Today, when I stepped on the scale, the number was lower than it's been in at least five years. More than five years, I'm sure, but I don't remember my weight the way other women do. I'm always surprised when people say, "Oh, I weighed X in college" or whatever because my weight has always changed SO MUCH that I would never be able to remember. It's insane.
But I know how much I weighed when I moved to Tennessee in September, 2004. And that number was BIG and LARGE. And the number on the scale today was 67.2 pounds less.
That's a lot.
I exercise nearly every day now. I eat healthfully, for the most part. On Saturday when I took Jason out for a nice Father's Day lunch and had crab cakes? My body totally rebelled against me. I was thoroughly and violently ill. I've gotten used to not eating fried foods.
I can run now. Not for a long period of time, but I guarantee that I couldn't run at all in 2004. Someday I have dreams that I will run a marathon. So far, it's just dreams. But in 2004, I couldn't have even dreamed that.
All of that is well and good. I'm losing weight. I'm getting healthy. Life is beautiful.
Of course, there is one big problem.
I'm still fat.
Losing 67.2 pounds has not been enough. It's not even close.
I meet new people and I desperately want to explain my fatness. I want to assure them I'm aware of it. I know about it even if they don't say anything. It's not a secret. I'm working on it. I used to be even fatter. I want to tell them all this.
I want to get a t-shirt from my gym. They have pink ones and I love them. I love all manner of pink things and those shirts are major cute. But I don't want to wear a shirt from my gym because I don't want to be one of those people wearing a gym shirt that other people look at and go, "Bitch, please. You aren't fooling anyone."
But I go. That's the bad part. I really, actually go. I work really hard. I leave and I'm all sweaty.
And I'm still fat.
I don't eat the potato chips. I don't eat the french fries. I broke up with my long-term girlfriend Little Debbie.
I'm still fat.
My rings slide around my finger now. I can spin my wedding ring around and round. My pants come off without unbuttoning or unzipping. I catch sight of myself in the mirror sometimes and think, "Is that my face?" I lose weight in my face before, say, my ass. I notice. I can tell.
My husband notices. He makes mention of my body, often. I get admiring glances from this lovely man who adored me when I weighed 67.2 pounds more than I do today. Who thinks I'm beautiful inside and out and no matter what the scale says.
But I'm still fat.
It's weird. It's disconcerting. It's like everyone is in on it except for my body (and, possibly, my pants). It hasn't quite caught up. It doesn't yet realize that I'm trying not be fat. It doesn't get that when a normal person exercises five times a week, they don't have thighs that rub together. Or mammaw flaps under their arms. Or the ability to tuck their boobs into their belt.
I'm still fat.
But still fat.