I have never been one to concern myself with my weight, diets, eating healthy or exercising. I have always maintained the same weight since I hit puberty back in middle school, albeit without really doing anything. So you can imagine my horror when I gained 15 pounds —IN ONE YEAR!
I wasn’t in denial or anything, but I knew my body (or I thought I did, at least). My weight doesn’t ever spike up and down, and if it does its 2 or 3 pounds, give or take. I can’t remember when, but I remember why I decided to weigh myself after a long time. It all started when one pair of my pants were cutting the circulation off to my legs. I thought, “That’s weird, I must have shrunk these in the dryer.” Then it was another pair of pants. Then another. Then another. Then I decided, “There’s no way all of my pants have suddenly shrunk.” It was time. I put it off long enough. I mustered up the courage to step on the scale.
I lifted one foot, placed it on the cold scale, then lifted my other foot. I stood there waiting for the numbers to appear.
The numbers flashed bright and proud.
I was furious! 138?!
“Stupid fucking scale. Stupid broken fucking scale. My fucking sisters break everything in this house. We can’t have anything in this god damn house. Stupid fucking scale.” As went my mutterings when I saw the number that would haunt me over the next year.
I felt at my core that that scale was broken. There was no way I was 138 pounds. I felt unhealthy, but I didn’t think I looked fat. Yes, my pants were a little tighter, and my stomach stuck out more than usual, but I didn’t look fat. Trust me on this one.
I didn’t believe it until I was weighed at the doctor’s office. Surely they had a scale that was in good working order.
STUPID FUCKING SCALE. Fuck this scale. This one’s broken, too!
Living in denial is funny thing. You refuse to believe it could be you. It couldn’t be something you’re doing to perpetuate it. It’s everyone else’s fault until the evidence is stacked against you. Then you open your eyes, and see something you really don’t want to see.
I was gaining weight at an alarming rate. 15 pounds in one year? That’s never happened, and it was a huge jump from where I usually was.
I had to accept that I wasn’t 21 anymore. I couldn’t scarf down a tub of ice cream, then lay on the couch all day. I had to curb this monstrous appetite, and get moving.
I joined a gym. I was going 2 or 3 times a week for months. Then I quit my job. You have to pay for these gyms turns out. So that was the end of that. Yes I’m working now, but in the city and my gym is in Brooklyn. Really inconvenient. After work, I just want to go home. I could make the trip, but I don’t. I am being lazy.
I started working out at home. That was easier, and I was able to push myself to do it every day. There was no excuse not to this time.
I dieted, and worked out for a year. Lost three pounds.
I threw my hands up. I didn’t know what else to do.
I used to think I was fat. I used to think I wanted to be as thin as a board, but I’m middle eastern and we are NOT thin. We have hips, and booties, and we know how to use them. 😉
I am now starting to accept that I may never be where I was when I was 21, but I don’t think I want to be. I like my booty, my full chest and hips. I like my shape. I loveeee looking voluptuous and scrumptious in my tight jeans and dresses.
This is what a real woman looks like.
I’ve decided to run. To stay healthy. Not to lose weight, but to maintain it. I am getting older. I will soon have to check off that box that says 25-30. I am joining a distinguished league of amazing women who have been through the ringer, and show off their battle scars with pride. I am proud to be able to check off that little box soon.
These women love their bodies, and don’t give a damn what anyone else thinks.
I love my body. Every stretch mark. Every dimple. Every inch of cellulite. I love it all.
It makes me me.
If you don’t like me, then piss off!
I am not fat.
I am beautiful.
I am woman.