The Three-Letter-Word

I can't remember a time in my adult life (read: over age 15) during which I wasn't trying to lose weight, or at least thinking about it. 

I'm thirty years old, so that's a pretty long time to be in a constant state of striving. Even in college, when I chose to forgo working out and eating salads for late night pizza and 20 oz plastic wine glasses full of Black Velvet and ginger ale (in answer to your inevitable question, yes, I have always been this classy), I was thinking about my weight, or rather, my size. While walking home from the bars with my roommate on a frigid night in my New York college town, dressed in seasonally-inappropriate skirts, a car full of boys pulled up, rolled down their window, and cat-called something sexual (and lewd). As I had probably consumed half a dozen beers and shots, I screamed something back and flipped them the bird, to which they started to pull away, yelling "we weren't talking to you, Fatty!" Of course they weren't - the comment was aimed at my shapely roommate. I laughed it off and we stumbled home.

So why, 11 years later, do I remember every detail of this event? It left a lasting impression on me, a little whistle (no pun intended) in the back if my head, saying "you're even too big for drunk college boys to shout at". 

When I was a pre-teen, my older sister and I did not always get along, a fact that I am sure is shocking to anyone with siblings. I did terrible things, including reading her diary (only once, I still contend) and picking on various aspects of her teenage appearance (I once posted a drawing on her bedroom door that stated that it was the home of someone named "Zitty Zitface". Very original.) In response, my sister took to calling me the worst possible thing she could think of, referring to me simply as "Fat", as if it was my first name. I should note, also, that I was not particularly fat at age eleven, but even as children, we knew that there was absolutely Nothing Worse than being so. 

Again, this was a very brief period in my life that has never left my memory- not because it was cruel of my sister to call me a name (believe me, I deserved everything I got), but that the tiny three-letter word was the worst insult either of us could imagine. 

I had a huge crush on the same boy from eight grade straight through high school graduation. We were acquaintances, friends even, but it was widely known that I pined in nerdy, tomboy silence and certainly had no chance with this guy. During sophomore year, well into my tenure at a school that required us to play team sports (I was a three season athlete at the time, so probably in the best shape of my life), a close male friend told me that the object of my affection had mentioned me. I was shocked and couldn't wait to hear what he said. While reluctant, my friend finally told me that the boy had said: "she has a pretty nice body, I'm just not so into her personality". I should have been crushed. I should have cried myself to sleep and vowed never to speak to this guy again. Instead, I was elated. He thought I was physically attractive. Personality could be worked on, I remember thinking. I could talk less, use smaller words, be less eccentric or outgoing, be less like me.

Reading the above sentence really makes me hate my teenage self. 

Fast forward to a month ago, when a friend and I were discussing the need for more physical activity and healthy eating in our lives. I work with about twenty young women, so you can imagine how often these conversations happen. I don't know how we came around to it, but I found myself admitting out loud that I would gladly give a finger (or two!) off my left hand if I could just be skinny. 

Reading the above sentence really makes me hate my thirty-year-old self. 

I have spent much of the last ten years telling people I don't mind being single (true), that I won't settle for someone unless they love me for my zany, independent self (true), and that I firmly believe there is at least one guy out there who will think I am physically perfect exactly as I am (false). If I am being truly honest here (and it pains me to do so), I will admit: I don't really exercise and try to eat right to make my body healthier. I do it to make my body prettier. 

Ouch. 

I had a thought yesterday which, coupled with a fabulous editorial I read online this morning, inspired me to write this post. Here it is: what if I get skinny and nothing changes? 

What if I continue to be unhappy with my body, miss out on bread, pasta, french fries and dessert for the foreseeable future, fit comfortably into more stylish pants, lower my BMI to the point that my doctor stops telling me it's "something to keep in mind", buy a bathing suit that exposes my midsection for the first time in my life, and I remain single and (generally) uninteresting to the opposite sex? 

Worse yet, what if I lose weight and I'm still not happy with my physical appearance? 

We put so much emphasis on skinny being the ultimate goal, and I am no exception. I can't stand on my typical soapbox and preach to you about self love on this one, guys. I am confident in my intellect, personality, humor, and skills. But my life experiences, likely coupled with American society and the constant images of what is "attractive", have stripped me of (nearly) all physical confidence. 

But they say recognizing there's a problem is half of the battle, right? So I've got to try. It has to stop some time. I have no intention of throwing up my hands, diving head first into a plate of gravy fries, and canceling my gym membership (ok, that's a lie, I am definitely going to plunge into the fries at some point), but hell- we girls have all got to stop looking in the mirror and hating what we see. It's ruining us. It is hampering our lives and ambitions and absolutely keeping us from being our best selves. 

And as far as there being someone out there who loves me exactly as I am in this moment? That person had better start being me.