On being fat-and losing it
It is crazy hard to explain to regular people what it feels like to be obese. I think most people know at least a little what it's like to feel fat: for those pants to feel too tight or that shirt to look all wrong or to have curves that don't look like the images we see in the media. We all understand what it's like to want to change our bodies. But being obese is a step beyond that.
It's wondering if the seatbelt on the plane will do up (and being terrified that if it doesn't they'll charge you for an extra seat or something). I once flew with my seat belt unbuckled but draped deceptively over my lap because I was afraid to ask the stewardess for an extender. I spent that whole flight being afraid that some turbulence would mess me up. I'm not such a great flier anyway. But airlines will use any excuse to gouge you these days, and I didn't have the cash to pay a fat fee. Luckily I've fought the the damn buckle closed every other time I've been on a plane. This summer when I went with my family to ValleyFair, I wasn't quite so lucky. My neice and nephew dragged me onto a roller coaster, first thing in the morning, and the bar went down easily over my stomach, but the seat belt wouldn't do up. I still remember Kathryn's panicked face when I was told I couldn't ride when I tried to explain to her that everything was fine, that she could go by herself and I didn't mind sitting out. I'd never been so embarrassed in my life, but I smiled my best smile until the coaster pulled away so that Kathryn wouldn't feel bad for me. I spent the rest of the day surreptitiously scoping out the seat belt situation while in line for each ride-every other belt closed with room to spare. But it makes me wonder-at the end of this year when I've lost a bunch of weight and am no longer obese, will I still be afraid of seatbelts?
It's difficult to explain what it means to try to fight off this weight, when everyone I know *wants* to lose weight, but nobody else *has* to in the same way I do. If I don't do this, I'll become diabetic. If I don't do this, I might not be able to ride on planes or go to amusement parks. If I don't do this, I could develop arthritis in my knees or ankles that could limit my mobility. I could hurt my heart and circulatory system to an extent that entire years could be shaved off my lifespan. Not to mention that finding true love is hard enough when half the male population doesn't think you look like a fat cow. And that's the least important reason on my list. I'm not just trying to be prettier, I'm trying to be healthier, and when I say healtheir, I mean healthier than I've ever been in my entire life.
Just before I embarked on this weight loss journey, I sat down with my yearbooks from elementary school to try to determine when it was that I became fat. I first saw evidence of baggy T-shirts to hide my shape in fifth grade. Before that, I looked pretty normal. Straight up and down, like any other kid. But by sixth grade my middle section was quite fluffy. I started to hit puberty and voila: I turned fat. I don't remember what it feels like to be normal. I don't remember what it feels like to be able to run or fit comfortably in any chair or to buy clothes without visiting a specialty store. For one brief, shining year, after losing 80 pounds, I was a size 14. And I gotta tell you, it was fucking fabulous. But, really, it didn't even last a whole year. More like 6 months or something. And I fought for it the whole way, tooth and nail. Exercise, exercise, exercise. Hours per week. And when my life got too stressful to keep up the regimen, it all came back. If I ever make it to a normal size, it will always take dedicated effort to keep me there. I'll have to eat carefully balanced meals (a feat I did not master in my first weight loss attempt) that I cook myself, from real food. Freezer food will be gone forever. Cheeseburgers will be a rare treat rather than a staple. More than likely, I'll have to write down every piece of food I consume for pretty much the rest of my life. And then I might have a shot. And honestly? All of that is OK with me, if it works.
But that 'if' is like a big vast undiscovered country of mystery. What will it be like, if I actually do successfully halve my weight? If my BMI falls in the normal range for the first time in my life? Will I be a size 8? A 10? Will I be able to shop anywhere I want? Will I be able to dance without getting winded? What about run? Will my exercise induced asthma be gone? Will I be more graceful? Will I ice skate better? Dance better? Will I be better at sex? More flexible? Will I have more energy and stamina? Will I enjoy life more? And if so, for any of these things, what will that feel like? I can't imagine. I can't imagine what it feels like to have an average body.
