6th September 2012

This geek is trying to lose weight. There, I said it.

For the last 3 years, I have been afraid of a number. Three digits. I have been terrified of facing 167.

One hundred and sixty seven pounds is the most I have ever weighed in my life. And it was my weight for the last three years. A 5 foot 5 inch woman is considered “overweight” at 167 pounds. And this girl considered herself a failure for ever getting there.

The truth is that getting there was easy. Owning it was hard. And so I misdirected my mind. I told myself a series of alternate truths in order to conceal and protect myself from the reality that made me feel worthless.

I am smart. I am talented. I am great at my job. I have great friends. I have an incredible boyfriend. I have great hair. And great legs.

These statements are true. But these were things that I told myself on a weekly basis because I didn’t want to admit that I felt badly about my weight. See, if I never “looked” at 167 - it might not exist. If I didn’t acknowledge it, I could focus on liking myself anyway.

I know this theory has been disproven time and time again. And yet, Republicans still employ it when asked about global warming - so why couldn’t I use it when dealing with the details of my body mass?

And as long as I’m being honest, let me tell you another truth. There were certain things I stopped doing because I would have to be reminded of that ugly number. I skipped doctor’s appointments, because I knew I would be weighed. I held off on getting a new driver’s license when I moved, because I didn’t want to report my weight. I avoided getting my picture taken, because I didn’t want unflattering photos ending up on Facebook.

If you know me in living, breathing, non-internet form, you know that I pride myself on being honest. I try hard not to be harsh or brash - but I’ll always tell you the truth. Why? Because I firmly believe that we only reach our fullest potential and develop meaningful relationships when our lives and friendships are built on a foundation of truth. And yet one of the cornerstones of my life, my health, was essentially built on a foundation of sand that I kept telling myself was concrete. I was ignoring the truth - because it was inconvenient. And I was the only one responsible for it.

Plus, it’s just goddamn embarrassing. When you parade through life with such earnest intentions, you start developing a narrative of who you are. I was a “strong” person who wasn’t affected by trivial details, like pounds. In fact, I developed an entire series of mantras to deal with my inconvenient truth:

“It doesn’t matter that I’ve gained 3 pounds a year for the last five years - because I’m still a great writer.”

“It doesn’t matter that my size 6 and 8 clothing don’t fit anymore - because it’s shallow to care about trivial things like sizes anyway.”

“It doesn’t matter that I don’t like the way I look - because no one is hiring me for my appearance.”

These truths were no foundation to stand on. They were bullshit. And deep down, I knew it. But if I ignored it - it wasn’t a lie - it was just ignorance.

Something changed this summer. After a 3 hour hike with my boyfriend, brother and mother, TJ and I were dipping our feet in a nearby lake to cool off. My mom snapped a picture of us to commemorate the successful day. I was afraid of what that picture looked like. My fears were affirmed when I saw it later that day. TJ looked triumphant and handsome. Sweaty, but proud. I looked miserable. I wasn’t miserable because I had just manhandled mother nature’s stairways - no, I was miserable, because I didn’t want my picture taken.

What a ridiculous way to live my life. It’s a short ride, my friends. Even shorter when you consider the limitations on one’s body as we age. And I couldn’t even muster a big smile after successfully putting my glutes to the test, because deep down I knew that 15 of those 167 pounds were resting unattractively over my midsection.

That weekend, I decided to turn it around.

I wasn’t going to continue to ignore 100. Or 60. Or 7. I was going look that numeric representation of my physical failure in the donut hole and tell it to fuck off.

It’s been almost 8 weeks and I’m happy to report that I left 167 in my past. Pretty soon, 150 will be there too. And hopefully, I’ll be back at a healthy, jubilant weight soon.

You know what I learned in all of this? (Besides the fact that egg white omelets can actually be delicious.)

Your body is a math equation. You add calories to it. You subtract calories from it. At the end of the day, if you can do simple math, you can stop hiding from the truth of your health and solve the problem.

Even bigger than that: you are a beautiful person at 167 or 154 or 142. BUT, you are more beautiful when you are happy. When you pound the gravel for hours and then take a picture with your boyfriend - you should be proud of what you just accomplished. And being proud means you smile EVEN when your hair is in a crazy bun and when your pit stains are showing.

Sadness? That is for when people die. Or when you’re sick. Or when you break up with someone. Or when you’re struggling with your job. Or when your favorite show is cancelled. Sadness is not an emotion you should equate with looking in the mirror.

That means that you’re going to have to stop hiding your personal “ugly” truths behind the logical ones.

That means you’re going to have to start being honest with yourself about what being happy means. If you can’t be happy at 158 - then do the math. And solve the problem.