Taking care of the animal.

Not long ago, I came into contact with a COVID-positive person, and I had to sequester myself away from humanity for fourteen days.

The first day of quarantine, I texted a friend, "Hnnnnngggg I feel too tense to eat anything but also I'm hungry but also I feel too fat to deserve food???"

My friend replied immediately, "Take care of the animal. Your psyche and all its cultural baggage depends on the wellbeing of the physical animal for its existence, so take care of the animal."

No stranger to the fickleness of bodies, my friend knew exactly what to say in that moment. Because it's not an easy thing to travel with, this human form. I learned this from a very early age: how department stores did not make curvy jeans for ten-year-olds with hips; how to tell when I was about to faint (which I did, frequently); how unprepared everyone around me was to deal with my proclivity for menstrual cramps that left me writhing on the floor, speechless and vomiting, for hours at a time. 

Early on, I found a line from a poem by May Swenson: "Body my house / my horse my hound." I found Anne Lamott's description of her body as her earthsuit. I read Lucille Clifton's poem "homage to my hips," and innocently adopted it as an anthem for my white teenage self.

After I discovered feminism in college, I began to notice patterns in which women were continually pressed to become smaller. Be quieter, I heard; be nicer; take up less space in boardrooms, onscreen, onstage, in pulpits. Actually, ladies (I heard), if you could just be the silent angel in the house who is simply a pair of hands and a set of holes, to be put to work only as we see fit, that would be ideal. If we need you to bring in a second salary, we will let you know when and where and how.

So when I began to gain weight, about a year after finishing grad school, I was actually fairly proud of it. I was taking up space. I was noticeable. I found weight gain to be a revolutionary act.

So I gained weight. I took up space. I found a mental health nurse practitioner and a psychiatrist, and with my team at my back, I began to eke out some joy in my life: a pinch here, a dash there.

Four years later, I went to a doctor who specialized in sleep disorders. He thumped here, and listened there, and finally said, "I hate to say it, but I think you have sleep apnea."

I said, "This is related to the weight gain, I'm guessing."

He admitted it was. In four years, you see, I had gained over a hundred pounds. I was underweight when I finished grad school: 115 pounds on a 5'6" frame. And now I was 226 pounds. Am 226 pounds, because that doctor's appointment was just yesterday.

I am ashamed to say it, but I want to lose weight. I am scrambling for good, positive, sustainable reasons why. I tell myself I want to be able to find clothes more easily (ignoring how the American clothing industry patently ignores the majority of women who are larger than their more commonly manufactured sizes). I tell myself I will feel happier (despite the fact that I am happy, here and now). I tell myself that I will feel healthier (although I feel darn healthy now, and my blood pressure is great). I have already run a half marathon, so I've crossed that off my bucket list. I'm not trying to get pregnant. I'm not even trying to date anyone. I just bought a tiny farm; and I love my independence; and in any case, the wlw dating scene in north Alabama/south middle Tennessee is ... somewhat limited.

But the main reasons why I want to lose weight --- the real reasons, right now, deep in the dark heart of my logic --- are that I am unhappy with the way I look right now. I miss having a flat stomach. I miss feeling nimble and quick. I miss buying XS dresses and then taking them in to fit me better. I miss being able to fit into my old shoes. I miss wearing tights that stayed up. I miss having only one chin. I miss having skinny fingers, and wrists that I could fit my old bracelets over.

These do not feel like sustainable reasons for losing weight and keeping it off for good. 

But they're the only reasons I have right now. And I think that's OK. It's OK if my reasons change along the way. The main thing, I'm telling myself, is not the why; it's the what. And the what is that I am going to lose this extra weight and keep it off.

Here's how I'm going to do it.

I'm going to focus on boosting my fiber intake and drinking more water. I'm going to dust off my rowing machine and take more walks with my dog, Mally. I'm going to keep track of my milestones, and reward myself when I achieve them. I'm going to use more carrots than sticks, and have accountability buddies, and focus on building habits that will be sustainable in the long term.

This will take a while, but I'm willing to put in the work. I'm going to find what works for me. I'm going to take step after step after step until I've met my goals.

2015, 115 pounds. 

2020, 226 pounds. 

2021 ... bring it on.