This morning I stood on the scale in the dim light of the dawn. I stopped worrying about the number a few weeks ago–not really caring what it said as long as I could run a mile without having a heart attack. The art of being a thick chick/fat chick/pleasantly plump chick/curvy chick/plus size chick/chunky chick has never been lost on me. Wake up, weigh, gasp, write out a plan, work the plan, drop weight, get lazy (or injured….or depressed….or divorced), gain it all back and repeat. Only now, possibly from 35 year old wisdom, I don’t really care.
I have been on that scale before and it has read anywhere between 287 to 235. I have scoffed at myself in the mirror, I have danced around in the bathroom naked in celebration, I have shrugged off the lack of change. The experience is always different, yet it is always the same. Judgement. Self-judgement…the worse kind.
I have noticed a change in my body, but not so much on the scale. For once…I am okay with that. I no longer put off buying clothes for the sake of the smaller me. I no longer really care if my stomach ever shrinks enough so I can at least see my vagina (yea…we lost touch about, oh, i dunno–13 years ago). I no longer care about the flabby arm hang or the jiggly thighs. The double chin doesn’t really concern me either. I am no longer in the need to impress others–which includes the stuck-in-the-145lb-past part of me. I am just in it to live. And, after all, that is the goal….right?