Updated: Sep 3, 2019
Here’s the thing. I’ve always been concerned about my weight. Since I can remember, I’ve always been body conscious. And by that I don’t mean I’m in love with my reflection. I mean, I’ve always worried about my weight.
I’ve never been the kind of person that was just naturally really thin, which is surprising if you look at my parents. I wasn’t heavy. I just wasn’t skinny. I had a figure from a young age.
I played sports. I was a cheerleader. And then when I wasn’t, I started working out. I’ve had a gym membership since I was a junior in high school. This seems absurd to me. Now, when I see teenagers in the gym (which is rare because most of them are doing normal things like eating pizza with their friends in their spare time) I think, “Who let the child into the gym? Isn’t there a minimum age here?” I want to scream, “Go home! Eat something awful. Make the most of your speedy metabolism!”
And it’s not like I’ve only been running on the treadmill for the past three decades. I’ve had lifted weights, worked out with trainers, done the Stairmaster day after day, tried Orange Theory (that didn’t last long – this girl wasn’t meant to row), done hundreds of hours of Pilates and downloaded too many fitness apps to count. It makes sense that my knees crack like Rice Krispies when I climb out of bed in the mornings, and I have arthritis in my hands so bad that I can barely open a jar. Oh, and the tennis elbow and the sore shoulder – yeah, there’s probably an explanation for those, too.
I’ve tried every diet you can think of: vegetarian, vegan, pesca-vegan (my favorite), pseudo-keto and pseudo-Paleo (come on, this girl’s never giving up wine), super low calorie, and good old fashioned low-fat. People, I said no to cheese for four years. Four years!
Here’s the saddest twist of all: Since turning 40, now I have to work out more and eat LESS. Dropping a pound essentially takes an act of God. My word, if I’d known this when I was 16, I would’ve told my perfectly natural body to turn around, go home, get together with friends … and EAT!
So I’ve been working out three times a week (ugh, ok, usually more) and modifying my diet for 30 years, and I’m just wondering, “When am I going to stop giving a shit about my weight!?” By my estimate, I probably have at least 15 more years of this. It’s exhausting just thinking about it.
I think it’s about time I gave myself the strong talking to I should’ve given myself at 16. But can one really stop caring about something they’ve considered every day of their life? Maybe I need talk therapy or hypnotherapy … or maybe just some cool sculpting and a touch of lipo.