Full disclosure: I am about to vent. If you don’t want to read a venting post, move along.
I am 139 pounds. I am also 4 foot 11 and 3/4 inches tall. According to the math, my BMI (Body mass index—the not-so-nice measurement doctors use to flat out tell you that you’re fat) is 27. Therefore, I am considered overweight. However, I am not the little butterball that those dimensions may indicate. BMI and weight don’t take a lot of factors into account. I work out regularly, cardio and weights. I am pretty muscular and strong (my husband would prefer me helping him lift and carry in a dryer over my 15 year old son who benches 130—probably because he bangs shit into the walls and drops stuff on his father’s foot, but I digress). Could I stand to lose a couple of pounds? Absolutely. But I’ve spent the better part of my adult life either trying to lose weight or trying to accept that I am never going to be skinny.
Yes, I know…I will never be 105 pounds again. I will never even be 110 pounds. But I’m okay with that. I would have to literally starve myself to death to get there and what fun is that? I can think of a million more exciting ways to untimely demise. Hell, I was down to 115 a few years ago and that required me to work out FIFTEEN hours a week and eat about 1000 calories a day. I shook when I tried to bring my fat free, calorie free, taste free food to my mouth. I obsessed about everything that passed my lips and every drop of sweat. I was skinny as hell, but I was MISERABLE. All I thought about was food and that I wasn’t working hard enough. When that scale stopped moving despite my best efforts, I realized I was beat. And I felt horrible.
That was quite a few years (and pounds ago). It’s taken me a lot of maturity to get to a place in my mind where I realize that pesky number on the scale is not the measure of my fitness and health. I’ve stopped letting the scale dictate my life. I enjoy my food (and my cocktails), I work out moderately, but I don’t go crazy with either. I try new things and I’m not obsessed with how many calories I burn. I don’t eat ice cream every day, but I certainly won’t say no to it on a special occasion (Like a Monday.) My days of fad dieting and yo-yo weight loss are hopefully behind me. I’m confidant enough to post a make-up-less, messy hair, post work-out picture of myself on a blog. Don’t get me wrong…I still cry on days my underwear is too tight. I’m not totally Zen…just content.
So if I’m in such a good place with accepting my body, why am I venting? Well, obviously accepting yourself is hard. And it’s a constant internal war especially when it comes to comparing yourself to other people. Not so easy to ignore the issue of weight you HAVE A SCALE IN YOUR OFFICE THAT PEOPLE WEIGHT THEMSELVES ON ALL THE TIME AND FEEL THE NEED TO SHARE THEIR WEIGHT WITH YOU!!!! When the people weigh more than me, it’s okay. It may be sick, but it validates me. It’s when people are at LEAST 6 inches taller than me and get off the scale (after taking their earrings and pants off to weigh themselves…yes that actually happened) and announce their weight and it’s the exact same weight you are and they lament about how fat they are….well, that takes a toll on my self esteem. If this was just one person, I wouldn’t be bothered. I would chalk it up to mental illness on that person’s part and pity her. But it’s not just one person…oh no. There are several skinny beotches that I come in contact with on a daily basis. Not only are they skinny, I’m pretty sure their goal is to make anyone who isn’t skinny feel crappy by talking about the dreaded numbers on the scale. I mean, if they’re 5’7″ and 139 and feel like a cow, I must be a freaking heifer right? It aggravates me after I’ve worked so hard just to be happy with myself and ignore that stupid number on the scale. I get it—they’re not on that happy little cloud in oblivion that I’m on. But that damn cloud is hard to reach and easy to fall off. I don’t need their negativity about themselves bringing me down. So if you read about me on MSN or CNN it’s probably going to be because I hauled off and choked one of the skinny bitches that think they’re fat. That and the fact that I’m planning a massive “toss your scales out the window” day pretty soon. If I hit someone with that big old office scale, I’ll probably take out an arm or a leg. But, hell, they’ll weigh less, won’t they?