This one’s gonna be slightly more serious. I’m in the mood- indulge me.
This time four years ago I was a size 4-6, filling in from the size 2 I sported over the summer. Those of you who know me in real life and not on the interwebs know that I’ve always been a curvy girl. Never huge, never skinny- a nice, normal curvy 8-10. College brought me more to the 10 (okay, 12) size, but I’ve always been somewhat confident and had a good self-image. That was all colossally destroyed when my boyfriend of six years and I broke up post-sophomore year. Part of our falling out stemmed from comments he had “jokingly” made about my weight months prior. I never got over the sting, and he couldn’t see that my anger and nastiness masked raw, fucking pain. The person you love is supposed to think the sun rises and falls on your almost-too-tight-for-your-jeans ass.
My depression sent me into a spiral of fasting and binge eating. I’d skip breakfast and lunch to chow on fast food at dinnertime. My body was so shocked that I usually spent hours in the bathroom afterwards, unwillingly expelling what I tried to eat. This brought the rock hard six pack, the protruding hip and ribcage bones, and the weirdly skinny face. I maxed out my credit cards trying to adapt my t-shirt and jeans style into some kind of slutty hot mess, because I could. When school started up in the fall, all I heard was how good I looked, as if I was a total fucking cow just a few months before. It didn’t help that my ex was still in the picture. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and say it was half good intentions, and half because he wanted to enjoy what his chaos hath wrought. Quoting one of his famous zingers, “If I knew you were going to lose all this weight, I would have broken up with you sooner.” Laugh track, please.
It wasn’t his fault. I still called him- even obsessively so. After that relationship came to its violent and Hindenberg-like demise, I gained somewhat steadier eating habits. I didn’t notice the weight coming back on. I only knew from the sizes of my clothes. I’ve tried, and miserably failed at replicating what my friends have deemed the “Kristen Breakup Diet”- patented to lose at least four sizes in one month! Super unhealthy? Absolutely terrible for you? You betcha! Could you want any more from a super diet? Apparently for me, the not eating thing didn’t work unless I was completely and morbidly self-obsessed and dejected. I guess that’s a good thing?
Since then, I’ve taken baby steps to try and normalize my life. I ain’t getting any younger (you creaky, old almost 25 year old hag, you!), and I should probably do the responsible thing and care about myself. I’m eating more fruits and veggies. Cutting down on fries (which is a big, big sacrifice). Eating when I’m hungry and stopping when I’m full- you’d be surprised how many people don’t do this, myself included. I’ve done kickboxing regularly, rock climbing, and my most recent venture into the activity I loathe the most- running. Doesn’t hurt that I have incredible, ridiculously fit, kick-ass friends who motivate me. It also doesn’t hurt that I’m realistic- I’m going to have pop tarts for breakfast sometimes. Hell, I’m going to have dessert most of the time. But if I can find an acceptable substitute for my weaknesses (non ad: strawberry Outshine bars are the shit), I’ll do it. And I’ll be better for it.
I fail. All the time. I go crazy during RU tailgates. I glob on the salad dressing at lunch, and almost always justify my monthly McDonalds. Could I do better? Yes. Could I do worse? Absolutely.
I am probably fitter and healthier than I’ve ever been. And I think I weigh more than I ever have, too. I don’t know if one has anything to do with the other at all, and I’m not so sure I care. This past Saturday I bought a $64.00 skort at Athleta in ritzy Woodcliff Lake after doing 9:00 AM outdoor yoga. This happened a week after running further than I ever have in my life, and one week before my first big race- a ten miler. Namaste, bro.
Who are you, active person, and what did you do with me? If I ever find myself, the real me, please let me know that I’ll be out in front of that place where they sell the cronuts, inhaling the scents of sugary, fatty goodness. Because lord knows I can’t actually afford to buy one of those stupid things.