I’m losing weight. And despite how our entire society tells me I’m supposed to feel, I don’t like it.
A couple of weeks ago, my doctor told me I have pre-diabetes. I’m not really sure what that means, except that it’s bad because diabetes is a disease and also it runs in their own families. I also happen to loathe needles, so the idea of poking and prodding myself with a syringe full of insulin sounds especially horrifying.
I was told to go on a diet. So I did I cut off soda, iced tea, those fancy caramel iced coffees I order at Starbucks, chocolate binges, basically anything fun and replaced it with fruits, water and those kale chips from Whole Foods.
I also started working outseven days a week, which is seven more than I’m used to and as a result, I’m usually sore and irritable from the absence of sugar. But hey, at least I’m on the top 10 board at my local Flywheel!
On the plus (?) side, I’m losing weight. My size 29 jeans now slide off my hips, which SUCKS because they cost me a quarter of my paycheck. Even my boobs have been slip-and-sliding around in the bras I used to comfortably wear.
I should be happy. At least about running shopping for new clothes that fit me. But I’m not.
I feel better healthier, even when I’m heavier. I usually fluctuate between a 6 and an 8, but at my biggest, I was a size 10. And I felt f* cking BOMB then. Sure, I feel stronger now, but better? Nah. Here are a few reasons I love my body with a few extra pounds.
I love my curves.
Whenever I start losing weight, I don’t lose it from my stomach I lose it from my ass, my boobs and my thighs. And I Dislike it.
I love my thick thighs. They might not save lives, but they sure make for something nice to grab on to. I like to jiggle a bit when I stroll. I like the route my hips sometimes pool over my jeans. I love the route my boobs zigzag around in low-cut shirts when I’m going out. Losing that thunder feels like I’m losing a part of myself.
Skinny isn’t a synonym for healthy.
OK, so I might work out more now and I don’t eat as much chocolate, but I still felt healthier at a size 10. Doesn’t that voiced weird?
For the past several years, I had an unhealthy relationship with food. I went through periods of binge-eating, purging and more purging. At my thinnest, I was a size 2. At my heaviest, a 10.
So to me, being a double-digit size has historically meant that I was feeing well . It meant that the only relationship I had with food was “Gimme more, please! ” and “Actually, yes, I would like the garlic fries.”
To me, size 10 meant I was emotionally healthier. Don’t get me wrong — I love myself at different sizes — but I tend to like myself more when there’s a bit more to me.
Size 10 meant a bigger beaker size and rounder hips; it meant I had thicker thighs and a more rotund potbelly. And you know what? I get more matches as a “curvy” girl than I did when I was ultra-thin.
No man has ever complained about the extra rolls on my stomach or my persistent arm wiggle. The guys I’ve dated liked that my ass rippled when they spanked it, and that my breasts didn’t fit into the palms of their hands. I liked how I looked in garments, in low-cut tops and even in jeans. Size ten looked damn fab on me and I miss it.
While I might be no size two right now, but I still miss my size 10 curves. Being “thick” — whatever that means — felt good and looked good.
But at least I get to buy new overpriced jeans now.