It's supposed to be good for you, I hear, this whole "healthy lifestyle" thing. But permanently-petite little me, I honestly thought "fat" would never be something I'd have to worry about. Sounds conceited, I know, but when you make it to the age of 22 and still not tip 100 lbs, you think you've got it made.
(For a very long time after I moved away from Halifax, I conveniently forgot, of course, that my 22-year-old self's lifestyle included energetic dancing nearly every weekend with little alcohol consumption, living in a city built on hills that forced me to work those abs and thighs when walking, and working a job that required 4-8 hours of walking around pushing heavy carts, and carrying 10-pound loads in my arms everywhere, all quickly counteracting my gross intake of pasta, hamburgers, potato chip and nachos.)
Then, two and half years ago, I moved to Toronto, city of restaurants conveniently located every twenty yards. Oy.
Within three months of arriving in the T-Dot, I'd gained ten pounds. Just before this new health kick began, I weighed 126 pounds and I hated the way my clothes didn't fit, the way my butt jiggled, the stretch marks, how I'd be out of breath after running for less than a minute, and how I just didn't feel like a teensy little sexpot anymore. I finally joined the ranks of women who hate their bodies.
The women who weigh themselves daily to see if the spinning dial of numbers will stop on the magic number that makes them feel better about themselves. Who refuse to spend money on new clothes "just in case" they lose the weight, and wind up with a years-old wardrobe. Or worse, who refuse to buy something that does fit because some company put a number on the tag that's too embarrassingly high for them.
My boyfriend of many years swore up, down, and sideways that he loved the curves I had developed. Although having decent breasts was quite gratifying - I fill out shirts now, and I have actual cleavage! - I found I sorely missed my bitchin' arms, my taut abs, toned thighs and trim ankles. I would certainly do without bigger boobs to have all that back.
And so after hearing me rant, rave and whine about my bodily state for far too long, my boyfriend had enough. Over dinner, twelve days ago, he proposed that we begin a diet. We would eat better foods, and less food, and no junk, and less alcohol! We would begin our journey down the road of higher self esteem (with a possible detour through the boulevard of smaller clothing sizes)!
In a fit of madness I agreed. Great, he said, I have you for three months, calorie-counting and all, with an option to renew.
You may say, my god, it sounds horrible, outrageous, demeaning, etc, to hear that he tells you what you can't eat and when to exercise. But it's not as if he's standing there with a whip and a snarl (good lord, I'm not a masochist); he gives me options and helps me understand why I don't want to do certain things or avoid certain foods. I can do some Tae Bo, or some skipping and stair climbing (and since we live on the 18th floor there's a free service right there, ha-ha)
Besides, it's not like physical violence or withholding of sex occurs if I don't follow the diet. Corny as it sounds, the thought of his disappointment, and my own disppointment with my own lack of willpower, is my motivation right now. I know that motivation will change.
And the big thing that's helping me: he's doing this with me. He exercising too, and eating - proportionately - just as much (or as little, depending on your point of view) as I am. Plus, he got rid of the scale. That helps enormously. Today, I have no idea what I weigh.
It's been ten days. Believe it or not, I'm actually starting to think I look better. I certainly feel better, and I don't need to eat quite as much to feel full. I'm just dreading the day that PMS rears its ugly head and I threaten to throttle him if I can't have some chips.
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