When I was fat, I didn't think I was fat. I thought I was average to thin. I did not think my health issues were connected in any way to my size, my habits, or what I ate. I thought I ate a healthy diet. I thought my health problems were fate, and that everything else in my life stemmed from that, rather than the reverse. I thought I was doing pretty well, considering my family tree in general. I had always been told that I had "birthin' hips" and so, if I had a big butt, it was the fault of my skeleton. Darn you, bones, always getting me into trouble! Now that I'm thin, nobody believes I was ever heavier. I tell them I lost 35 pounds, and the reaction is almost like reading off a script. "I can't picture that at all." "I don't see it." The skeletal structure is the same, but nobody says I have "birthin' hips" anymore. Now that I'm healthy, I see everything differently. I see that I ate what I would now consider a dessert 3-5 times a day. I see that I ate more sugar than vegetables. I see that I was deficient in key micronutrients over a period of decades. I see that fixing my diet fixed my parasomnia disorder and my migraines, and that the excess weight was simply one more symptom. Now that I'm a marathon runner, I see my thyroid disease in a different context, as something that could have been managed through activity level. I can feel it now, when I haven't been able to work out for a while, and I start feeling chilly and lethargic again. Yes, the migraines, the thyroid disease, and the parasomnia disorder came from genetic tendencies, but that does not mean they are fixed, irreversible traits. It simply means I have those underlying traits instead of something else, and thus my focus should be on managing them instead of something else. Isn't it weird, though (she said ironically), that making one change fixed several problems at once?? I bought into a mindset that I now recognize in many people. I didn't think I was fat, statistics be damned, and that's because almost everyone I knew was bigger than me. I thought that any suggestion that women should be a certain size was fundamentally misogynist, part of a marketing conspiracy to brainwash women into hating their bodies and buying more clothes and cosmetics. I thought I was the size I was due to family legacy and health problems. I thought weight loss required hours at the gym. I thought every time I ate something healthy, it somehow canceled out anything else I ate, like eating a quarter cup of broccoli would erase a can of cola. It's like matter and anti-matter! I thought thinking about weight loss would lead directly to neurotic body image problems, and that it was a foolish distraction from intellectual matters. The gym was for people who weren't smart enough to read a book. I didn't know anyone who could be described as an athlete. I figured I was doing just fine, so why change? Now I think that obesity is a natural consequence of the Standard American Lifestyle. I think that what is really bad for women's body image is not feeling strong and physically capable, that contemporary body image dogma overlaps perfectly with pre-feminist Victorian ideals of passivity and exaggerated curves. I consider myself an athlete, which I NEVER thought I would say, and the athletes I have met tend to be smarter and more interesting overall. Athletes are certainly better informed about nutrition and physiology than the average layperson. As I have learned more about health and fitness, it has become easier to BE fit and healthy. I talked myself into it first, and started seeing results afterward. I now want to find out just how much I can do, just what exciting new horizons of performance I can coax out of myself, how awesome and trend-setting I can be as an elderly lady. When I think about the habits I had when I was fat, it makes me want to stamp my foot. Oh, Past Self, you stubborn little ninny! Some things change and some things don't change. I read more than I ever did, only now some of it is on the elliptical and some of it is via headphones. Some of my reading material is skewed toward medical journal articles. I eat as much as I ever did, only now I cook more of it myself and more of it is skewed toward vegetables. I don't think as much about body image, because I have nothing to prove and nothing to gain from that kind of conversation. I don't really get sick anymore and I am pain-free as a general rule. In many ways, I look and feel younger than I did 15 years ago. It's hard to look back and recognize that my Past Self would have been mentally locked down against anything I had to say about what I have learned. I didn't think my body mattered because I identified with my head. I was like a floating speech balloon or thought bubble in a comic strip. Or the operator of a giant mecha-robot. I drove my body like a car... kind of a junker car, but an impersonal vehicle nonetheless. Most of the time, I didn't pay attention to my body at all, unless I was in pain or had a physical need I couldn't ignore. I sat perfectly still for long periods, often until my foot fell asleep, and I would swing between mindless snacking and going too long between meals. If I'd treated a child the way I treated myself, I would have been in big trouble. I just didn't think my behavior had anything to do with my physical self. I still don't think much about my activity level or my diet, because now I know what to do. I know how to cook basic meals that take half an hour and meet my nutritional needs. I have an inner sense of when I need to get up and move around. I have several types of workouts that interest me, and I can do them while reading or letting my mind wander. I don't give much thought to my physical needs, not because I'm pretending I don't have any, but because I know how to meet them with a simple routine. I still don't think I'm fat, only now this belief meets scientific consensus. I prefer my body the way it is now, and I'd rather be 40 than 20 if it meant the twenty-year-old I actually was. Being strong and active satisfies my mind. Physical vigor allows me to do unusually interesting things. I still do what I did before, in terms of academic pursuits and pleasure reading, and I've added more. Now I can hike up to a Neolithic cave site instead of reading about it. I can spend hours walking around a museum or archaeological site and not get too tired or collapse with a migraine. Now my body can keep up with my mind. "Lose weight" is not just the most commonly failed New Year's Resolution. It's probably the single biggest reason that