It's hard to explain all of this to people when I explain the rigid diet I'm adhering to right now. They hear things like "I can't eat cheese" and think I'm on a crazy crash-diet from hell just so I can wear some smaller clothes. They don't understand why I'm doing this or what I'll get out of it. It seems like just another vanity diet, Kayla trying to be pretty enough to snag a guy. But what I'm really trying to do is CHANGE MY WHOLE ENTIRE LIFE. Nobody who has never been obese can understand this. I hate they way they look at me, either kind of indulgent (yeah, we'll see how long THIS lasts) or pitying (why does she feel she has to change her body to be beautiful?). This isn't about me hating my body. This is about me, for once in my life, LOVING my body. Putting real, unprocessed food and an abundance of vitamins and minerals into it. Treating it with kindness and giving it the fuel it needs to thrive. Reducing the stress on my systems. Behaving like my body actually matters to me instead of trying to ignore it.
Beyond my weight loss goal (which I'm working on through Slimgenics, for anyone who's wondering), I set a second goal for this year of writing 10 pages of fiction per week to restart my stunted creativity. When I told my current NSA lover about these goals, he said he was even more excited about my writing goals than my weight loss goal. I don't know why this statement bothers me. My writing IS important. It feeds my soul in a way I've been missing for a long time. But my health matters more. It has to. It gives me more time and freedom and energy to invest in my creativity. And it bothers me that his statement suggests he just thinks I'm trying to be more attractive (something that doesn't matter to him). He's never had anything but perfect health, so of course he doesn't understand what I'm trying to do. In his defense, he tries to be supportive anyway, even though he doesn't care. He asks me how I'm doing and stocks the items I need to cook breakfast when I sleep over. But he's just like everyone else who thinks, "oh, that's nice" when I tell them about this weight loss journey, as if I said I was trying to be more organized or something. I'm trying to rebuild myself into something I've never been before. This is a big damn deal. And I'm going to fucking DO IT, I don't care what anyone else thinks.
It's wondering if the seatbelt on the plane will do up (and being terrified that if it doesn't they'll charge you for an extra seat or something). I once flew with my seat belt unbuckled but draped deceptively over my lap because I was afraid to ask the stewardess for an extender. I spent that whole flight being afraid that some turbulence would mess me up. I'm not such a great flier anyway. But airlines will use any excuse to gouge you these days, and I didn't have the cash to pay a fat fee. Luckily I've fought the the damn buckle closed every other time I've been on a plane. This summer when I went with my family to ValleyFair, I wasn't quite so lucky. My neice and nephew dragged me onto a roller coaster, first thing in the morning, and the bar went down easily over my stomach, but the seat belt wouldn't do up. I still remember Kathryn's panicked face when I was told I couldn't ride when I tried to explain to her that everything was fine, that she could go by herself and I didn't mind sitting out. I'd never been so embarrassed in my life, but I smiled my best smile until the coaster pulled away so that Kathryn wouldn't feel bad for me. I spent the rest of the day surreptitiously scoping out the seat belt situation while in line for each ride-every other belt closed with room to spare. But it makes me wonder-at the end of this year when I've lost a bunch of weight and am no longer obese, will I still be afraid of seatbelts?
It's difficult to explain what it means to try to fight off this weight, when everyone I know *wants* to lose weight, but nobody else *has* to in the same way I do. If I don't do this, I'll become diabetic. If I don't do this, I might not be able to ride on planes or go to amusement parks. If I don't do this, I could develop arthritis in my knees or ankles that could limit my mobility. I could hurt my heart and circulatory system to an extent that entire years could be shaved off my lifespan. Not to mention that finding true love is hard enough when half the male population doesn't think you look like a fat cow. And that's the least important reason on my list. I'm not just trying to be prettier, I'm trying to be healthier, and when I say healtheir, I mean healthier than I've ever been in my entire life.
