Weighty Issue

When I was young, I had a metabolism like you wouldn't believe. I simply couldn't gain weight - something that bothered me slightly in my awkward teen years but which I ultimately accepted. Hearing catchphrases like "real women have curves" or seeing women my size being compared to a 13 year old boy still stung quite a bit, but I did my best to not let that stuff affect me. And besides, I felt like I didn't have a right to complain. After all, being rather slim put me in a conventionally attractive category though I was actually technically underweight. I developed a few snappy comebacks for when insensitive people would ask me if I was anorexic, and for the most part didn't spend much time thinking about my weight - a good thing since I quickly learned that very few people will be sympathetic to thin people with body issues not of the eating-disorder variety. Even now I worry about how this blog will be received by people who truly struggle with their weight. I hope it will be taken for what it is, which is my personal experience with how weight is wrapped up with identity, and my attempts to figure out what it means to look and feel the healthiest I can.

Anyway, after about 18 or so I didn't think about my weight at all. I was skinny and assumed I always would be. But then I hit about 25 and something changed. I started to notice some curves I had never really had before and, feeling curious, I stepped on a scale for the first time in years. That's what I discovered I had gained 15 whole pounds without noticing. That's also when I realized it was a bit silly to have thought all my pants just shrank at once. I know, I know, but weight gain was just something I hadn't considered. It wasn't that I was out of touch with my body exactly, but I'd always had a bit of trouble telling how much space I took up. It's strange. If you'd have asked me if I was taller or shorter or bigger or smaller than someone I wouldn't have had a clear answer unless the difference was drastic. Now I was all too aware.

I'm far from overweight, but being stick-thin was part of my identity. It'd be like waking up one day and not being a redhead. I was thrown for a loop, and found myself thrust into a part of the female experience that was completely foreign to me. Discussing calories, and dress sizes and whatnot. I hated it (and still do) because it's so cliche and boring. All the comments - snarky or well-intentioned - about my skinny-ness stopped, and on a bad day it's easy for your brain to run away with what that means. I used to find those comments unwelcome but now I...missed them? I wonder if growing up with my size being an open topic of discussion for everyone helped to make me more sensitive to such matters in the long run.

In a way I'm happier with my looks nowadays. When I compare myself to old pictures I prefer the less wan and boney Jen (though I feel oddly protective of her when someone else says they think I look better now).  But in a way I'm not happier, because thinking about my weight at all is decidedly not the path to happiness for me. So even though I think I look better, I miss the carefree days of slipping into my size 1 jeans and not having to worry about a muffin top. Again, not because I looked better necessarily but because I didn't obsess about how my clothes fit. I didn't have to be aware of the space I filled. Dressing a whole different body was strange at first and not something I expected to be dealing with after puberty. But you know, you adapt. In addition to picking out different clothes, I had to actually start paying attention to what I ate and drank. After a life of ignorant, gluttonous bliss it was annoying but educational.

I put on a handful more pounds after that initial 15, the after-effects of quitting smoking, drinking more than my fair share of beer and getting on the pill, along with just getting older and filling out a bit. I'd learned to embrace those pounds...except for that last handful. Because while I am happy to be curvier, I refuse to accept that slow creep of weight gain as the decades pass and I know that as I head into my 30's it's not going to get any easier. As a result, I started focusing not on weight loss but on getting in shape. I've started exercising 5 days a week and cooking healthy meals at home. These changes were so immediately rewarding on a mental and emotional level that the physical aspect was almost secondary. But, slowly but surely, that handful of pounds I was unhappy with dropped off. Well, most of them at least.

A funny thing happened though when I saw that number on the scale drop. I felt elated. Ugh, how typical.  I keep telling myself that if that number goes up because I get more muscular then that is fine with me. I hope I mean it. It's such an easy thing to obsess over, a metric to measure yourself by. I'm glad to be approaching my 30's having once been made fun of for being too thin, and also having been a bit softer than I'd prefer, because hopefully those experiences will help me keep perspective and remember that how I feel is what really matters. I also know that I have my metabolism and genetics on my side, and that I have it far easier than others. The recent hoopla about Lady Gaga's 20 pound weight gain has strengthened my resolve to think about weight in a healthy, non-obsessive way. Is there really such a small margin between concern-trolling about someone being underweight and then calling them fat? I refuse to apply such harsh standards to others and I refuse to apply them to myself. My goal is simply to be in better shape health-wise in my 30's than in my 20's. I think I'm on my way!