people don't believe in resolutions, period. I can speak to this. I lost 35 pounds and kept it off. That's a lot for a 5'4" person! I've maintained my goal weight for three years. Before I lost my weight, I probably believed every possible wrong thought about weight gain and weight loss. I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. Usually, when I lost any weight at all, it was by accident. Given my experience, my opinion is that most people fail at weight loss because we set the stakes too high. Try to do too much, on too tight a deadline, without knowing exactly what you're doing, and failure is guaranteed. Guaranteed failure can be reassuring because we can shrug it off. Oh well, I tried. We can even try something else and then say, I'VE TRIED EVERYTHING AND NOTHING WORKED! I say, just lose three pounds. Three is plenty, and I'll tell you why. Three pounds is the difference between pants that won't zip, and pants that will zip. Three pounds is the difference between tight and comfortable. Three pounds is the difference between not being able to use your pants pockets, and being able to put your phone in them. Three pounds is just enough to maybe start noticing a difference in knee pain, ankle pain, foot pain, or back pain. Three pounds is just enough to prove that hey, it is actually possible to lose weight. Three pounds is enough to reverse the tendency to gain weight without noticing it, and bring focus and attention to your body. Not gaining for a year is a victory. Three pounds over a year is a quarter-pound a month. Three pounds is manageable enough that, if you feel stymied and that this is an impossible goal, it's a solid indicator that your real issue is trusting in your own self-efficacy. Do you believe you have the power to make any meaningful change in your life? Three pounds is enough that, if you do it every year, then you'll be down thirty pounds in ten years. Think of yourself as ten years older and ask whether Future You would appreciate this. (I know that if I'd asked 19-year-old me if I would want to be 35 pounds heavier at 29, plus chronically ill, single, and lonely, Younger Me would have burst into tears). What would it take to lose three pounds? It starts with writing down your starting weight. This can be regarded as exactly like looking at your credit card balance if you are worried about money. Knowing the truth can feel panicky. Knowing the truth can make you want to berate yourself and call yourself a loser or various other horrible names. It is what it is, though. Reality is easier to live with when we acknowledge it. I would say we should all feel excited about high starting numbers and super-unflattering Before photos, because they'll be all the more impressive when we put them up next to our After photos. But nobody realizes that until later. I don't even have any pictures of me from my top weight. First there's the initial weigh-in. Then there are follow-up weigh-ins. Then there is an ongoing plan to keep tabs on it and preserve that victory. At Curves, they weigh in on the same day every month. At Weight Watchers, they weigh in every week. I weigh in every day, unless I'm on vacation and don't have access to a scale. I bought a scale for $25 and I'm still using it a decade later. Keeping a resolution or reaching a goal requires some kind of reminder system. The default is to make commitments and then gradually forget about them. The more people in your social circle who are not goal-setters, the more likely that is. Many people will actively sabotage someone else's goal, I guess because they have nothing better to do. Losing three pounds, though, is a small enough goal that you can keep it to yourself and they might not even notice. It can be private. Just schedule a reminder in your phone to weigh in on a predictable basis. Three pounds is a small enough amount that making any one change will probably work. Stop eating bagels. Don't carry cash at work so you won't buy things from vending machines. Switch to a smaller size of drink. Change your evening snack from cheese and crackers to something else. Quit buying food when you stop for gas. Don't eat in your car. Don't eat on the couch. Eat a half-cup of vegetables at dinner every night. Something. If it comes from a gas station or a bakery, or it involves booze, sugar, or cheese, you're probably on the right track. Pick one change and remind yourself, the goal is three measly pounds. Lose three pounds. If you don't like it, you can always gain it back. You don't even have to tell anyone. Losing three pounds doesn't require changing your self-image or changing what other people think of you, either. Try it and see if you like it. Imagine waking up one morning, a la Freaky Friday, in a totally different life and a noticeably different body. What if you were you, only with no problems? You had no chronic pain and all your blood work checked out, which you intuitively felt it would, since your body felt strangely vigorous. Not only did you have no debts, but your bank balance showed a number you thought would have to be a mistake because it was much too high. As you checked out your weirdly new muscle definition, you couldn't help but notice that your surroundings were beautiful, orderly, clean, and welcoming. Then you checked your phone and had a bunch of sweet texts from your family and friends. W. T. F. ? ? ? What would you do with yourself? What would you worry about? (If you're a chronic worrier, you'll quickly find something. I'd list a bunch of examples, but I wouldn't want to include one that hadn't occurred to you yet). If you suddenly found that you could power-lift enough weight to set a new world record... would you go off and do it? If you suddenly found that you were a multi-millionaire, would you set up a foundation to correct that tough world problem that has always broken your heart? If you suddenly found forgiveness from and for everyone you'd ever encountered awkwardly, what would you do then? If you were selected to test out a new cleaning robot that went around making your house immaculate, would you use it? I've been somewhat obsessed with this idea lately. What if you had no problems? What if I had no problems? What if they had no problems? Would we collectively re-create some or all of our problems? Would we create brand-new problems never before seen, just for something to do? Would we have a giant block party, times a million? Would we recognize ourselves? Would we like ourselves? I suspect that many of us, certainly including myself, derive our identities from