What? I’m fat, you say?
Oh, well thank you for that. Because I didn’t know it already.
No, I didn’t know it from the I-look-3-months-pregnant-even-though-I’m-not tummy pooch.
Or from my Jell-o thighs.
Or from the lovehandles just above my soft and round booty.
Or from the number on the scale. Which didn’t budge but by one-and-a-half pounds since last week. Even though I exercised until my legs couldn’t hold me up any longer. Even though I starved myself and went to bed hungry last night.
No, I didn’t know I was fat.
Oh…but I did. I do. And now that’s all I’ve been telling myself all day long. You’re fat. You’re a fatty. Your new name is Fatso! Oh, if there was a prize for negative self-talk, I would win it.
The truth: I know I’m not fat. I’m completely within my targeted weight range, based on my height. My BMI is healthy. I’m less than two pounds above my personal goal. *
But I feel fat. I feel unattractive and inadequate. I feel unworthy. Those two pounds have all the power.
But I don’t care. But I do. But I’m trying not to.
There was a time in my life, when I cared much less — for example, after giving birth to my daughter, when I loved my body and felt it was a temple and oh-boy look at all the amazing things it can do! It can give life! And there was a time when I cared much more — after losing fifty pounds, after falling in love with my personal trainer, all through college, all through my engagement (not to the personal trainer, though), on my wedding day. Today, I am somewhere in between these two extremes. I care, but maybe not enough.
Today, I didn’t even count my calories. We went out of town and I just didn’t want to. But tomorrow and Tuesday, I will. I will starve and I will exercise, all in the name of making up for my “naughtiness” today. But then that’s el fin. The end. I’m done. I don’t want to be fat and I don’t want to feel fat, but I do want to be pregnant. I want to conceive. Soon. And I don’t know if restricting calories and overdoing the exercise can harm my fertility (beyond it’s already irreparable damage, that is), but I don’t want to find out. **
So on Wednesday, when I will officially be done with the progesterone and just waiting for CD1, I am choosing my fertility over my figure. There was once a time, not very long ago (maybe yesterday), when that wouldn’t have happened. But then I asked myself: Do you want a baby or do you want to weigh less? And the answer was obvious. So obvious, I wonder why I didn’t ask sooner. I want another baby and I want to create the family I long for, and I would even gain ten pounds for that. I can’t believe I just typed those words, but it’s true. I really would.
And who knows, maybe I will? Because when I’m not dieting, that slice of cheesecake seems a little less dangerous.
But I will hope that one day, it won’t even matter. Maybe I’ll even be okay with it. Maybe I’ll love myself and my body, whatever I weigh.
Um…yeah, right. Maybe when pigs fly? Or there is a cure for infertility? Or miscarriage is just a figment of our overactive imaginations?
* I know some of you are probably laughing. Because two pounds is nothing. But for me, it has always been everything. I hang all my self-worth on those last two pounds. And I don’t lose weight easily, but I seem to gain it just by breathing, so two pounds can be a mountain I may never be able to climb.
** For some compelling evidence that too much exercise can cause problems, see this article.