Laughing in the Face of Diets

Comic Totie Fields once said, "I've been on a diet for two weeks and all I've lost is two weeks." Amen, sister.

Several weeks ago I decided I should lose the 20 pounds I gained two years ago, but things haven't been going too well for me. I started with the best intentions. I created an account on a weight-management web site. I figured out my BMI and how much, exactly, I should weigh. This, of course, was the first bump in my road, since the height and weight charts gave a considered opinion that losing 50 pounds would be in my best interest. I keep trying to visualize what I would look like 50 pounds lighter, but this task is getting the better of me. I can close my eyes and imagine rooms completely redecorated down to the art hanging on the walls. I can relax on the couch and conjure up beautiful table settings of crystal and china sporting the most lusciously decadent desserts. I can even call forth the image of my laziest student creating a PowerPoint presentation that knocks my socks off. What I cannot seem to see is a picture of me thin.

Perhaps this is because I've never really been thin. Of course, when I was a teenager my waist was a good deal smaller, but I've always had wide hips and an ample bosom. My sadistically tortuous older brother convinced me that I was fat, but in retrospect he just didn't want me dating his friends (who, by the way, hit on me every time they were at the house). The thinnest I ever remember being was a size 10 while I was in my mid-20's. I followed Weight Watchers religiously and spent a good deal of time planning, measuring, and weighing food that took me surprisingly little time to eat. And, in reality, it wasn't the amount of food that ultimately made me quit. It was the lack of variety. Breakfast consisted of a portion (notice I did not say a bowl) of cereal and about half a cup of skim milk. Lunch was oh so much better with a can of water-packed tuna, four or five saltines, and a piece of fruit. Of course, dinner was the big deal of the day, yet always carried descriptions like "sensible" and "healthy." My meals were planned to the calorie, and spontaneity went out with the clothes that no longer fit. This was fine for awhile, but as you may have gleaned by now I'm not good at holding the status quo. So eventually those size 10 jeans gave way to the size 12's and then the 14's which I kept in my closet since my weight seemed to slide between the two.

The real killer, though, was pregnancy. Despite "Steppin' to the Oldies," vigorous walks around the block pushing a stroller, and eating healthy food, after my son was born I hovered around size 16 for many years with only brief forays back down to those same 14's I kept in the back of the closet. But all that changed when we moved to the East Valley just over five years ago. At that point I lost some weight and dropped to a size 12. After staying there a year, the trusty 14's went to Goodwill. However, when I turned 43 my body revolted. Maybe. Maybe it's just that I discovered how much I love to cook, which reminded me of how much I love to eat. Maybe that is when I started watching Food Network on Saturday morning to plan the week's menu. Whatever the reason, I gained weight - back to the 14's for a year, and now the 16's for another one. The pounds have crept up on me. I would see two or three more on the scale and think, "I really have to do something about this before it becomes a problem." Guess what. I didn't. Even now I comfort myself with the counsel of my doctor from Safford who told me not to worry about the weight. "After all," he said. "People are starving all over the world. We're lucky to have some extra pounds." Needless to say, I really liked him.

So... back to the most recent attempt at losing weight. It seems I am failing yet again. I started out counting all the calories I ate, and found some quick success. As a matter of fact I lost five pounds pretty easily. (I wrote down everything to keep myself honest, and it worked!) But then, (You know where I'm going with this.) I got bored. I grew tired of measuring, counting, writing, figuring, and planning. So I stopped, and regained three pounds. So I started again, and lost three pounds. So I stopped again, and regained three pounds. Do you see a pattern here? Currently I'm on the regained side of those pounds, and I wonder why I keep fighting with them.

Why can't I just accept that I'm a size 16 and be done with it? I'm healthy. I have energy (as evidenced by the fact that my work days and weekends move at a pretty good clip). I laugh. I play. I sing. I dance. I do anything I want, but I'm not thin. I keep telling myself that a well-educated, modern, enlightened woman should just accept herself as is. After all, I don't judge my friends based on outward appearance, so why should I judge myself? We all talk about how society sends us subliminal messages about body image, and how our culture holds a double-standard for women and men, but why do we let it?

I'm reminded of the time a fellow college student judged me based on gender. We were discussing The Catcher in the Rye. When I said I didn't really like the book, he said, "That's because you didn't get it. After all, you're a chic and this is a guy book." Of course I laughed in his face and never discussed literature with him again. (Come to think of it, I never discussed anything with him again.) But my point is, why can't I handle issues of weight in the same way? I can see it now. I'll step on the scale tomorrow morning, which will groan under the additional three pounds I am still battling, but I won't care. I'll laugh (derisively, perhaps, but laughter none-the-less) and inform my mechanical nemesis (and the woman in the mirror) that I'd don't intend to discuss the matter any further. That should work until I step on the scale again, or tomorrow - whichever comes first.