our problems. This has come to my attention because I've changed so much over the years, in so many areas, due to my penchant for Fact-Finding Missions. I paid off all my consumer debt well over a decade ago. Yet I still have to talk myself into buying things for myself, such as new socks. I know with absolute certainty that Past Me would think of Present Me as wealthy, but it doesn't feel like it fits. I lost all my excess body fat three years ago, and I've had no trouble maintaining the "healthy weight for my height" now that I know how to do it. Yet it's still sometimes hard for me to adjust to how other women sometimes react to my presence. I see myself as an unthreatening nerd, but I guess I don't look like one as much anymore. Someone close to me lost a significant amount of weight years ago, then promptly gained it back because she didn't like any of the clothing styles available in her newly smaller size. It seems that one of the things that holds us back from making change is contempt for People Like That. I'd love to be debt-free, but, ugh! Rich People! It would be nice to be able to fit into my old favorite clothes again, but I don't want to go farther than that because Skinny Bitches. Maybe life would be easier if I get organized, but Dull Women Have Clean Houses. I can only go so far down this path, but no farther, because the people a mile further down are too gross for words. You can't sit at our table. It can really mess with your mind when you look up and realize that you have, indeed, become one of Those People. I used to hate it whenever I saw someone jogging in place at a stoplight. Oh, SHUT UP! I would say. I would go on rants about it. I knew with certainty that these people were showing off, looking for attention, and that they had no other thoughts in their shallow little brains than whether they had chosen the right shade of neon Lycra to best show off their vain little bodies. Men and women both. Mm hmm. I'm clairvoyant and I can read everyone's minds. Look out, you might be next. Then I sort of accidentally fell in love with running. One day I BECAME That Person who jogs in place at a stoplight. I had to admit to myself that I had been wrong. The only reason I did that thing I so hated was because I knew that if I quit for even one minute, I'd probably quit running for the day, and possibly quit running for the ever. I ran for my health and I didn't give a care whether other people glared daggers at me. I did care a bit when they shouted abuse at me from car windows, but not enough to quit. When I turned 40, I gave myself permission to do whatever I want, as long as it's harmless, and to stop noticing other people's reactions. They as well have my permission to do what they want, even if it includes judging me. If your only problem is what other people think, then in reality you have no problems. One benefit of the No Problems thinking exercise is that it can speed up our work on our existing problems. Curiosity can move mountains. What will I do with my newly beautified space once it's cleaned up? Make art? What will I do with my money after this debt is laid to rest? Go on vacation, save for a house, start a business, or invest it? What charity will I choose? What will I do with my awesomely strong body once I reach my goal weight? Run a 5k? Learn to swim? Climb a rope? Taunt my siblings? (Never underestimate the motivating power of the desire to taunt one's siblings). It's easy to find hundreds or thousands of examples of other people in our situation who have reached our goal before we did. Plenty of people have paid off over $10,000 of debt in a year or lost a hundred pounds in a year. I've worked with clutter clients and cleared an entire house of many years' accumulation in a long weekend (although squalor takes longer). The first step is to feel sick of the previous situation, to feel that This is Not Me and that I Want More For Myself Than This. The second step is to visualize yourself in dramatically unfamiliar form, having achieved the goal, and to find some excitement for the truth in that image. All that's left after that is action and adjustment. New Year's is coming. This, as far as I'm concerned, is the most wonderful time of the year. There's just that big red-and-green speed bump to get over. I've already written my New Year's Resolutions because I couldn't help myself. As with every year, one of my areas of focus is physical fitness. It was that way when I was obese and out of shape and had no idea what I was doing. It was that way when I was fumbling around, trying to learn how to think and act and live like an athlete. It's that way now, when I'm confident about my strength and abilities and ab definition. My goals and resolutions about my body have been different over the years, but the one thing that has stayed the same is that I've always taken my physical needs seriously. One way to know that there is a hidden source of power in your life is when you find yourself acting like a defense lawyer about it. Whatever you're defending is something you know you've outgrown in yourself. Imagine being an adult and trying to wear your baby shoes. Not happening. Why would anyone want to hang on to past versions of oneself from younger, more immature ages? Simply move in the direction of the resistance. The power that will be unleashed is like the eruption of a subglacial volcano. For some of us, the resistance will be found around an expired personal relationship. For others, it will be around a safe but annoying job. For others, it will be around a substance addiction, and bless you if that's you. Enough of that now, it's time to live. For most of us, the resistance will be around body image. It's an American problem. Two-thirds of women and almost three-quarters of men in the US are overweight. I've traveled over four continents now, in nine countries, and the one thing that's clear is that everyone can always spot the Americans. There's something different about the way we do things here, and we can have a lot of discussions about what that might be. The upshot is that what has happened to us is not genetic, it's not fate, it's not a natural result of aging, and it has nothing to do with becoming a parent. That means that it is within our sphere of influence. What we resist persists, so desist and feel blissed. (I just made that up!) I chose to start running because it was the worst thing I could think of. I had an ulterior motive, which was to encourage my husband to work out, and I knew I would get his attention by doing something