I stepped on the scale, and despite my justifications and excuses (heavy sweater, change and keys in the pocket, winter boots), the number before me was unfathomable. I have never been a petite person, one of the tallest in elementary school, one of the first to get boobs and hips, so much so that I escaped to a stall in middle school to change for gym class out of embarrassment. Most of my friends were smaller than I, fitting into the cute clothes in 5-7-9 that i could only admire from afar. I tried fad diets in high school, though let's face it- to be that size again would be heavenly.
When I got to ASU, my pockets were empty, and the job market for an inexperienced eighteen year old left much to be desired. I began working at the movie theater, which meant crazy hours, unlimited free popcorn, and most importantly, an absurdly meager wage. At 4.40 an hour before taxes, I barely made enough to buy school supplies let alone feed myself, so I turned to what every college student subsists on: ramen. And bean burritos at midnight from the Taco Bell in the Palo Verde cafeteria, and pepsi. Pepsi. Pepsi. The freshman ten became 15 and pushed 20 before I went home for the summer.
After the breakup with my live in boyfriend in 1997, I lost 30 pounds at an alarmingly fast rate, I assume half was due to dehydration from tears wept, and the rest from my inability to stomach food in my state. I began working at a restaurant (where I met and fell in love with Jake), and the access to the food and drinks during and after all my shifts was dangerous, and even more dangerous was when I became pregnant with Rhiannon. The cravings were not crazy, but at times intense. When in Rome (or close to the Mexican border)...I craved guacamole. Guacamole. Guacamole. I could scarf down tubs, and because Jake and I were broke as young twenty somethings often are, the dollar double cheeseburgers at McDonalds were all too tempting. I gained 33 pounds with Rhiannon, and it showed everywhere- my face, my legs, my stomach. But being 22, I lost it all immediately, and wondered aloud many times why so many women complained about the difficulty of losing baby weight.
I chuckle now at my naivete, because after having five, and now being in my thirties, I realize that life gets in the way. To be comforted, I turn to ice cream and fatty gourmet French foods, to celebrate, I turn to pizza and pasta, to mourn, I turn to cake and pastry. I gain weight with pregnancy, and am instructed not to diet until I have finished nursing, but once I have finished nursing, I become pregnant again rather quickly, and for much of my adult life, my body has not been my own.
Two years ago, I faced it head on and lost close to 50 pounds. For five months, I ellipticized and journaled and did it all the right way. I vowed to make it a way of life, allowing myself one cheat day per week, to have a light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. The pounds melted away, and a joy broke through me that had long been absent. It once again became fun to try on clothes, especially when I had to call out for a smaller size. I no longer shied from mirrors, and things I once thought to be vain and shallow began to make sense: manicures, pedicures, eyebrow waxes, highlights.
And then we decided for another baby. And that baby became two babies. One of which they were unsure would be healthy. And I was diabetic (again), but instructed to consume enough calories to keep up a multiple pregnancy. When all was said and done, I went ahead and gained all of my weight back, like the mound of it crept back in through my window and nestled back into its comfortable, familiar place around my middle.
The twins turn one next week, though i find it so hard to believe so much time has gone by. My self esteem is at its lowest, I believe, in my lifetime. The clothes I relished only two years ago are stuffed into shopping bags at the back of the closet, and I enjoy most the days when I can wear sweats and tee shirts. But it is time. I want to do this for those twins, so I can mark a milestone with another milestone. I want to do it for my husband, who spent so much time encouraging the last time, and who still calls me beautiful. I want to do it for all my kids, who deserve to have a mother who has years of unclogged arteries and working kidneys ahead of her. But mostly, I am doing it for myself, so that when I am sitting in my big ole soccer mom minivan, belting out the lyrics to Fergie's Glamorous (as I did two years ago), I will think...dammit I will KNOW...that she and I are singing about me.
When I got to ASU, my pockets were empty, and the job market for an inexperienced eighteen year old left much to be desired. I began working at the movie theater, which meant crazy hours, unlimited free popcorn, and most importantly, an absurdly meager wage. At 4.40 an hour before taxes, I barely made enough to buy school supplies let alone feed myself, so I turned to what every college student subsists on: ramen. And bean burritos at midnight from the Taco Bell in the Palo Verde cafeteria, and pepsi. Pepsi. Pepsi. The freshman ten became 15 and pushed 20 before I went home for the summer.
After the breakup with my live in boyfriend in 1997, I lost 30 pounds at an alarmingly fast rate, I assume half was due to dehydration from tears wept, and the rest from my inability to stomach food in my state. I began working at a restaurant (where I met and fell in love with Jake), and the access to the food and drinks during and after all my shifts was dangerous, and even more dangerous was when I became pregnant with Rhiannon. The cravings were not crazy, but at times intense. When in Rome (or close to the Mexican border)...I craved guacamole. Guacamole. Guacamole. I could scarf down tubs, and because Jake and I were broke as young twenty somethings often are, the dollar double cheeseburgers at McDonalds were all too tempting. I gained 33 pounds with Rhiannon, and it showed everywhere- my face, my legs, my stomach. But being 22, I lost it all immediately, and wondered aloud many times why so many women complained about the difficulty of losing baby weight.
I chuckle now at my naivete, because after having five, and now being in my thirties, I realize that life gets in the way. To be comforted, I turn to ice cream and fatty gourmet French foods, to celebrate, I turn to pizza and pasta, to mourn, I turn to cake and pastry. I gain weight with pregnancy, and am instructed not to diet until I have finished nursing, but once I have finished nursing, I become pregnant again rather quickly, and for much of my adult life, my body has not been my own.
Two years ago, I faced it head on and lost close to 50 pounds. For five months, I ellipticized and journaled and did it all the right way. I vowed to make it a way of life, allowing myself one cheat day per week, to have a light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. The pounds melted away, and a joy broke through me that had long been absent. It once again became fun to try on clothes, especially when I had to call out for a smaller size. I no longer shied from mirrors, and things I once thought to be vain and shallow began to make sense: manicures, pedicures, eyebrow waxes, highlights.
And then we decided for another baby. And that baby became two babies. One of which they were unsure would be healthy. And I was diabetic (again), but instructed to consume enough calories to keep up a multiple pregnancy. When all was said and done, I went ahead and gained all of my weight back, like the mound of it crept back in through my window and nestled back into its comfortable, familiar place around my middle.
The twins turn one next week, though i find it so hard to believe so much time has gone by. My self esteem is at its lowest, I believe, in my lifetime. The clothes I relished only two years ago are stuffed into shopping bags at the back of the closet, and I enjoy most the days when I can wear sweats and tee shirts. But it is time. I want to do this for those twins, so I can mark a milestone with another milestone. I want to do it for my husband, who spent so much time encouraging the last time, and who still calls me beautiful. I want to do it for all my kids, who deserve to have a mother who has years of unclogged arteries and working kidneys ahead of her. But mostly, I am doing it for myself, so that when I am sitting in my big ole soccer mom minivan, belting out the lyrics to Fergie's Glamorous (as I did two years ago), I will think...dammit I will KNOW...that she and I are singing about me.
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