I used to pet sit for my boss at the university once or twice a year when she took week long vacations. I loved doing it because it gave me some much needed alone time, since I was in my twenties and still living with my parents at the time. My boss and her partner’s home was very nice, it felt like a little vacation for me. Plus, they paid generously so I made some much needed extra cash. My grandmother had just moved in with us, my personal space was non existent, and I had to sleep on the couch. So going over to someone else’s house and sleeping in a normal bed for a week was worth catering to the cute but pampered animals. At that time my boss had two dogs and a cat. One of the dogs was a tiny, adorable and emotional silky terrier who would curl up and sleep next to me every night. The other dog was a high maintenance, out of shape, overweight beagle. I didn’t always have to watch the beagle, eventually my boss gave her to another owner and she died a very expensive and drawn out death. But I remember specifically that first night of pet sitting, when at about ten o’clock at night I came to the realization that I was all alone in a house for the first time in years, with only an out of shape dog who never moved and a super tiny dog who was afraid of anything that moved to protect me. I was kind of freaked out. I climbed into bed, turned on the t.v. and left the light on. The terrier was snuggled next to me on the bed and eventually, I fell asleep. Around I awoke suddenly to what sounded like a woman in high heels running across the hardwood floor in the living room. It was coming closer and closer to my room. I froze in terror. Then the sound came into my room and all of a sudden, smack, something hit the bed and moved it about six inches. I sat up and looked down at the foot of the bed. It was the beagle. She walked back into the living room and lo and behold, galloped into the bedroom again at full speed, her nails clicking hard against the wooden floors and once again, boom, smacked against the bed. I wasn’t sure what was happening. I didn’t know what to do, so I watched for a third time as the portly beagle ran from the front of the house into the bedroom and finally accomplished what she had set out to do. She jumped onto the bed. It took three times, but that fat dog finally got her fat butt up on the bed and slept with me the entire night.
This is the exact image I conjure up in my head when I think about my struggle with weight loss.
I have never in my life been called skinny. I think only once in high school did anyone tell me that I needed to gain weight. I’ve always had hips, thighs, and a sizable-by-comparison booty. I don’t think I would have ever called myself fat per se, I knew what my body type was and I think I worked with what I had. I put on some weight in college but a few months after I graduated, I was back to my normal, healthy weight. When I met my husband, I was my most superficially confident self. I maintained my weight with no problem, probably because I was so love sick. I didn’t have too many issues with how I looked back then. In fact, I thought I had never looked better. But after a few years of marriage, life happened. One day my dad went in for a CT scan because he had a dizzy spell and in twenty four hours they were prepping him for surgery to remove an egg sized tumor out of his brain. I remember the day of the surgery. It was towards the end of February, right around this time of year, and it was also Girl Scout Cookie time. The day of my dad’s surgery I ate an entire box of Tagalongs. That’s when I fell into a habit of eating to de-stress. I ate anything and everything to get through those first couple months of shock. Doctors had given my dad three to six months to live. Of course, he lived for three years after that. I had gained about twenty extra pounds by the time I was scheduled for gall bladder removal surgery later that year, which of course I couldn’t have because I was pregnant. So, with all the extra weight already packed on from eating my feelings all summer, I played up my new role of “eating for two” with gusto. Only, I was eating for two full size football players. And all I could eat were carbohydrates. I ate them all. And then I ate some more. If you had some on your plate I’d eat those too. I ate until I thought I might explode. I gained a lot of weight. I was swollen. I was miserable.
I don’t know why I thought the weight would magically come off after I had the baby. Some of it did. But not enough. I joined Weight Watchers and lost about twenty pounds, which was a good start, but then I gained it all back the months following my grandmother’s and father’s deaths. So I quit. Then I decided after a few months to join up again, and a week later my father in law had a stroke. So I quit again. I didn’t think the universe was happy with my joining Weight Watchers. I’m not sure if I’ll ever do it again, afraid that the next time I join I might actually lose an arm or have a heart attack.
Life stresses me out. Being a mom stresses me out. On any given day, I’ll put my son down for a nap, grab a snack and unwind in front of the T.V. or with a book. My biggest problems are sweets. I can’t get enough of them. I’m pretty self-aware and that's a problem, because I can’t say with a straight face that I might have some secret underlying reason for eating so I better get myself into therapy. I know why I eat. It makes me feel good. It’s like a friend who calms me down. But it’s a sick and twisted friendship, because my real friends would never make me gain weight. I told a friend of mine the other night that I think I have an addiction to food. I hate admitting that, because it makes me feel like I’m a victim, to food of all stupid things, like it has a power over me and I can’t fight it off. I am not raped by food. I could fight it off if I wanted to. I eat to de-stress. Some people drink. Some people do drugs. Some people paint pictures or take walks or do yoga. I eat. Pretty soon I’ll be all out of excuses and I’ll be done solving the problems of the world. We close on my mom’s house in Maplewood
Do not feel sorry for me. That’s not the point here. I don’t want your solutions. I know what the decision has to be and when I’m ready for it, I’ll make it. I see women all around me overcoming their weight problems and it’s very inspiring. I love those women. I also see women who pop out babies like vending machines and their bodies are not morphed into stretch marked blobs at all. I hate those women. They make me feel like I need to apologize for having my body type. But guess what? That’s not going to happen. I know you thought that may be where this blog entry was headed, but it’s not. I’m not going to apologize for myself. I carried a child within me. I’m going to try to do it again. I’ve been through a lot and my body has suffered for it, and when the time is right, I’m going to do something about it, hopefully before it’s too late. It may take a while and I may have to start from all the way in the living room, but eventually, I too will get my ghetto-fabulous booty up on that metaphorical bed, just like my fat beagle friend, Lord rest her soul. In the meantime, I’m going to still love myself, take care of myself the best that I can, be proud of how I look and try not to shame myself when I enjoy a few cookies with my Wendy Williams.
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