extreme. I asked him to help me. He would do anything to help me, of course, and when I couldn't even make it 1/3 of a mile, it was clear just how much I needed him. (Not sure if it would have occurred to him that I wouldn't "need" him in that way if I simply stayed on the couch with my head in a book). I didn't love running but I did love my man. I knew I had the grit to sacrifice my own comfort if I thought it would benefit him. The joke was on me, because I fell in love with running, and I didn't even make it four years before I finished a marathon. Then I took two years off while recuperating from a series of sports-related injuries. Now I'm getting up to speed again. I have the mentality of a marathon runner and the cardio endurance of a beginner. I went out last week and managed to make it barely over a mile. I got a stitch in my side. I was pleasantly surprised with my pace, but saddened that I probably couldn't even make it through a 5k right now, even if my family was watching. During marathon training, I never bothered with a distance shorter than four miles. I ran at least four to six miles even in 90 F heat. It's tough on the ego to feel like you're struggling to handle something which in the past wouldn't have been worth the effort of lacing your shoes. As a grown-up, I realize that I need to respect my limits. This is part of why a middle-aged person can always out-distance people in their teens and twenties. Kids have no idea how to pace themselves. They'll sprint as hard as they can until they have to walk, then start sprinting again, and then fall back. I've been passed by people half my age dozens of times, only to pass them again and leave them behind by the halfway point. Meanwhile, I'm getting left in the dust by someone twice my age. I've seen octogenarians crush me running up a steep hill, unfortunately more than once. I love it, though. It gives me something to look forward to. One day I'll be a little old babushka thumbing my nose at all those forty-year-olds trudging behind me. Choosing a body-related goal means including the beginner level. If we're trying to get back a fitness level we had in the past, it also means including things we might find boring or embarrassing. It's hard on the old pride. It's hard to tip over in yoga and it's hard to have the instructor come and work out next to you in step aerobics because you keep getting on the wrong foot. It's hard being stuck behind an eight-year-old child in a 5k. (Sharing all my secrets here). Just like any game, though, the challenge rounds are more interesting. That's why we play. The resistance that we beat when we reshape our bodies is the same resistance that holds us back in every other part of life. We have to remind ourselves why we're doing it: A better life for Future Self while we're still young and strong enough to make it happen. Remember film? Remember when taking pictures used to be expensive and meant for special occasions, just like long distance phone calls? Hmm. If you're under thirty, you probably don't. Take my word for it - it was just as complicated as listening to music used to be. Photographic evidence of what we really look like may have been more significant and revelatory in that time. Seeing yourself from an external perspective can be as weird an experience as hearing a recording of your own voice. Is that really me? Comparing a photo to our inner image of ourselves can snap into focus that we've changed, that our outsides don't match our insides. Change is proof that change is possible. Unfortunately, we tend to believe in external change - that things happen to us - but not so much in internal change - that we have the power to make things happen. This is why so many of us believe that body weight naturally goes in only one direction. Worse, we believe in Old Age, the idea that as we get older, we slow down and become frail and ill. There is only one fate possible, and that is a fate of pills, surgery, pain, and debilitation. There are relatively few positive role models of aging toward strength and grit. Most of us may never have met a single elder person who is stronger at 60 than in younger days, and we don't really believe such things are possible. Must be genetic. The thing is that the body is continually renewing itself. Even brain cells continue to grow with age. We aren't surprised when we get paper cuts, and they miraculously heal without even leaving a scar. We aren't surprised that our hair and fingernails continue to grow. Faced with evidence that our bodies are malleable, we don't make the connections. We don't truly believe that we have any choice or input about how our bodies work. We'll tolerate chronic neck and shoulder tension, sleep deprivation, or regular migraines because we assume that these are just the price of the ticket for being a working adult. Life is hard, life is stressful, therefore we must walk through each day with at least a certain measure of pain. When we see our own faces reflected back to us with stress lines and circles under our eyes, shoulders slumped in weariness and care, we see exactly what we expect to see. Disappointing, but whatcha gonna do. It's this same fatalism that has us routinely eating foods even when they disagree with us later, overindulging and staying up too late even when we feel punished the next day, gaining weight every year, hating it, but feeling like this is just what happens. Dammit, body of mine, why can't you just be awesome for once? Oh well. Pass the brownies. Hold up a baby picture, a graduation photo, and a selfie from today. Instant timeline. This kind of timeline feels real. A "before and after" timeline feels fake, partly because we know how often they are faked. Who's to say that the "before" and the "after" are even the same person? Only when we've made our own personal physical transformations do we understand that major change is possible for anyone. The way I look today has nothing to do with how I looked a year ago, or how I'll look next year. It isn't carved in stone. Maybe I'll always be short, but I do have control over my posture. I can also control my sleep schedule, my hydration and food intake, and my strength training routine, or lack thereof. I don't photograph well. A kind friend tactfully said that I am "difficult to capture on film." That's fine. I feel like I would not have enjoyed being a "10" in life, and now that I'm over 40 I just can't care that much. I look how I look - I look like myself. I feel that I look like myself even though I look so different than I did in my