Nothing Weighs More than Self-Loathing
By The Bourbonista on April 18, 2012
So here's the skinny, I got fat. Since moving back to Lexington from NYC, I have gained...drum roll, please...45 pounds--none of it muscle--going from a lithe 135 to a doughy 180. How did this happen? I will not blame it on birth control pills, a slowing metabolism, antidepressants, or that mysterious stress hormone that causes body fat around the belly. The formula for my fat is simple--I started eating and stopped moving.
Throughout my twenties, I had the tenacity of a snapping turtle when it came to food--just as they won't release a victim from their powerful jaws until the next full moon, I only opened my mouth to eat when either the moon was full, the Mets won, or a new species of marsupial was discovered. I reserved eating for once a day and then only consumed items with less than 3 grams of fat per serving. I learned to relish meals with the consistency of cardboard, embrace the taste of fat-free mayonnaise, and convinced myself that I was allergic to sugar. So proud was I of my self-control that I always waited until last to order at restaurants, and then loudly announced, "I'll just have a green salad--no cheese, no bacon bits, no dressing." Take that, all you chub-a-lubs who just ordered Buffalo Chicken Wings with an extra side of ranch. Looking back, I'm still surprised someone didn't stab me in my sunken torso with a fork.
I still only eat one meal a day...one very long meal that starts sometime around 8 AM and ends when I go to bed. And I've decided my allergy is not toward sugar, but broccoli, beets, and brussell sprouts--actually, I'm allergic to all vegetables that start with a B. Now at restaurants, I order first, lest there is only one pile of chili cheddar fries left for the taking. And, I always ask for extra ranch...or cream gravy...or whatever lard-laden, white sauce comes in a ramekin. Side note: I love the word ramekin...say it three times out loud and you're bound to grin.
Also, in my twenties, I was a dancer...both ballet and go-go. I was doing the pole workout far before it was Hollywood hip, and that's all I'm saying about that today. Walking was my preferred mode of transport. I actually chose to get off the subway each day at Columbus Circle and walk the thirty plus blocks to my job in Midtown. It was a twenty block trek to my favorite grocery. And, ten blocks to my best friend's apartment. My little stiletto-shod feet carried me merrily along to all of these places. Now, they are clad in Chucks and usually only carry me around Super Wal-Mart—though in my defense, I am there twice a day on a regular basis.
And though I am now quite comfortable in this cellulite-dimpled skin, and with a man who truly loves me just the way I am, this misfit misses fit. I long for that “I could hike the Matterhorn, then go out clubbing” energy. I miss being able to drop down into the splits at whim. I want to melt back into svelte and fit in my favorite lace dress—the one that makes me feel like a sexy, Spanish Dancer.
So how do I plan to this? As far as food, I'm going all pesce-vegetarian...and you ask, aren't all vegetarians pesky? No, it means I will eat veggies (even ones beginning with B), dairy, and fish...except for the requisite once a month, medium-rare steak--when I'm bleeding, I've got to have a big hunk of beef that's bleeding too. My fitness formula is simple--I'm going to turn my life over to Richard Simmons. I have full faith that the hot pant-wearing, Jew-froed, giggling guru can lead me back to a size 8. Under his psychotic tutelage, I am going to Disco Sweat, Blast and Tone, and Party Off the Pounds. And, I’ll walk the dogs every day. Their big, brown eyes staring up are far more motivation than any bikini. And, I will put the kibash on Cortisol by reducing the stress in my world. I will love me every step of the way, because nothing weighs more than self-loathing.
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