I’m both frustrated and elated this morning. Frustrated because the number on the scale hasn’t moved in a few days. Elated because my jeans have room in the waist, thighs and rear. My number may not be decreasing, but my size is.
I’ve always said that I could weigh 300 pounds, as long as I’m a size 6 or 8, I don’t care. I have a confession. That is a lie. 100% untrue. Blatant falsehood. I’m surprised I haven’t been stuck dead when I’ve said it. I want to be able to cheerfully chirp “120, fiddle-dee-dee” while batting my eyelashes and fanning myself when someone asks me what I weigh. The truth is that I probably wouldn’t weight 120 pounds if I were mummified.
I love to swim. I learned when I was two and have been a fish pretty much ever since. The thing about swimming is this: fat floats. At my largest, I floated some 3 cm above the water. At 15 pounds over my goal weight, I went swimming for the first time in years. I got in the water and did what I always did – went under and pushed off the side. When I rose to the top, I began to do the front crawl. The problem was that I didn’t rise to the top. I stayed level. Underwater. Well, that was new. At that time, I weighed 160 pounds….hardly petite.
I have to face facts – my body is not built to have a healthy weight of 120. At 140, I was actually a little too thin. Regardless of what the BMI says (and I’m told that people who really know don’t use that anymore), my body is best at 145 to 150. I have a medium bone structure with athletic musculature, if not grace, talent or coordination. I know that I can no more change that than I can change the color of the sky, still, a part of me is wistful.
My jeans are looser and I’ll be back in my cute clothes within a month or so. I can’t let the bathroom tyrant ruin my day, my thinking or my behavior. Remind me of that later, will you?