teens and twenties. That sense of identity felt exactly the same when I was fat as it does now. I've spent at least a year of my adult life wearing each of eight clothing sizes, and I always felt the same. There I am, that's me. The biggest difference is that I have more energy now. I'm measurably more physically fit than I was at every age from 15 to 30. I run faster, I can lift more weight, I have greater endurance, I can cover more miles, and I can do things I couldn't do when I was young. I can spin a hula hoop, do a pull-up, and climb a rope. I couldn't do any of those things until after I turned 35. Who cares how I look, when the experience of being in my body is so much improved? That's the trouble with photographs. A sweetly smiling facial expression can hide total inner turmoil or deep sadness. A cranky frown could be the result of trying to smile into the sun on an unusually happy day. Pictures can be deceiving. Our pictures of our own bodies can be deceiving, as well. We feel like we simply ARE a certain way, physically, whether that includes poor body image or a poor state of health. We forget how much we changed in our first decades of life, and we think that at a certain age, positive physical change quits happening. What we don't know, what we can never see, is how far our timelines extend into the future. Each day is simply one snapshot in the series. What if another snapshot a little further ahead showed a stronger, more vital self? I was standing in the laundromat one afternoon, folding my clothes. Another woman had brought her daughter and another little girl, both about five years old. They took a fancy to me, as little kids often do when they see mommy-aged ladies without children. The little girls asked me questions, in between running around the machines. One came back and patted me on the behind. “THAT’S a big butt you got there.” “That wasn’t very nice,” I said. Her mom piped up. “What did she say?” I told her. She snorted. She didn’t even pretend to disagree. I was a size 8 at the time, nowhere near my top weight, and I was only 20. I hadn’t been diagnosed with fibromyalgia or thyroid disease yet. I had no idea at the time how long a journey lay ahead of me. I knew I carried my weight in my lower half, a body type referred to as “pear-shaped,” and that that was supposedly healthier than “apple-shaped,” which corresponded with higher rates of heart disease. Other than that, I didn’t give it much thought. Having a big butt was sort of like being a car with a bumper, or a duck with tail feathers. Big butt, so what? As the years went by, I learned affectionate terminology for this area. Booty. Junk in the trunk. Badonkadonk. Moneymaker (appropriate when you're always working your butt off...). Every now and then, though, I would catch a glimpse of it, following me everywhere I went like some stalker. There it would be, photobombing me. There it would be, pushing its way into the dressing room where I went to try on clothes. There it would be, snickering at me when I left again to find the next size up. I remember one night when I tried on 35 different pairs of pants, trying to find one that simultaneously fit my waist, hips, butt, thighs, and short legs. Now that I’m thin, 90% of clothes in my size fit properly. Who knew? I started to make more money. This gave me more options in life, and that included clothing. I have always been a tightwad, and I started contemplating whether anything good might come of upgrading my wardrobe. Maybe better outfits would lead to a promotion. I was single and lonely, and perhaps adapting to a certain ‘look’ might help me meet an eligible gentleman. I felt an undefined dissatisfaction when I looked at my reflection in the changing room. It occurred to me that what I wanted wasn’t new pants. I wanted a new BUTT. I could spend any amount of my hard-earned money on higher-end fashions from higher-end stores. I could hire a personal shopper or wardrobe consultant to give me a makeover. I could buy some compression garments and try to squeeze myself into a different shape, although those tended to bulge above the knee, which needs a separate name because it’s upside-down from a muffin top. None of these options was going to give me what I really wanted, which was a caboose that didn’t look like a sack of potatoes. How much of the beauty and fashion industry would still exist if all women felt total body pride? I don’t color my hair – I like my tinsel. I don’t wear makeup. I don’t get professional manicures or pedicures. I don’t get anything waxed. I don’t have a dermatologist. I don’t wear high heels. Not only do I not wear Spanx, they don’t even make them in my size. I don’t have any store credit cards. I don’t “shop.” Other people can do what they want, and spend what they want, but personally, I don’t feel the need. When I walk down the street, I hold my head up high, throw my shoulders back, and shake that thang. Take your hats off, ladies and gentlemen; what you see before you is a marathon runner. The thing about having a nice butt is that it works in every situation. It’s reliable. This is a butt that can get me up a 6,000-foot elevation gain. This is a butt that can get me over a wall obstacle. This butt has climbed a rope, jumped over open flame, and scuttled its way under barbed wire. It even fit through the dog door one keyless night. It’s a very capable set of buttocks. The other interesting thing about my new butt is that I tend to catch my husband staring at it. Whatever you might say about marriage and long-term love, having a mega-fine posterior is not a hindrance. I have stretch marks, and I always will. They start at my knee and work their way up my inner thighs, my hips, and my butt. They’re not red or purple anymore. Now they look a bit like sparkly silver lightning bolts. I don’t have a problem with this. They’re like the action lines in a comic book, indicating all the super-powers resident in my lower half. I’m proud of these silver lightning bolts because they’re proof of how far I’ve come, from chronic pain and fatigue to adventure racing and backpacking the world’s beauty spots. If you have a problem with my stretch marks, I will use my newfound lower body strength to kick you into orbit. I didn’t really do it on purpose, of course. If I’d known the magic formula for having a nice butt when I was in my teens or 20s, I wouldn’t have cared. I would have thought I was above such concerns. Besides, I never looked at my own butt. How could I, when I was always sitting on it? Now it’s more like a consolation