So, a few days ago, I made a decision to get serious about fixing my life. I went for a clean sweep here — my effed up relationships, my weight, my…well, my everything. If it wasn’t working for me, it was time to fix it. I was pumped. I was jazzed. I was ready to take on the freaking world, people.
And for a few days, I was ticking along just fine, thank you very much. Even just a few hours ago, I felt pretty great. Now, all of a sudden, I’m feeling like crap. I’m the emo-est emo that ever emo-d. And I’d tell you why, except it’s stupid and embarrassing and petty and ridiculous. I realize that generally hasn’t stopped me before, but this time, it’s stopping me…okay, maybe not.
Suffice it to say that I’d always thought I was able to separate my worth as a human being from the number on my scale. I thought I was able to take the idea that I’m pretty freaking awesome, regardless of where I buy my clothes or what size the tag says, and just run with it. I thought I was immune to the headtrip that is living as a fat chick in a society that thinks size 14 is “plus-size”.
I found out that I’m not, and the means by which I found this out actually came from my friends. Oh, don’t get me wrong — my friends have all been supportive and encouraging and wonderful. Except that as a fat girl, hearing “It doesn’t matter what you weigh because you’re awesome!!!” wasn’t quite what I wanted. What I wanted were lies, lies and more lies. Even though I explicitly asked people not to lie to me.
And to be fair, I didn’t want lies exactly — I wanted to hear, “Wow. I’d never have guessed you weighed that much! You look like you weigh wayyyy less than that!” It would have been a lie, but I wouldn’t have let myself realize that since it’s what I wanted to hear. Woo. Rambling incoherently? Check. Moving on…
So, I’m sitting here believing that my worth as a human being is somehow less because I have the audacity to look like I weigh 255 pounds when I actually weigh 255 pounds. I mean, who does that? If I were worth anything at all, I could at least manage to look like I was under 250; right? If I were really awesome, I’d totally figure out how to carry that extra weight around without just letting it all hang out for God and everyone to see. Some people just have no sense of decency, and I’m apparently one of them.
Ridiculous, isn’t it? Yet that’s the sort of negative self-talk that’s going through my brain right now. That’s the sort of negative self-talk that’s saying, “Forget it. Who cares? Everyone knows you’re a fatass, including you. So why bother doing this? You’re only going to fail, and worse, everyone’s going to watch while you do it.”
Here’s why, Not-So-Sane-Steph — I’m doing this for *me. I don’t give a tin shi…can what anyone else thinks about how I look or what anyone else says about it. This is for my health, and it’s to make sure I’m around when my grandkids come along. It’s not about looks or what size I wear — it’s about being healthy for a change. It’s about making sure those three little rats have a momm-ay for a good, long while. That’s why. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.
Besides, I totally look like I weigh 254. So there.