I have a love/hate relationship with food. Somewhere along the way I began using food as an emotional comfort. And then there’s alcohol…
It all adds up to me being overweight – or obese – if I’m being technical. There’s a lot in the media these days about accepting who you are and what you look like and being happy with it. Most of us are never going to be super models – who aren’t that healthy anyway – so I should just be happy with the jiggly, bouncy, flabby me.
I want to get one thing straight. This post is not about happiness or self-esteem or confidence or any of that horse shit. I am happy and content for the most part. I have never been less stressed in my whole adult life or even my childhood. Read We Must Jump in Mud Puddles and then you’ll understand.
But I still have a battle, a struggle with food. I want food to be something more than just something I eat to stay alive. I want it to be my best friend, my confidant, my confessor. I want it to ease the pain and insecurity I feel, to alleviate boredom.
I know I’m not alone.
Every time I go out to a store or a restaurant or to a family gathering I look around and compare myself to other women. I look at the 20 somethings and feel an instant dislike – hatred even – and anger because they seem to have never had a weight problem. And when they announce to the world through social media that they have, in fact, had their own struggle and weight gain I think to myself, ‘Ha, not so perfect now, are you?’
Which is so incredibly stupid. Most of them are half my age. Oh, and it’s not a competition. I shouldn’t even compare myself to women my own age. And yet I do.
If I’m being totally honest, I’ve only just recently stopped wishing for and hating other women for their thighs. I have fat thighs. Even when I was at my smallest I still had thighs that would rub together.
Lol, genetics are a bitch, aren’t they?
Now I look like my grandmother…
But then I realized that wishing wouldn’t make it so. I will never have another woman’s thighs no matter what I weigh. I will never look like any other woman unless I have plastic surgery done.
So I’m learning ever so slowly and even more painfully to work with what I have. Doing what it takes to ensure I won’t be in a wheelchair by the time I’m 60. I could go into specifics here, but that’s not the point. Because what works for me most likely won’t work for you.
Nope, the message here is simple.
Figure out what it takes, not to go to extremes, but to maintain a healthy lifestyle – not weight, screw weight – and do it. Every day. Day after day.
Does that scare you as much as it scares me?