prize for being over 40. It’s hilarious to see young men check me out and then realize that I’m older than their moms. This butt of mine is the result of years of running and clean nutrition. It’s merely one symptom of an overall lifestyle that includes kicking serious ass as well as owning one. Inside me is a dainty, feminine, frilly, floral print coward. She flails and flaps her hands and squeals like a little girl. She's a total ninny and I hate her guts. No matter what I do, I feel like she's the real me, waiting to get rescued by some dude on a white horse. I'm on an endless mission to try to find the secret of courage, hoping that one day, something scary will happen and I'll finally feel brave enough. I'll be able to rescue myself. I've taken self-defense classes. I've escaped a rear chokehold and I've fallen on the ground, bounced up, and fought back. I've been attacked by strangers on the street more than once and I've lived to tell the tale. I've put out open flames with a fire extinguisher. I've been first on the scene when someone had a stroke, on two separate occasions. I've chased down a toddler who was about to run into the street. Still, I don't feel brave. I've hiked into the wilderness, with nothing but the food and gear on my back, no cell phone reception, at least a full day's hike from civilization. My husband was there, though, so I don't feel like that counts. It's like being a Disney princess and only succeeding with the help of some talking animals. Technically, my husband is a talking animal, just one with extremely advanced mathematical skills. Nothing I do is really brave when I have him there to back me up. I've waded through mud, climbed a rope, crawled under barbed wire, and jumped over open flames. Emergency responders were standing by, though, so I don't feel like that counts. I knew I could quit. I didn't, but I knew I could. It was only a dress rehearsal. I've encountered a bobcat, coyotes, a six-foot snake, and a raccoon that came up and patted me on the elbow. I've been stung by stinging nettle and bit by a fire ant. Still, I don't feel like I know what I'm doing because I've never seen a bear or a mountain lion. Not that I want to. I'm just a lacy little piece of long pork, after all. I ran a marathon. I got passed by a blind runner and a para-athlete with a colostomy bag, though, so I don't feel like it counts. That was two years ago. I don't feel like I can keep calling myself a "marathon runner" until I start training for another race. I've spoken before an audience of three hundred people. I once translated "We are the Champions" into Latin and sang it to a live audience, if you can call what I do singing. Whenever I perform in public, I feel like they're obligated to clap and that they'd applaud no matter what I did. It's not like they bought tickets just to see me. I self-published a book. It's sold copies in multiple countries on at least three continents, every month since I put it out. Still I don't feel like a "real writer." Anyone can do what I did. It wasn't that hard and it didn't take that long. It's not like I made it to the New York Times bestseller list. I've done karaoke. I've ridden a mechanical bull. I've been on the TV news. I've marched in a parade. I've been sea kayaking. I've bought train tickets in a foreign language. None of those things count in my mind because I've already done them. I remember what it was like. There's nothing unexpected or frightening in my memories. I know the outcome, and it was fine. Not impressive, not all that dramatic, but fine. I didn't die, anyway. When I talk about various things I've done, they seem like minor bullet points. I've never been kidnapped or held hostage. I've never been in a burning building. I've never saved anyone's life. Well, I don't think I have, not directly anyway. I've never broken a bone or had a concussion. I don't have any dramatic scars. I don't even have a tattoo, partly because my attention span is too short and partly because I have such a low pain threshold. Nothing I've done impresses me, so why would it impress anyone else? I always find other people's stories more interesting. When I share my own stories, I feel like a big faker. I'm only an imitation badass, because I know how frail and puny I am on the inside. The truth is that if you're not scared, it wasn't brave. Courage lies in doing something despite the fear. Courage is acting against your impulses to hide and protect yourself, and doing the right thing anyway. Real courage is more about things like standing up for someone else and sticking to your convictions, even when the consensus is against you. Jumping over open flames or calling for help when someone collapses in front of you? Those are no big deal, because nothing is really at risk. We're really brave when we're vulnerable. We're brave when we apologize. We're brave when we take emotional risks, not just physical challenges. We're brave when we reach out and open our hearts to people, even when we're afraid we'll be rejected. Being a badass shouldn't mean being bad, and it also shouldn't mean being an ass. There is strength in perseverance and determination, and there is also strength in being receptive and flexible. True strength and courage lie in upholding our own values, living up to our best selves at the times when it feels the most difficult. If you're curious what it's like to have your body fat professionally measured, I'll tell you about my experience. I just had it done. I've measured or estimated my body fat through several methods over the years, at various points from obese to athletically fit. To me it's a matter of scientific interest. I'd be equally curious just what bacteria live in my dental plaque, and for much the same reasons. I didn't choose to put it there and I want to know how to get rid of it! At the same time, I don't judge myself, because at this moment, my body is what it is. I want an accurate read. I want to know where I stand for longevity reasons, for Alzheimer's prevention reasons, and for athletic performance reasons. Others might care more about other factors, such as knee pain, sleep apnea, or heart disease. Whatever works. What have I tried? In chronological order: I've tried using a measuring tape and calculating my waist-to-hip ratio. (W/H). I've tried the BMI chart. I've used a hand-held body fat monitor that works through bioelectrical impedance. (Omron) I've used a scale with bioelectrical impedance. (Weight Watchers) I've used a body fat caliper to do the pinch test. All these methods gave me