Letting My Guard Down…
A funny thing happens when you start to lose weight. It takes a little while, admittedly, but then the pounds start to come off and you find yourself able to wear clothing that’s a size or two smaller than you have been. Then a co-worker, (or someone else who isn’t required by law to be nice to you), tells you that you look great and suddenly, one day, you kind of forget that you’re still fat.
Or at least, that’s what happened to me.
Lately, I’ve been feeling so good about myself. I’ve been counting up the calories, eating (mostly) right, posting my food intake each day and exercising like a mad woman. I’ve even been taking expeditions to the far reaches of my closet, and returning with outfits that haven’t seen the light of day for years, only to find that many, many of my “skinny” clothes (if one can ever be forgiven for calling a size 22 skinny) are starting to fit again. And even though the scale hasn’t moved much in the last couple of weeks (I’m down a pound and a half from last week), when I’ve looked in the mirror recently, I haven’t seen a fat girl at all… rather, I’ve seen the new, healthier me.
And it’s funny, because I know that this change in attitude has translated to other aspects of my life as well. For example, I know that my walk has changed. The way I carry myself is completely different now. Whether it’s walking down the hall at work or passing another walker along the “loop” near my house, lately, I’ve been a little surprised myself by how easy it seems to make eye contact with other people, to smile and look them in the eye as I go by. The old me would have never had the courage to face other people in that way. Instead, I’d have searched the floor, or followed my feet to my next destination. I’ll tell you, it’s hard to carry around that kind of shame.
Then on Thursday, as I was rounding out the first mile of a 3 mile walk near my house, a couple of guys standing outside a restaurant yelled “move it fat ass” as I walked by. It’s really funny because, at first, I truly didn’t realize that they were talking to me. After all… I’m not fat anymore, right? But then I could see them pointing and laughing. One of them made a joke about the earth shaking beneath my feet and he grabbed a nearby column for support.
That’s when it dawned on me.
I’m the fat girl.
I’m still fat.
Suddenly, everything started to spin. The only thing I could think about was escape. I just wanted to get away. I walked as fast as my chubby little legs could carry me, but suddenly I felt every one of the 255lbs I was carrying. I pushed and pushed until I rounded the next corner… red faced and completely out of breath. I stopped and tried to steady myself until finally, I started to cry… and I didn’t stop for two straight miles.
I read a lot of weight loss blogs and I know that some of you reading this now didn’t put on weight until later in life… either after turning a certain age or after having had children, but I’ve been fat my whole life. I have no idea what it’s like to be thin and to look at another person and think “man, they’re fat.” I’ve never been the skinny girl amongst my friends. I’ve *always* been the fat girl, and as such, I’ve been the butt of many, many jokes.
But… as a result, I’ve also developed some pretty effective ways of coping with that reality.
Being fat forced me to compile a whole reservoir of witty combacks to the obligatory fat jokes. I learned to avoid certain people, places and environments that might draw attention to my fatness. Over time, I learned to thicken my skin and to wear armor in vulnerable situations. And, eventually, I learned to accept cruelty as just a natural consequence of being fat.
The problem is… I’d forgotten that I was fat.
When I was fat, I could deal with assholes like the ones I encountered Thursday night. I was prepared for them. I knew what to do.
Feeling better about myself left me vulnerable. Feeling better about myself left me unprepared. And as I result, I got hurt.
Since Thursday, I’ve been replaying the moment in my head. What should I have done? In some of my more satisfying instant replays I turn into fatzilla and destroy them handily, but oh so painfully, by simply wielding my considerable girth in their direction. While in another retelling, I’m able to slit their greasy throats with nothing more than my incredibly sharp tongue.
In the end, I realize that the important thing is not what I did then, but what I do now.
The thing is, I’d be lying if I said that I’d just been able to chalk it off and move forward as though it never happened. And I’d also be full of shit if I didn’t admit to being sorely tempted to climb back into the fat facade I’ve been wearing for years. After all, it was far safer in that place. But the truth (also) is that I’m not ready to give up on the newer, more confident me either. I don’t want to stop feeling the way I’ve felt these last few weeks. I don’t want to let go of the joy that accomplishing, at least part of, my goal has brought me. And I sure as hell don’t want to throw in the towel and reside myself to always being someone that other people will be able to ridicule and abuse.
So tonight I find myself in an awkward position… stuck somewhere *between* the old me and the person I want to be.
What I want more than anything is to accept this for what it is… a bump in the road… a momentary set back… a minor and unimportant incident. But when your life story is riddled with these types of anecdotes, it’s tough to just shrug it off. After all, old wounds often take the longest to heal.
