A few months ago, I rolled out of bed. This wouldn’t be an event worth its weight in blog except to mention I rolled out of bed. And kept rolling out of bed.
When I was in my early teens, and my metabolism was ridiculously high (like, Superman-ridiculously high), I never thought those days would end. I could eat whatever I wanted, as much as I wanted. It was nothing to spend a day in front of a television eating an entire bag of Ranch-flavored Doritos. Nothing to come home from school and eat a toasted peanut butter and jelly sandwich FOR A SNACK, then eat a three-course dinner which typically contained something fried. Nothing to go to McDonald’s and order a Big Mac or Quarter Pounder with Cheese value meal, super sized, with a side order of six piece chicken nuggets. Nothing.
I was blessed to have two skinny parents. If my father prayed to wake up the next morning a Sumo wrestler, he’d wake up as cocaine skinny as he was the night before. My mother could gain weight, she just didn’t. The minute she stopped smoking cigarettes, that all changed. Not everyone in my family was blessed with such genetics. I knew it was only a matter of time when the scales of fate would tip. I had living, breathing examples of obesity up and down my family tree. I was getting away with murder on the scales. Screw the law! I WAS THE LAW. FRY MY PANCAKES, WOMAN.
My mother used to say I’d wake up one morning, roll out of bed, and keep rolling. I laughed her off. Ha! Silly jealous woman with her jealousies. I will wake up one morning and be AWESOME. Then I will eat a Big Mac!
(I was so happy as the day I outgrew Big Macs. If ever there were a thing as gastric abominations… let’s just say I was the least surprised when my gallbladder imploded. Also? Never invite me out for fine dining. My tastes are borderline trailer trash.)
My metabolism had me fooled for years. I believed nothing would change. That I didn’t need exercise. As I got older, my tastes for fast food changed, and I began eating healthier. Not because someone made me, but because I wanted to. It tasted better. I’d successfully given birth to one child, gained a respectable amount of weight, looked great after I had her, and even better when I totally lost it all. Two years after having Mooter, I was the smallest I had ever been. That’s including any time before children.
Next month, Booger will be six. In February, I stood in front of a full length mirror (something I avoid doing at all costs, even when trying on clothes), and balked. At the time of this reveal, I was only one size smaller than the size I was when I had her. When had this happened? When had the potatoes and breads and rices and Hostess Cupcakes made the decision to revolt against me and take up residency in my butt OHMYGODMYTHIGHS! I had no one to blame but myself. OF COURSE I had no one to blame but myself.
The only plus was I was still smaller than most of those from my high school days. So says the evil biznatch who just jumped in my mouth.
I would curse my clothes for not fitting. Fling them to the floor in despair. Berate my husband senseless if he brought me home a cookie. What do you mean, ‘It’s only one’?! You don’t love me. YOU NEVER LOVED ME.
One day, instead of a cookie, B.Fam brought home paperwork. I didn’t want paperwork. You can’t eat paperwork, idiot. I looked it over in protest. It was an application to the local gym. Instead of thinking of every excuse for why a local gym was not for me (It’s too far; I don’t have the right clothes; Everyone will be looking at me; I’ll be sweaty; MY HAIR!), my brain said, “Go.” Like a little switch, I heard a *click* sound. Then, the voice said, “You’re so dumb. Go.” Honestly, that’s the only way I listen is if I’m insulted. I blame my mother.
For two months, I watched what I ate, worked out with a trainer two times a week, worked out on my own another three days a week, and drank more water. I HATE water. Two weeks ago, a co-worker and I were griping about how hard we’d been hitting the gym and how frustrated we were because we were still fat. I mean, I’m drinking WATER for chrissakes. We’d been asked if we felt better. As if that were a real question. You’re talking to women about trying to lose weight and you want to know if they FEEL BETTER? Is that the consolation prize for not being able to get into that one dress I wore that one time and I looked great and it’s sitting in my closet waiting for me, calling my name? STILL?! Yes. I feel better. Thanks for asking.
Last week, I put on my clothes, readying myself for a day at The 925. B.Fam had put together a lovely ensemble for me to wear. (Yes, my husband picks out my clothes. No, I do not ask him to do this. Yes, he might be gay. Or, at least, metrosexual. A gay man trapped in a straight man’s body?) I slid everything on. Nothing required I jerk or roll or push or suck in or lay down or light candles or rub rosary beads. It took a few moments to realize, but I unfastened my pants and rolled them down far enough to read the size on the tag. I squinted. No. That can’t be right. I squinted again, harder. I ran to the kitchen table, pants now shimmied down to my ankles. I tripped over the dog, then another dog, then got my glasses. I looked again. A full size… lost? I lost a pants size? You mean I don’t have to kill everyone in the house? EVERYONE CAN LIVE?!
At some point, I’ll go into what I’ve been doing – routine, diet, exercises. I’m giving myself one more pants size to lose before specifics are revealed. Any guns jumped, and this may all be the fluke I think it is.