similar results. I don't particularly endorse or dispute any of them. I can say that I had some issues with data collection; all of these things are easier with the help of a second set of hands. I had to mail-order the calipers because I couldn't find them for sale anywhere. The impedance monitor can be gamed by drinking extra water at your starting measurement and then being dehydrated at your ending measurement. The scale doesn't let you reset your age. The waist-to-hip measurements can be tricky to find. Where is my natural hip exactly? I didn't particularly have a waist at the time. The very concept of BMI tends to make Americans apoplectic, but look. It's endorsed by the CDC, the Mayo Clinic, and the Harvard School of Health, and that's good enough for me. I have no reason to dispute their findings and I have no more authoritative sources. I'm out for my own personal optimal health results, not a scientific debate for which I have no credentials. Also, I'm not defensive about my body image or my state of health. Back to the professional body fat test. My new personal trainer at the gym sprung it on me. First he had me weigh in, which is fine. I hit 123 pounds in clothes and shoes. (I'm 5'4" for reference). It was afternoon, and I'd already eaten and hydrated. I'm more interested in what I weigh for the majority of each day, not that fraction of a second first thing in the morning when my stomach is empty. I have nothing to worry about. Thirty-five pounds ago, maybe. Now, I'm in the healthy range for my height, as I have been for the past two years. Next, he got out the calipers. They're like the pair I bought, only bigger. The major difference was that he took four measurements, three of which I couldn't have taken by myself. The instructions with my calipers said to pinch some fat an inch from the point of the pelvic bone, the area I used to refer to affectionately as my jelly roll. My trainer took two measurements on my upper arm, one on my back near my shoulder blade, and one on my side above my ribs. He took notes, and I could see that the form leaves room for future entries. The plan is to repeat the measurements once a month. I laughed while he was measuring my back. I told him the story of my first wake-up call that I had gained weight: I ran down the stairs and my back jiggled. I paused in mid-step and thought, "WHAT THE HECK JUST HAPPENED?" Not that that inspired me to try to lose weight or anything - that didn't happen until a few years later. So anyway. My body fat measured at 27%. That put me right in the middle of the 'Acceptable' range, because I'm 41. At age 39, the same exact measurements would put me at 24%, which is teetering on the edge between 'Acceptable' and 'Fit.' (That was likely true, because I trained for my marathon that year). The reason it changes with age is the sad fact of sarcopenia. (Spell check just tried to correct that to 'sarcophagus' - thanks, jerk). Sarcopenia is the gradual deterioration of muscle tissue with age. Note that this does not mean we are biologically required to become frail and weak with age. It just means we have to work harder to build muscle and preserve our posture and bone density. I want that for myself. I want to retain my independence until the ripest old age I can reach. The next step was to calculate how many pounds of body fat and how many pounds of muscle tissue I likely have. I'd rather do this with mathematics than through an autopsy, if you know what I mean. I don't need actual vivisection to trust the science. It was roughly 33 pounds of fat and 90 pounds of muscle-slash-bone, blood vessels, organs, etc. Much of that body fat I will keep. The desirement is to BUILD MUSCLE. If I gain twenty pounds of muscle, I will walk around aggressively pulling up my shirt and flaunting my midriff at everyone. Weight gain is excellent when it's planned and intentional and made up of TRUE GRIT, aka muscle. I love muscle. I want to be eighty and be so ripped I freak people out and make them immediately grab their phones and call someone to tell them. "Dude, I just saw the most jacked grandma!" Some body fat charts rate percentages as "overfat," "healthy," and "underfat." These are designed for average people, not active people. The concern would be for a gaunt person (perhaps elderly) who wasn't eating enough. I don't think there are (or were) enough muscular, athletic people to measure for these studies. There is a huge difference between someone who has lower body fat due to malnutrition, and someone who has lower body fat due to physical strength and stamina. I haven't yet seen a chart estimating average lean body mass and suggesting that certain ranges are "undermuscled." I would have fit in that category in my late twenties and early thirties, even when I was obese, because I was so unfit I couldn't climb a single flight of stairs without seeing black spots. Two weeks later, the trainer took my measurements again. I had already dropped from 27% to 24.6%. I had lost two pounds of body fat and gained 3.5 pounds of lean mass. I had trouble believing it, but a pound of fat a week is totally plausible. I have made dramatic physical transformations in the past, and I have also been training really hard. I have something like forty minutes of isometric and body weight resistance exercises to do every day, not including my twice-weekly training sessions and trying to go to yoga a couple of times. I've been consciously correcting my posture while I walk and sit throughout the day. On my frame, I can burn a pound of fat and build a pound of muscle at approximately the same rate. That's why weighing in on a scale without measuring inches or body fat can be so discouraging. Technically I "gained weight" while adding muscle and dropping fat. Usually when I gain weight it's because I went on vacation and ate too many chimichangas. I wouldn't have bought into the idea of having my body fat measured when I was younger. That's because nobody under age thirty-five really, truly believes in the concepts of aging, mortality, or death. The ego simply won't allow it. As I get older and watch my friends and family members go through surgery or become dependent on pharmaceuticals and medical appliances, I've started to believe. I'm forty-one, and yes, death will happen to me, perhaps later today. I do have to die, but I don't have to become frail or infirm. I don't have to believe that aging is crippling. As I compare myself with sixty-year-olds instead of twenty-year-olds, I set my sights on those who are still lean, active, and happy. I hope