“This is just so sad,” she said after the fourth time she weighed me without noting a change. She went on to tell me how she felt depressed because I had stopped losing weight. Being so close to “my” goal made the lack of loss that much worse — for her. Thing is, I never set a goal for myself, not really. I just wanted to look good and have people accept me.
When I told her that I actually felt great, and that perhaps my body was meant to weigh 150 pounds, she nearly flipped.
“How can you say that?” she said in her stern, no-nonsense Texas drawl. “You need to lose at least 25 more pounds before you can say you’re a success. Do you want to be fat all of your life? I am just sick that you can’t see this.” I was dumfounded. I had just spent the last six months literally working my butt off. I had lost 115 pounds, looked great, felt great, and was still considered a failure. I left the club and never returned. The pounds, however, did return — and brought along buddies.
Although I will reveal a great deal throughout this process, the one thing I will not reveal immediately is my weight. It’s still a hard number to say aloud. If you do the math from the earlier part my story, you can probably figure it out yourself.
I will check in with you weekly, charting weight losses or gains, offering insights and detailing personal challenges. Some women are in touch with their inner child — I am in touch with my inner thighs — but not long.