Phat with a P-H

When I was in the eighth grade my dad called me into the kitchen to teach me how to count calories and matter-of-factly told me that I have the body type that gains weight easily. I interpreted this as, you will grow up to be a fat cow. Moo. Up until then I had never thought about my weight; as in there is a certain weight you're supposed to aspire to maintaining.

There are three distinctive times I can remember actively trying to lose weight. The first being in high school when taking diet pills was the 'in' thing to do. Maybe we had watched that episode of Beverly Hills 90210 when Kelly takes diet pills and binges on potato salad too many times. I think I liked taking diet pills more for the illicit, I-could-be-the-star-of-a-Lifetime movie factor rather than the weight loss benefit. The pills seemed to be working for everyone but me. My friends would take them, drink diet soda and push their lunches around their trays. I took them, felt sick, and restrained myself from asking for seconds of the tater tot casserole. I began to think that I had a mutation that caused my body to react differently to diet pills than other people. The pills seemed to make me hungrier, which missed the point of taking them in the first place. There's no use in taking diet pills if you're going to ask everyone at your cafeteria table if they're going to eat the rest of their cheesecake.

The second time I tried to lose weight was freshman year of college. I joined the free campus gym. For a week, every day I would march up the hill and sweat it out. The next week I would quit. A couple of weeks later I'd give it another try. I tried to make it a routine but just couldn't. Even if I did lose any weight, it wouldn't have balanced out the weight I had gained. But late night beer fests and drive thru meals are inevitable in dorm life, things that are truly unavoidable and I had to live up to my potential as a thriving college freshman. Plus, I'm a firm believer that anything that happens after midnight doesn't count. This includes the consumption of any and all fast food. I didn't even take part in the stereotypical freshman year eating disorder. The closest I ever came to something like that was eating waffles and chicken fingers for dinner, guzzling alcohol all night and then puking around 2 a.m. This was passive-aggressive bulimia and not only did it not make me lose weight, it made me feel like shit.

I had come to the conclusion that weight loss was just not for me. I was fine how I was. I had clothes that fit. I didn't have a scale to constantly bounce on and off of to face me with the reality of the weight I had gained and I was never one to really factor in weight as an issue that affected my happiness in life. But last year I was faced with the ultimate weight loss test: lose ten pounds in three months before my brother's wedding in Florida. I arrived at the gym with my new sneakers on and proclaimed my weight loss goal. I was set up with a trainer for six free sessions since I was a new member. I was on my way.

During the first session the trainer made me get on the treadmill. To run. I don't run. I don't run after things. I don't run when I'm in a hurry. I don't even really run when cars threaten to plow me over. She said, "Oh, just get on and run for five minutes. Trust me, once you start, you'll love it." I looked at her and told her that clearly she did not know me and to trust in the fact that I will never love running. Ever. My body rejects the endorphins that come from running because it is too pissed off at me for running in the first place. But, I wanted to lose ten pounds so I slowly started to jog. I glanced down at the timer to see that I had only been on there for twenty seconds. Twenty seconds! I felt a sharp pang in my side, gasping for breath, sweat trickling down my temple, I was dying. Then the trainer started pushing buttons and what was happening, she was upping the speed?!? Oh my god, I am going to be the flailing girl that flies off the treadmill. My feet felt heavy and it sounded like a herd of elephants clomping onto the moving belt. I looked around to make sure no one was laughing or sneering or staring at me. No one was. Every one looked like they were gliding on their treadmills, like they were trying out to be in a Nike commercial. Running was followed by introduction to the elliptical machine which I actually enjoyed and started using on my own after my training sessions until I was semi-stalked by a man who stayed on his elliptical for over an hour grunting in a very disturbing way the whole time. One time he grunted and moaned so loudly I was beginning to wonder if he was listening to downloaded porn. No matter which machine I picked, he somehow ended up beside me. The elliptical was out. The treadmill was out. And it was around this time that I was informed that not only did I have to exercise to lose weight, I had to change my eating habits as well. Say what? The wedding was now two months away and weight lost was zero. I went on my first diet.

I enjoy buffets. I like appetizer samplers as a whole meal to myself. Often times when dining out with others I have multiple plates and eat more food than my dining companions. For my diet, I was to eat egg white omelets plus oatmeal for breakfast. I had to include four or five egg whites in my omelet. A couple hours later I could eat a snack. Then lunch of grilled chicken and brown rice. Another snack. Dinner of fish or grilled chicken and rice. Repeat. Every day. For the rest of my life. Plus, I had to count out my snacks. If I wanted to eat grapes, I could only eat twenty. I had to count out twenty grapes. I could eat one miniscule size serving of yogurt which I had to pick out based on the sugar content. I had to spend ten minutes in the grocery store cooler turning the cartons around to read the labels to make sure I got the right one. This yogurt cup I ate in four bites. A treat was five M&M's or seven sliced strawberries sprinkled with Splenda. The diet lasted a day and a half.

Wedding time rolled around and I lost maybe three pounds, nowhere near my goal, but I kept working out. I started taking a weightlifting and kickboxing class and after awhile people began to ask if I lost weight. But they would ask in a really incredulous way, in a tone that made me think, did I really weigh that much before? Did I grow up to be a fat cow and didn't realize it? And what if I gain this weight back? Is it going to be a cycle of calorie counting, diet pills, and treadmill tries? Doubt it. I think it is the self-criticism I have when I look in the mirror that is both a curse and a blessing to me. Because when I look in the mirror I don't know how I'm supposed to look. I don't know how much I should weigh. I don't know if my thighs look any skinnier than last month and I don't think my stomach will ever be flat without me holding it in. But most days I am ok with how I look and once in a blue I look in the mirror and feel fabulous. So when people hint to me that I need to lose/gain/maintain weight I take their comments into consideration. I really do. Usually when they are saying this however, I'm eating my second ice cream sandwich in the car on the way to the gym.