Scorn at Every Size

Me: “I need to lose some weight.”

 

Therapist: “But you get regular checkups and your health is fine? Heart, cholesterol, blood pressure?”

 

Me: “Yes, but I’m MUCH heavier than the recommended highest weight for my height. And I’m not looking at, like, Jamie Lee Jo Bob’s Anorexia Enthusiast Forum — these are weight charts from real medical organizations.”

 

Therapist: “Those charts are based on the same BMI criteria you just told me was ‘horseshit.’ Have you heard of the Health at Every Size movement? That you can weigh more than you ‘should’ but still be perfectly healthy?”

 

Me: “Of course. And I totally believe that.”

 

Therapist: “OK, so…you JUST said your health is fine.”

 

Me: “But it’s NOT. I have a gut like a 55-year-old man with a lifelong Budweiser habit.”

 

Therapist: “I agree you should exercise more often, but if you do, and you eat a balanced diet, what if this is genetically just the way your body is supposed to be?”

 

Me: “It’s not.”

 

Therapist: “So you’re saying you support the idea of ‘health at every size’ for everyone except yourself?”

 

Me: “…Yes, that’s correct.”

 

She doesn’t want me to do Whole30, because apparently you, like, need carbs to live or something? But I’m doing it, so… we’ve reached an impasse. And by “impasse,” I mean, “thing I’m not telling my therapist.”

Weight a minute…

I’ve talked about diet and exercise here 100 times before, so I’m sorry I’ve been Captain Do-Nothing. But I was chatting with my lady contingent, and we all seem to have had some form of weight-related trauma this week.

My clothes have gone from “saucily clingy” to “Oh, honey…,” I’m always tired, and even if I got off the couch to exercise, I’d probably collapse within 5 minutes. Plus I couldn’t donate blood today because my iron levels are too low, as if my steady diet of animal crackers and barbecue chips isn’t providing sufficient nutrients (pfft).

My friends have similar concerns. There’s a general consensus that although we are obviously sexy as fuck at any weight, exhaustion and ill-fitting clothing aren’t as much fun as you’d think.

So. To quote one friend: “We can do this. We are a formidable trio of badass bitches, and we can do anything we set our minds to.”

^ Now, I understand that statement is not WHOLLY true. I seem incapable of getting over relationships, sticking to a budget, or performing neurosurgery. But I can sure as fuck eat a carrot and take a walk now and then. (Well, as soon as Philly isn’t so humid that it feels like we’re being suffocated by ball sacks. But indoor workouts are a go.)

Thoughts at breakfast

“I’m rockin’ this diet… until I got upset about something and realized that fruit doesn’t cure sad. Cookies release endorphins that make you feel better. Kiwis remind you that nothing ever works out. It’s a dick of a fruit.”

Landmark case of Diet v. Eating Disorder

I watched a rerun of The Rachael Ray Show the other day (because I use my time wisely) and she was talking to the author of The Fast Diet. Basically you eat normally for 5 days a week, and the other 2 days, you cut your calories to 1/4 your normal intake (for women, ~500 calories).

So what I’d been thinking were stressed and disordered eating habits are actually being marketed as a weight-loss program. Outstanding.

(Though, um… I did lose 2 lbs. I couldn’t exercise that day because I thought I might pass out. But I lost 2 lbs. so…maybe fuck working out?)