Three things happened to me in the year I turned 50.
One, I lost all our temporary help in the household. Which turned out to be a blessing in disguise despite the many difficulties it presented, but that is another story for another day.
Two, I lost my hair. For some reason, my hair started falling out in clumps early this year. I was losing so much hair every single day I decided to have my locks cut off into a shorter style. For the first time in a long while, I have above-the-shoulder length hair. I miss my long hair, but I love the ease and comfort of this new wash-and-wear style.
Three, I lost my “body.” Rewrite that to say I lost some heft, emphasis on some and not all of it yet. This is the story of how that came to be.
In February of this year, I got a complete medical check-up courtesy of my HMO. My husband had to make the appointments for me and he badgered me to keep them. The truth was, I was a little hesitant because I knew I had gained even more weight since my last physical. Also, I hate weigh-ins with a passion. I dodged my doctor’s receptionist every time she called me in for a weigh-in. I would run to the bathroom and hide until my turn at the clinic came up. Then too, at the back of my mind, I was worried that there would be some significant changes in my state of health as I had been experiencing more and more health issues of late.
As expected, some of the results came back on the wrong side of normal. Moreover, I was surprised to find that I had tipped the scales at an all-time high. I had to slyly convince the nurse to shave off 3 kilos from my listed weight by claiming that my jeans, oversized shirt, sweater, and thick socks made up those excess 3 kilos. I was fooling myself, of course, because the weighing scale at home (which I had deftly kicked out of sight under my son’s bed) confirmed this astonishing figure. I guess when you’re with a roomful of people ogling at the weighing scale, your dignity takes a dive when the scales tell you you’re the fattest person in the room and everyone knows it.
So there. I am fat. I’ve always been fat. Even when I wasn’t at my heaviest, I was still bigger and fatter than most girls- and boys- my age. When I was younger, I dieted and exercised myself to injury, losing big patches of my hair due to nutritional deficiency and hurting my back for more than year from over-exertion. I never stayed thin for long, though, and the weight rebounded fast and furiously. It didn’t help that in my youth, the boys I liked all preferred me to be thinner. I starved for one boy, literally, eating nothing but lettuce for weeks. He dumped me later for a thin girl. (What a jerk, right?) Another young man I really liked told me “you have everything I want in a girl, except that you’re fat.” That one, he broke my heart.
When A❤️ came along, he didn’t care whether I was fat or thin. He loved me the way I was, period. The pounds piled on more each year, yet it didn’t seem to faze him. With his encouragement, I learned to love myself the way I was, to be comfortable in my own skin and fat, and accept that I could never ever fit into society’s norms of thinness.
Everything in excess, however, takes its toll, and up till a certain weight, I was still active and healthy. The problem began last year when I began getting sicker and weaker. I caught a bug that evolved into a nasty pneumonia. I developed asthma, with painful bouts of air hunger. My knees ached all the time; my back hurt like crazy. My blood sugar hovered precariously in the prediabetic range. My blood pressure seesawed dangerously. I knew it was time to take control of my life again.
I didn’t want to announce this lest I jinx my progress. Besides, I’ve talked about losing weight so many times over the years that I was afraid people would not believe me anymore. Talk about feeling like the boy who cried wolf. Also, to talk about it would be to commit to it with finality and I wasn’t so sure I was ready to commit to it in the early days. Now, I am.
So here I am, telling you and everyone else who’d care to listen that I have lost 21 kilos in the last few months. That’s 46.2 pounds in the English Imperial system. I wore sizes 24 to 26 in the plus size section three months ago, now I fit into a pair of size 18 jeans. Whoa! I haven’t fit in a size 18 in 14 years!
I am still fat, true, and I have quite a way to go. But knowing what I know now- that I can be healthy and “thin” by changing my mindset and way of eating- I am pretty confident that the next time I step on the scales and people ogle at my numbers, I would no longer get that urge to burrow my head in the sand. I look back at that day in February, thinking of how I invented all kinds of excuses to justify my weight- perhaps my shoes were too heavy?– and I smile at the memory. My husband bought me a new weighing scale recently and I have it front and center in the living room. We’ve gotten quite close, really, and I no longer kick it under the couch. 😜
Here’s to this fat woman, and may she never tire of changing.