revising upward

When I was way less heavy than I am now (coming out of my funk: 15 pounds up from the last time I weighed myself, several months before pre-funk, I think? I hope? Where the fuck does it all come from? Free-floating fat needs to get off my ass, and now), I used to think that weighing 120 pounds would be the best weight ever in the history of the world.

I would be hot. Sizzlingly so. You could bake things on me, but not too many things, because my surface area would be so magnificently reduced, you'd be lucky to fit a single sausage link on my finely-toned ass.

This was back when I was under two hundred pounds, and did not have that far to go, to get to 120. Well, it was pretty far, but not that far in the grand scheme of things, I say wearing the 20-20 hindsight glasses that are colored dark with despair. Big, fat despair.

Then, I gained some weight. A lot of weight. I shot up over two hundred pounds. People would look at me, and tell me that there was no way I weighed that much. I carried it so well! I carried it beautifully. I carried it the way some women can carry a giant basket of water on their tiny little heads without spilling a single drop.

And you know, thinking about it, that right there must be where my mild and not at all clinical body dysmorphism comes from – for so much of my life, I have been convinced that while I was fat, nobody could tell, and that is why it was always such a shock and a misery, anytime someone would make a comment about my size. I would actually feel my heart drop, not just from shame (because there is a lot of shame in it) but from horror that I had been recognized, and found out.

Anyway. So over two hundred pounds, I started to think that 140 was a reasonable weight to get down to, even 160. I carry my weight so well that I'd be a glowing goddess. 120 is entirely too skinny. If I weighed 120, I would be a skeleton. I have birthing hips! You need some meat on these kinds of hips!

And then I gained more weight. I did not shoot, or rocket, it just sort of crept out from around corners and leapt onto my ass and hung on with the kind of tenaciousness only fat, or bulldogs, or fat bulldogs can show. And then I started to think that under 200 pounds would be fine. Just under 200. That would be all I would ask for in life. A one in front of the number I weigh. Sarah calls that "onederland," which is both hilarious (because it is so silly) and true (which makes it doubly hilarious).

Now here I am, the heavier than the heaviest ever (I think I prefer "heavy" to "fat." Heavy makes me sound like I am substantial and important. Fat makes me sound – well, you know. Fat. "But wait a second!" you say, and then I punch you. But not really, because I love you.), and getting on the scale this morning, after a week of back on weightwatchers, complete with an extra point because of my extra ass, I realized that all I want is to be back under my previous record for land mass. I want to be the previous heaviest ever again, because this weight I am now, it is unsupportable. It is insupportable. It sucks.

But I lost four pounds this week, and I am just going to keep my head down and try to keep the numbers getting smaller and maybe, soon, in a couple of months, I can start looking at far-flung goals again, and as they go down, I can revise downward, too.

This entry was posted by anne, on Tuesday, September 20, 2005. You can leave your response.