As an obsessive compulsive weight checker, I can say that isn't always the case. Yesterday, I weighed myself seven times. Seven. It's not always that bad. Some days it's only three. And when I skip a day, I worry more about eating a sandwich with bread than any one person should. I don't, by any means, starve myself, but I do watch closely what goes in my mouth with a reward and reprimand mentality.
For a lot of women, being "fat" is in their heads. For those of us who have battled the weight monster for years, we look in the mirror and see a giant even if our clothes have become ill-fitting from weight loss and the number on the scale reflects something we're pleased with.
The scale isn't the issue, though. The body mass index charts, the skinnier than thou actresses, the weight loss supplements advertised everywhere ... those are the issues. As a society, we — women and men — have religiously opened ourselves up for criticisms where weight is concerned. For most people I know, the BMI would call them overweight; actresses who put on a few pounds because they had a bad breakup and ate a loaf of bread and some Ben & Jerry's are flaunted as baby bump suspects; directly related are the too-skinny rich and famous who are called out as bulimic or anorexic; I'm not even going to tell you what advertisements, the grocery store and pharmacy do to a chunky girl with low self esteem.
What I am going to do is get to the point. Eventually. I think there's a point to this. Maybe.
Being overweight or obese by medical standards — the crazy BMI thing that tries to lump us all in one category (aka: if you're not 5-foot-9 and 120 pounds then you're a cow) — seems to be fairly common. I've looked at that chart and studied it while waiting for the doctor to see me at my annual physical and I just never picture myself ever fitting in the "normal" category. Would you like to know what that chart has told me every time I've consulted it?
"Damn, you are a fat ass. Go to the gym. Eat less. Count calories. Why do you even eat? Your diet should consist of water and ..."
Do you know why I hear that ridiculous chart tell me that? Because at my last physical I was still 5-foot-7 and weighed around 210 pounds.
Lord, help me for my honesty because I'm going to need all the good graces you can offer.
That chart so many physicians refer to when talking to patients about their weight issues was screaming at me when I blankly stared at it in January. It told me I needed to quit messing around. I wasn't getting any younger. If I want to have another baby, I have to have a healthy body and a healthy mind. Finally, it threw up its arms and said, "Ignore me and take control of your health. Excuses will get you nowhere."
I'm totally aware that these conversations were all happening in my head — my subconscious is my own worst enemy and I swear she sits up there in my head with a martini and menthol cigarette just waiting to criticize. But subconscious-turned-talking-BMI-chart had a point. If I want to be healthier, I can't make excuses and I do have to make it happen on my own.
It's not so much about weight as it was my health, and those are two different things despite what some might think.
A few months ago, the weight vs. health fight came to a head when I had to verbally shut down the physician assistant at my endocrinologists office because my doctor wanted to "help" me lose weight. This was a tree he'd been barking up since I was pregnant with Charlotte. And then he revisited it every appointment after she was born with, "How long do you plan to breastfeed?" and "Are you having trouble losing weight?" Some might think those are typical questions of a doctor who specializes in everything hormone and gland related, but after a while it just seemed odd and I called him on it. Plus, I had given birth twice in as many years, so yeah, losing weight hadn't happened easily, you know ... because I was busy growing HUMANS for 18 months and then breastfed for a combined 23 months (eight and a half for Josie and 14 and a half for Charlotte).
Since I was apparently not losing weight like someone thought I should be, he called me a suspect for pre-diabetes and ran me through the testing for insulin resistance and, despite my sugar levels and other fancy stuff all being within normal ranges, he still wanted me on a drug specifically for Type 2 diabetics to "assist" me in weight loss.
"Really?" I thought. "It's come to this? Why not stress proper nutrition and exercise?"
The verbal shut down was when I looked this poor girl in the eyes after she asked me if I would be willing to try this drug and I said, "No. Am I diabetic? No. Why the hell would I go on a drug for something I do not have. I have a gym membership I'm trying to use and summer is coming. Give me a chance before loading me up on drugs." I felt bad for her. I felt crappy for raising my voice and my lack of being nice. I was, however, a lot nicer than the last time I had one of these doctor-isn't-always-right conversations with a PA.
I have to advocate for myself where my health is concerned and I've become a big believer that if something can be healed or helped through nutrition, I'll at least give it a shot. Plus, I *heart* veggies and with my green thumb, I stay pretty satisfied during the New York growing season.
Today, I wonder where I am on the BMI, but wouldn't put enough stock in it to actually find a copy of the chart online. It would lie to me any way. With the amount of time I've been spending at the gym killing the elliptical each week, the cottage cheese is disappearing from my thighs, my baby belly leftovers are shrinking and in their places are the muscles I once had when I was throwing myself on the gymnasium floor diving after volleyballs in high school.
I want to be an example — actual, tangible proof that the hard work and careful diet can pay off and the reward is amazing.
Today, even, I did something I rarely do. I made a post on Facebook about my weight (usually I'm bragging on my kids):
"Allow me to brag a moment — 28 pounds until I reach my wedding/goal
weight. The brag? As of today I am 67 pounds lighter than the day I was
admitted for my induction with Josie. Granted, I had a second baby and
some additional thyroid issues to overcome in that three years, but,
shit, 67 pounds lighter feels pretty amazing regardless of the 36ish
months between then and now."
What I didn't say, though, was I have energy. I may get on the scale seven times on a Thursday, but it's because I can't believe I'm finally under 200 pounds again. I can get on a machine at the gym and go hardcore for 60 minutes, completing almost seven miles in that time, and then still chase my kids all day.
What I didn't mention was I eat. I just eat well. There are very few snack foods in my house, at least not commercial snacks. I haven't bought potato chips in more than a year. I have, however, bought pita chips and learned not to eat an entire bag in one sitting. I've found that using coconut oil to cook makes food taste as it is meant to taste and quinoa is freaking amazing. So are chia seeds and lemons.
Let me be honest for a moment — you know, because this whole post isn't seething honesty — I started this entry a few days ago. I started it after I did my morning weigh in and realized just how obsessive I am about checking that number every day, and I wanted people to know I do it, too. That we're all a little obsessed with weight and clothing sizes.
Then last night I read an article about prescription fruits and vegetables, and it solidified some of what I wanted this post to accomplish. Whether it accomplished anything, you can be the judge. The fact remains health problems in this country are out of control, but here are doctors in a major city taking steps to fix it. I hope the program works, but I also hope there is some mentoring and counseling for entire families happening in conjunction with the pilot program because just writing prescriptions for healthy eating won't solve the problem.
You can lead a horse to water and all that, but really we need to be teaching men how to fish.
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