Last night I had a dream that I was getting liposuction, through the tops of my thighs. Initially, it seemed like I was donating the lard to my sister for some heroic cause. My parents were there and Hank said, “I guess it’s OK, if you’re doing it for the right reasons.” But then I had all of these happy thoughts about my new body. I remember telling myself – in my dream, remember – that I would have to work really hard to keep the fat off. I was awake for the surgery, which took place in the basement of a convention center, but they gave me some sort of twilight drug so I was drooling down my face and smiling like a moron. The surgeon looked like my high school English teacher. Then it got super weird. He stuck the giant sucker straw up my leg but then got distracted by a group of hooligans standing at a closed down concessions stand and they started fighting. He called for help and Hank, the security guard from The Office, showed up and then I don’t remember anything else.
Diet culture is so pervasive, so unrelenting that it’s literally haunting me in my dreams.
I can’t think of a week and, to be honest likely a day, that’s passed by without me having some sort of exchange with someone about a diet plan or their weight or my weight. Paleo and Whole30 and bloating and intermittent fasting and collagen and carbs and ketones and macros and micros and gluten and gloten. OK, the last one’s made up. And I’m not saying I’m an innocent bystander. No victims here. I’m 100% an active participant in these chats, often initiating the conversation. Because I, like so many of you, am just sweatin’ my ass off on the road to perfection that, turns out, is actually a treadmill. It’s not a true destination. That’s how they getcha.
The “ideal body” for women has been etched out and shoved down our throats by the figures we see on television, in magazines, on Instagram or YouTube. Everywhere you look there’s some chick with a killer body and a strong brand. It’s no wonder that’s the north star we’re all stacking up ladders to catch in our nets. Why wouldn’t we want a sliver of that unattainable pie?
I love admiring a woman’s physique, arms in particular, and then trying to crack the code on how she achieved her enviable shape. “You have yoga arms. You do yoga, don’t you?” I’ll accuse, I mean ask. Or, “You have to be a runner with those legs.” It’s a question deluding a compliment masking an inquiry feeding jealousy watering insecurity. Without taking into account any other factors of consequence, like say … genetics, I assume that if they run, and I run, I might have those legs, too. Which is, let’s be honest, asinine.
But this post isn’t another post about striving to achieve the ideal body and the changes I’m willing to make to get there, or me lamenting over another failed attempt to be better. It’s not about elimination diets. It’s not even about goals, which I admittedly adore. It’s about calling out how exhausting it all is. Guys, mama’s tired.
I am 1 trillion percent in support of living a healthy life. We all want to take as many trips around the sun as we can, right? But, when it comes to our obsession with going down a size or hitting a number we haven’t seen since before having children, myself being one of the biggest offenders, it’s just starting to feel a little irrelevant and sad. Particularly given the events of the past year. We give so much of our precious, beautiful energy to the pursuit of this illusion of perfection. This manufactured prototype of an ideal that most of us will never achieve because let’s face it, we weren’t put together that way. And we like ice cream and wine.
Is our weight really the most interesting thing about any of us? Do people treat us differently if we’re up a few pounds, or 15? No. At least not the good people. I am friends with ladies who teach, serve, create, heal, persevere, inspire and entertain. Not once have I ever pulled out a score card and graded these incredible humans on their appearance or, specifically three insignificant numbers on a scale. Their worth is a million tiny little attributes I adore. They stay up with a sick kid all night and go into work the next day. They carve out time for themselves to train for marathons and redefine women’s “roles” and piss all over boundaries. They make me laugh. They make me want to be better. And it has nothing to do with the size of their boss lady pants.
So why do I think people care so much about my weight, if I care nothing of theirs?
Over the summer, I listened to a podcast with Rob Lowe. He mentioned that he does a 24-hour fast every-other day. I was about halfway into completing the COVID 15 and mildly depressed, and I thought, why not? How hard can it be? So, for just under two months, I alternated regular meals and just one meal, every other day. On the days I restricted, I had incredible headaches and thought of nothing other than what I was going to eat, when I could eat. I had to explain to the girls why I wasn’t eating anything at dinner. Then about five weeks in, I started to notice pain along my side and in my lower back. When it persisted, I finally decided that Rob’s approach was not the best fit for me. In total, I’d lost five pounds.
Then, around the holidays, I packed on my usual “jolly dozen.” Sugar is my mistress and I really let myself love on her between Thanksgiving and New Year’s day. So, here I am, still about 10 pounds up from where I was heading into Turkey Day.
And the funny thing is, whether I’m soft or a little less so, I’m realizing that I am consistently the same person. My thoughts are the same. My heart is the same. When I’m up 15, I love my husband and kids. Same as I do when I’m down five. Regardless of what the scale says, I am a writer, a daughter, a sister, a mother, a wife, a friend, a nature lover, a sugar seeker, an anxiety-ridden nightmare, an optimist, a worrier. The inner workings of my spirit don’t get rewired based on what I’m bringing on the outside.
Let’s say hypothetically, I was able to stick to the 24-hour fasting and I’d hit the weight I was the day I married by best friend. Would that suddenly be the most interesting thing about me? Would I get promoted, praised, a few things taken off my plate? Or would I just be a hungrier, grumpier, smaller version of the exact same human, albeit a little less enjoyable to be around in pants without elastic around the waist. Is that worth it? Worth starving myself?
“No one is coming to save you. This life is 100% your responsibility.”
I don’t like carrying extra weight. No one does. I’m not saying let’s all let ourselves go and start toasting the good life with 2 liters of Mountain Dew. But let’s not make ourselves so uncomfortable and miserable that we aren’t enjoying the ride. In the past, I’ve let something as capricious as my BMI completely consume me. It’s important, sure, but it isn’t everything. It’s one thing. These days I’m focused on just making the best choice in each scenario. Moving. Getting those good plants in the pot. Forgiving myself. Having the birthday cake.
But also, I want to talk about other things. A lot of us are trying to slay the same dragon, so it’s going to come up and that’s cool. I just want to hear about your wins, too. First and foremost, I want to celebrate rather than criticize. It starts with the woman in the mirror, too, believe me.
There’s a happy medium somewhere between having ice cream cake for breakfast and getting the fat sucked out of your legs by a disengaged high school English teacher, and that’s where I’m heading. It’s my Demi Lovato moment. Get into it.
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