Just before I embarked on this weight loss journey, I sat down with my yearbooks from elementary school to try to determine when it was that I became fat. I first saw evidence of baggy T-shirts to hide my shape in fifth grade. Before that, I looked pretty normal. Straight up and down, like any other kid. But by sixth grade my middle section was quite fluffy. I started to hit puberty and voila: I turned fat. I don't remember what it feels like to be normal. I don't remember what it feels like to be able to run or fit comfortably in any chair or to buy clothes without visiting a specialty store. For one brief, shining year, after losing 80 pounds, I was a size 14. And I gotta tell you, it was fucking fabulous. But, really, it didn't even last a whole year. More like 6 months or something. And I fought for it the whole way, tooth and nail. Exercise, exercise, exercise. Hours per week. And when my life got too stressful to keep up the regimen, it all came back. If I ever make it to a normal size, it will always take dedicated effort to keep me there. I'll have to eat carefully balanced meals (a feat I did not master in my first weight loss attempt) that I cook myself, from real food. Freezer food will be gone forever. Cheeseburgers will be a rare treat rather than a staple. More than likely, I'll have to write down every piece of food I consume for pretty much the rest of my life. And then I might have a shot. And honestly? All of that is OK with me, if it works.
But that 'if' is like a big vast undiscovered country of mystery. What will it be like, if I actually do successfully halve my weight? If my BMI falls in the normal range for the first time in my life? Will I be a size 8? A 10? Will I be able to shop anywhere I want? Will I be able to dance without getting winded? What about run? Will my exercise induced asthma be gone? Will I be more graceful? Will I ice skate better? Dance better? Will I be better at sex? More flexible? Will I have more energy and stamina? Will I enjoy life more? And if so, for any of these things, what will that feel like? I can't imagine. I can't imagine what it feels like to have an average body.
It's hard to explain all of this to people when I explain the rigid diet I'm adhering to right now. They hear things like "I can't eat cheese" and think I'm on a crazy crash-diet from hell just so I can wear some smaller clothes. They don't understand why I'm doing this or what I'll get out of it. It seems like just another vanity diet, Kayla trying to be pretty enough to snag a guy. But what I'm really trying to do is CHANGE MY WHOLE ENTIRE LIFE. Nobody who has never been obese can understand this. I hate they way they look at me, either kind of indulgent (yeah, we'll see how long THIS lasts) or pitying (why does she feel she has to change her body to be beautiful?). This isn't about me hating my body. This is about me, for once in my life, LOVING my body. Putting real, unprocessed food and an abundance of vitamins and minerals into it. Treating it with kindness and giving it the fuel it needs to thrive. Reducing the stress on my systems. Behaving like my body actually matters to me instead of trying to ignore it.
Beyond my weight loss goal (which I'm working on through Slimgenics, for anyone who's wondering), I set a second goal for this year of writing 10 pages of fiction per week to restart my stunted creativity. When I told my current NSA lover about these goals, he said he was even more excited about my writing goals than my weight loss goal. I don't know why this statement bothers me. My writing IS important. It feeds my soul in a way I've been missing for a long time. But my health matters more. It has to. It gives me more time and freedom and energy to invest in my creativity. And it bothers me that his statement suggests he just thinks I'm trying to be more attractive (something that doesn't matter to him). He's never had anything but perfect health, so of course he doesn't understand what I'm trying to do. In his defense, he tries to be supportive anyway, even though he doesn't care. He asks me how I'm doing and stocks the items I need to cook breakfast when I sleep over. But he's just like everyone else who thinks, "oh, that's nice" when I tell them about this weight loss journey, as if I said I was trying to be more organized or something. I'm trying to rebuild myself into something I've never been before. This is a big damn deal. And I'm going to fucking DO IT, I don't care what anyone else thinks.