At work and at parent-teacher conferences at my children’s school, acquaintances morph into intimate confidantes, compulsively dredging for details, trying to make sense of the absurd. Was it South Beach? Weight Watchers? Atkins? (None of the above.) How long did I do it? (Two months.) What did I eat? (That’s a longer story.) As the newest “lean machine,” I’ve resigned myself to the interrogation. I hold the secret of the Magi, I got a glimpse of the Wizard of Oz, I found the genie in the bottle and was granted three wishes, one of which involved my body mass. With crazed eyes and a look of awe mixed with disbelief, they express yearning for their own personal metamorphosis from within the baggage of self-admonition, societal pull and their own fantasies of being perceived (loved?) differently. I am the mirror into which they gaze.
I try to elucidate the variables that intersected—finally—to yield this most desirable outcome. Was it that my old motto, “I never met a carbohydrate I didn’t love,” was simply replaced by a new one, “Nothing tastes as good as thin feels”? Not exactly. I haven’t gone off the deep end just yet. However, a light switch did go on. I knew it was time to get motivated and leave the lame pregnancy-weight excuse behind. Hey, that was 15 years ago.
I didn’t follow any famous diet or nutritionist, just came up with my own zip-the-lips routine that integrated aspects of all the diets I have ever agonized over. I ate protein and a gazillion veggies (you can learn to love a turnip), floated through life drinking countless bottles of water and didn’t eat half the turkey before serving my family on Thanksgiving. Stuff like that. The weight did not “melt away.” I worked hard at this.
Yes, exercise was involved. I snuck out to the gym before sunrise and hit the treadmill with my kids’ wild music. I cross-trained to avoid baby-boomer-wreck syndrome and factored in time in the pool, on the bike and the elliptical machines. I learned you need a will of steel to get abs of steel and that setting goals like finishing long-distance cycling trips provide emotional fuel. And just like it says in the psych texts, receiving positive reinforcement cemented the behavior. One friend told me I looked like her daughter, another said I looked 15. These are good friends, keepers for sure.
My husband, concerned about the rapid change, urged me to go to the doc for a checkup. Even my fan club of little old ladies at the gym became medical experts and sent me on my way. Will the doc’s diagnosis of “willpower” assuage these worries? I certainly hope so. Work colleagues smile and murmur, and something tells me they are not discussing how I was one of a handful of students to be elected to Phi Beta Kappa in my junior year of college. Weren’t we taught that it’s what’s inside that counts? Me, I want respect for my brains—but I also want to do good things for a swimsuit.
Standing in a store dressing room recently, I had to ask the attendant for a smaller-sized garment. It was an out-of-body experience—no, actually, an in-body experience—and I relished it. She earned commission on sales. I made her day, and she made mine.
All around me, boundaries are crumbling. A nurse co-worker coyly suggested I make a trip to Victoria’s Secret, buy some wine and get away for a weekend with my husband. I didn’t realize that this weight loss thing inevitably confers sizzlin’ sexpot status. Consider me informed. Another nurse (gotta love ’em) chimed in, “You look so hot for your husband.” We bordered on the edge of inappropriate as we giggled together. Thankfully, guys generally don’t join these discussions. They innately understand the Catch-22—any comments they could make might imply I was a truck before. My husband, who’s no fool, sticks to the PC line “You always looked terrific.” Women and weight? Scariest topic known to mankind.
I ponder: where have all my fat cells gone? There was no proper farewell ceremony. I should have invited an iced cake, cookies and chocolate candies to the goodbye party and then, in a most honorable display, crashed a bottle of soda against the lard barge as it officially departed for other shores. Ah, sweet victory. I shall retain this image to help fend off the ever-lurking vision of latent cells coming to life to sponge up guilty pleasures once again. And oh! What would become of all my pretty little new clothes?
Final words of wisdom on all the madness: Love your family. Embrace your friends. Be charitable. Incorporate healthy lifestyle behaviors when you can. Live an awesome life without measuring yourself against someone else’s yardstick.
As for me, well, that bizarre half-century-of-age milestone looms, and some skimpy workout gear or a navel piercing might be fun and shock my family. Invasion of the body snatchers? Invasion of the mind snatchers is more like it. With my new iPod strapped to my arm and less gravitational pull, I’m ready for takeoff. Look out world, here I come.
