As any of you who have met me in person know, I'm fat. Rubenesque, if you're into flowery language. I wasn't always fat. In high school, i was teensy. I never realized how teensy until I held up a t-shirt that would fit a four-year-old and realize it was a size 2 from GAP. Now, I have this policy in life. My policy is, "Do what feels good." Dieting doesn't feel good. No one can convince me that a Snickers don't taste as good as thin feels. Because I've been thin, and it didn't taste like Snickers. But in that moment, as I held up that tiny shirt, I thought, "My God. How did I get this fat? I need to go on a diet."
That feeling passed as soon as we started roasting marshmallows over the campfire. But I did take stock. How did I get to this weight?
- I had two wonderful babies who are growing every day into wonderful kids and, eventually and against my wishes, into wonderful teenagers and then wonderful adults.
- I have plenty of food to eat. Some people don't.
- I have the genetic code of my family, the women of which tend to be on the heft side. Also, on the awesome side.
- My husband doesn't care how much I weigh or what I look like, and I don't have to be afraid that he's going to leave me for a younger, thinner woman because I'm not physically perfect.
- I express my love for my friends and family through food. And I love them a lot. My family and friends share this same ideal, and they also love me a lot.
So, in the end, I guess the leap from a size 2 to a size 20 wasn't a downward slide generously greased with ice cream cake and cheese fries. Every pound I've gained has been the result of love and good fortune. And I'm not about to wish that away.