This Dieting Thing Can Fuck Right Off
Almost one year ago, I got on the treadmill for the first time. I decided that I was going to learn to run, with the ultimate goal being a 10km for my 40th birthday.
I didn’t make the 10 km mark. Lack of training time and consistency driven by too demanding work schedules, children, nagging strain injuries and just plain life got in the way.
BUT, I was running 5km pretty regularly, and at the end of the day I have become a *runner*. I had accomplished something I was told and believed I would never be able to achieve, and still have my eyes set on that 10km mark. So yeah, giant “fuck yous” all around to my inner voice and people in a previous life that were quick to judge the short round girl and what she was capable of.
Anyway, I am 100% ok with being fitfat. You know, someone whose body type is just never going to be sleek and slim and perfect. I was happy with being curvy and healthy and not having any limitations in my fitness level. I was super proud to get on the treadmill and gain power by exceeding everyone’s expectations, even my own.
Somehow though, over the course of the past year and a bit, my weight had surprisingly crept up. I don’t normally get on the scale, but that fucking annual doctor’s appointment sealed my fate. It wasn’t like I gained a shit ton, but it was enough to irritate me.
And if you know me, I am sorta anti-diet these days. It makes me feel like shit inside, it make me feel like shit outside. It brings up all those unhealthy thoughts and behaviors of pseudo eating disorders from my teens and early twenties and I am so tired of attaching anything about my well being or self worth to the number on a goddamn scale.
And still, I thought to myself last month that maybe if I just made an effort to shed about 20 pounds, it would take some stress off the joints that have been giving me trouble, allowing me to run a little longer and a little faster. I wasn’t doing it for any reason of vanity or worthiness or any of my usual bullshit.
So, I jumped on the wagon. I am about 12 pounds down but now this week, despite eating cabbage soup and boiled eggs and all the apples that have ever grown on a fucking tree in the universe, the scale is being a right asshole. And all of a sudden, I am 17 years old again, and all that matters in getting that number down no matter how hungry and miserable it makes me inside.
Why does that happen?
I just want to run a 10km, Bitches.
To all the humans out there who see someone who is overweight, or underweight, or imperfect in any way, just remember that everyone is trying to be the best human that they are capable of in the moment. Dieting is such an ugly habit. I preach all the time about being beautiful in our diversity, that nobody needs to give a shit about what other people think. And it’s totally true.
But we all have our kryptonite.
Mine is the scale. It makes me fell weak, and like a failure no matter what it says. It’s so annoying.
Find your kryptonite and tell it to fuck right off. Do yourself that favour. Whether its an object, or a person, or whatever. It has no business stealing your power.
You are enough. I am enough.
Here’s to a 10km this spring!