The other day I was on the phone with a girlfriend who is considering giving up on men. Apparently she’s had it - had it with the primping, had it with the settling for whatever comes her way, had it with the mind games and the disappointed expectations. “That’s it”, she declared. “I’m going to spend the winter letting myself get all fat and stop caring about how I look.”
Now I don’t think she meant anything by that. I really don’t. The sheer audacity of it, though! This is someone who has spent her entire life as a thin pretty woman. Someone who has never struggled with obesity, the freshman fifteen or even the premenstrual five. So to her, I suppose, it would seem as though just letting yourself get fat is the easiest thing in the world to do. As though it’s a choice a good 55% of us women have made.
I am someone the population at large would consider overweight. And no, I don’t mean that I’m a size 8 who wants to lose 10 pounds. I’m not one of those women who has always been overweight - which I think can be a little tougher in it’s own way. No, unfortunately for me, I was ‘considered a handsome woman in my day‘. I was never a thin girl, but I was thinner. And yes, the four kids haven’t helped my weight, the divorce, the stress of being a single mom, blah, blah, blah. But I’m guessing all of that wonderful chocolate and second - or third - cupcake after the kids have gone to bed probably didn’t help either. And the almost crippling inability to stick to one exercise program at a time - will it be yoga this week? Or belly dancing? Or how about just early morning walks? Or maybe I should just lay on the couch and watch Dawson’s Creek.
You might think I feel rotten about this ‘failure’, this letting down of my self. Not really. It’s like anything else, I suppose, something I need to figure out on my own. If only I could get strep throat again! That had to be the best diet I was ever on! I still like to look nice - sometimes. But even when I was thinner I only ever cared about looking nice some of the time. I tend to be more of a non-conformist about aesthetics - that is until I want to look really pretty and shiny for a party. Then it’s bring on the bronzer! A few months back, I was heading out to this really swanky party with some friends - all of us plus size gals. We were getting ready at my house, blaring some reggae and drinking wine, doing each other’s hair. I felt fabulous. I was wearing a great dress, had bought a perfect hand painted silk scarf to tie around my throat, was wearing these great strappy sandals. Everything around me seemed to buzz with possibility. Inside my little safe place, I was happy. Once outside though…there was a sort of slipping down when we arrived that had nothing to do with the way I looked and everything to do with the looks I felt I was getting (they weren‘t exactly cat-calling for me), a feeling for a moment like maybe we weren’t all that and a bag of chips. Like maybe I looked a little ridiculous. But, wine helped. Five bottles of wine helped more. I danced the night away, laughed, ate and had a wonderful time.
What did this tell me? That maybe it isn’t the extra weight that embarrasses me. Like maybe it’s other people’s embarrassment for me that does me in. Sends me back to the track suits. Do I want to lose weight? Of course I do - sometimes. But the reasons that I want to lose weight are a little goofy - things like “I want to be able to cross my legs and look dainty” or “I want to be able to wear knee high boots and not look like I’ve been sausaged into them”. And I do miss the male attention aspect - but not as much as I miss my size 10 pencil skirts. Which is sort of funny because I think the weight gain had everything to do with men - it is a very comfortable cocoon for me, a nice warm shelter which always manages to be stocked with the best treats. Besides, there’s something welcoming about carrying a little - or a lot - of extra weight. Nurturing. It seems to naturally suit one side of my lifestyle - the homebody, the baker of pies and cooker of dinners, the Mom in me. And the other side of me - the one that gets a little good behaviour time on Saturdays to cut loose and have a few drinks - isn’t ready for a full revolt just yet. But I have a sneaking suspicion it’s coming - I bet she’s waiting in the wings with some new Nike cross trainers and top of the line workout gear ready to pounce. Oh well - perhaps it’s finally time. Or not.