A Weighty Issue

What is the big deal about being skinny? I am sick and tired of hearing about the Atkins Diet, the South Beach Diet, the gym, or power-walking. I am not fat. I am pleasingly plump and it looks like I will be pleasingly plump for the rest of my days. I buy clothes that look almost stylish. According to my mother, I am not terrible-looking. But I don’t have an ass you can bounce a quarter off of nor do I have abs like a washboard. And I don’t want those things.

I want to be able to eat reasonably well. I want to be able to dine on meals that are appetizing, well-seasoned, and nicely prepared. I don’t want to feel guilty every time I put a spoonful of sugar in my coffee. I don’t want to leave skid marks running from anything chocolate. I want a handful of potato chips with my sandwich, which by the way is made with low fat mayo on low carb bread.

I have avoided corduroy since 1981, after my first child was born. I had paranoid visions of walking in corduroy pants and causing friction sparks to shoot all over the place, setting myself and possibly my surrounding area on fire. Explain THAT one to the firemen. “Yeah, hi. Thanks for coming so quickly. Yeah, there was a fire. How did it start? Well, see this charred and smoldering heap? Those were my Dockers corduroys. Oh yeah, that mass of burnt foam and cloth? That was the couch.”

So I began walking. Great way to stay in shape, except for the fact that you actually have to, well, get out and walk. I go after work. I change into ratty clothes after work and haul my old self around the track at Ewing Township Municipal Complex for 2 – 3 miles. I am 51 years old. I am TIRED after work. The last thing I want to do is walk in 20 or 90 degree weather at 4:30PM. I could be lying on my couch watching Oprah, who by the way has had her own trouble with weight. So I tried changing my walking schedule. Every workday morning, my alarm went off at 5:57 AM. Every workday morning, I slam the snooze button at 5:57 AM, and again at 6:02 AM, and yet again at 6:07 AM. During that 10 minute period, I wage an internal war with myself. Head buried in my pillow, I am rationalizing. “Do I really need to walk this morning? After all, my pants still fit. I can still see my feet. Isn’t it supposed to rain this morning? I am tired and I deserve to sleep another hour. What sadist had the bright idea to do this before-work walk anyway?”

I have to be at the office by 8:30AM. It takes me approximately 30 minutes to get ready for work. This includes showering, drying my hair, applying makeup (most days), making the bed, straightening up the living room and kitchen, and getting dressed. Add 2 minutes to the original 30 if I have to decide what to have for dinner that night. So in reality I can get up at 7:54AM and still not be late for work, since the drive takes all of about 4 minutes and that’s if I get stuck at all six traffic lights on my way. Basically, I am getting up almost 2 hours early to walk. This ensures that by noon I am so stiff I can barely stagger to the ladies’ room and by 3PM, I am dozing while sitting at my computer.

To rationalize my guilt and frustration, I have a mental litany, which goes something like this: “I am a happily married woman with two relatively normal kids. One of them even has a college degree. I hold down a fulltime job, have lots of friends, maintain our home, and manage to scribble a line or two when inspiration strikes. I am a nice person. Children don’t burst into tears and run from me. Adults usually like me. My parents haven’t cut me out of their lives yet. I am not a bad person. I am not a bad person. I am not a bad person.” This usually helps ease some of the guilt. Until I try to slip into a pair of shorts that used to fit and now leaves a permanent red indentation at my waist. Then the rationalization is shot to hell and we’re back at Square One.

I will never be skinny. I will always have a pleasant roundness. I have come to terms with that. I just want two simple things: 1) a waistline that is easily identifiable, and 2) permission to indulge in stuff that tastes good without having to go to confession. Not too much to ask, would you agree?

Here’s a message to all the beautiful women out there, size 4 or size 24. I have come to a conclusion: Guilt only makes you crazy and when you’re crazy, you eat more. So don’t feel guilty. Just eat, and bag the guilt!