than myself? Where were these men when I was inching towards 300 pounds?
Now, to be completely honest, I need to state that not all men found my sex appeal proportionate to my waistline. In fact, when my husband and I first met, I was wearing a size 22 skirt and an XXL t-shirt. He liked me for me, as the song goes, and he continues to feel that way. He’s even promised me that he’d still love me if I gained all the weight back, and then some. He tells me repeatedly (and sometimes I believe him) that the only reason he likes me at my current weight is because I like me at my current weight. If only he knew.
When I was down 60 pounds, compliments became challenges. When someone would say, “wow! You look really great,” I heard, “you look good, but imagine how you’d look if you lost another 10 pounds!” I was losing about 5 pounds a month, and not in the same “healthy” manner that I’d initially begun losing. I started exercising three-or-more times a day (it helped that I worked in a gym), and restricting my calorie intake far below the recommended amount. However unhealthy I was becoming, I looked better than ever according to everyone I knew. Isn’t that novel?
Prior to my wedding, I had lost almost 90 pounds, but I still wasn’t happy with my body. When I wore a bikini on my honeymoon, the disgusted looks I got from other vacationers told me that I wasn’t the only one.
When the honeymoon was over, my worldview shifted, and weight loss was no longer a huge priority. Instead of counting calories, I was facing an imminent job loss, navigating through the housing market, and enjoying a bevy of celebratory social activities. Needless to say, it wasn’t long before my pants started getting a little snug. Once again, I was disgusting.
It’s odd to think that when I was enjoying my life, instead of focusing on weight loss, I was happy with my body.
I’ve realized, sadly, that too many women find their self-worth in their waistband. I have started a healthy workout regimen and a nutritious diet, but I still get nervous if I have to see someone that I haven’t seen since I was at my lightest. Honestly, how many people would notice that I’m 20 pounds heavier? Over coffee with one of my best girlfriends, we compared tales of woe over not fitting into last year’s pants, but I never would have known about her struggle to fit into her jeans if she hadn’t told me.
Why are women so tied into the number on the scale? If my husband gains weight, he just walks around with his pants unbuttoned, or we go shopping for new pants. If I gain weight, I mourn the fact that I may never wear my brown plaid slacks again. I struggle and wriggle on the floor in an attempt to fit into my favorite jeans, instead of just buying a new pair. I refuse to buy new clothes, because if I do, I’ll be condoning my behavior, which is obviously wrong.
Why shouldn’t I be able to have a cookie when I want one? Why should I be embarrassed to have a piece of cake during a party at work? Why do I feel like I have to dispel every Fat Girl Stereotype all by myself?
The human body is an amazing piece of art. Why shouldn’t I be able to celebrate mine- love handles, saddlebags, saggy boobs and all? I want my body to be healthy, but I don’t think that has to be synonymous with skinny. I’m sorry world, but I have hips, and a butt, and that’s okay. I jiggle. My upper arms are toned, under a sturdy layer of fat. If I’m lucky, this body will get me where I need to be. If I’m even luckier, this body will one day help me to bring another body into this world. If I’m lucky.
I want to say that I’m going to throw away all of my old clothes, buy a hot new wardrobe, and toss my scale out the window, but once again…that honesty thing. Long ago, a switch was flipped, deep inside of me. Unfortunately, before I can turn it off, I have to find out where it is.