to turn eighty one day, and to celebrate by sitting on the floor and standing up again. That's why I rely on health metrics, to keep me informed and to keep me honest with myself. I was having a conversation with a close friend the other day about body image. We both realized that nothing about my outlook fits the cultural narrative about body composition, shame, and empowerment. It’s really like I’m speaking a different language. I used to be fat and chronically ill, so losing weight was part of a major victory in reclaiming my body for myself. I always thought that would be important and valuable to share, to let others in my situation know that there are ways out. It hasn’t proved motivating for most people, though. Telling my story tends to make people who aren’t in optimal physical condition feel defensive and irritated. I’d like to explore why that is. First off, the health angle absolutely does not inspire most people. It’s exactly like talking about saving for retirement, getting enough sleep, or not texting and driving. Everyone knows this stuff already. It comes across as one more lecture. Coming from the defensive position, the feeling is that I CAN’T EVEN LISTEN TO THIS RIGHT NOW. You don’t know my life. Don’t judge J. Even talking about how much better and easier everything is after making these changes is not something that overwhelmed, resentful people want to hear. Yeah, just rub it in my face why don’t you. Second, everyone doubts the data. Skepticism is a good and healthy thing, and I always applaud that. I do wonder, however, whether we’re skeptical about the right stuff. What results are we getting? How’s that working out for you? Say someone has sleep apnea and also falls into the category of severe obesity. Maybe weight has nothing to do with it whatsoever. *shrug* Maybe it does. Basing your behavior around one belief or the other is a gamble. Better hope you’re right. To me, it’s like Pascal’s Wager, in which he states that the cost of believing in a non-existent deity is less than the cost of disbelieving in a real deity and then spending eternity in Hell. I would say that a secular version of this concept is useful for every major decision in life. For instance, I remarried, although we have both been divorced and the statistical risk of our marriage failing is discouragingly high. I decided that the cost of missing out on a happy life with the man I love is higher than the cost of possibly having our relationship not last forever. I save for retirement, even though I might die this very afternoon, because the cost of putting aside a little for old age is less than the cost of being elderly and poor (and possibly ill and frail) for decades. If I’m wrong, I’d rather be wrong the smart way. I’d rather keep believing in love and communication than live alone as a cynic. I’d rather die with money I never spent than live in desperation when I’m too old to work. I’d rather exercise more than I “need” and “deprive myself” of hundreds of pounds of added sugar in my food than revert to being sedentary, overweight, and ill. Again, it’s a gamble, and I’m always going to place my bet on the side of the happiest, smartest, and/or most successful people. These are things that make sense to me. What does this have to do with shame, though? We’ve already established that people don’t care about the health argument, and even people who do have serious health issues will resist nothing harder than the idea that lifestyle is related to their problems in any possible way. I know I did. I was a resister, too. I just didn’t have a shame problem. Well, I did, but it wasn’t about body composition. I was bullied pretty severely throughout my school years, almost all about my appearance. My hair. My clothes. My body hair. My shoes. Whether I did or did not smell bad. I don’t like talking about it because this big black ball of solid tears starts to form in my chest. I still don’t trust anyone to give me an honest compliment. If someone so much as glances at something I’m wearing, I assume they’re inwardly laughing at me. Once you’ve seen people physically pointing at you and encouraging their friends to laugh out loud in joyous group ridicule, you start suspecting it everywhere. It’s true that people adore mocking, shaming, and humiliating others. That’s why there’s a People of Walmart website, and it’s where internet flame wars come from. We’ll ridicule people for mispronouncing words, misspelling something, using improper punctuation or grammar, and all sorts of other things. A perceived misstep in behavior can result in tens of thousands of comments, tweets, and memes aimed at public shaming. Never go viral for the wrong reasons. We think shame is a useful, important social tool, as long as it’s directed at others. We believe in it. For some dumb reason, we seem to think that shame will correct other people’s behavior, even as we know firsthand how incredibly painful and debilitating it is when we feel it ourselves. This is one reason why I say shame makes no sense. We know it doesn’t work. We know how negative, even crippling, it is. It’s a form of fairytale justice, though, and we think that as long as we’ve suffered our share, we’re sure as heck going to make sure people who Deserve It More are going to be meted their appropriate volume, with maybe an extra scoop just to be sure. Body shame is just one aspect of this. What I’m hearing is that many people feel devastating shame about how their bodies look. They don’t match what we see in film, on television, in advertisements, or on the runway. They feel frustrated by their available fashion choices. They won’t wear swimsuits on the beach. They may or may not have been taunted, hassled, insulted, mocked, or lectured about their appearance. (It’s a moot point, because as long as it happens to one person, we all know it’s possible and may be coming our way any minute). Shame in one area tends to spatter all over anything. Someone who feels ashamed of her body may also be ashamed of everything else: the way her house looks, the state of her finances, her education or career, her lack of Pinterest perfection, her parenting if she has children. Taking in new information or perspectives, or even thinking or talking about these topics, tends to rip off the scab and cause more shame to leak out like pus. I know I don’t want to tell you all in public that my childhood nickname was Medusa. I did it, though. Shame is just a cloud of smelly vapor that burns off and dissipates in direct sunlight. Part of why I never felt ashamed when I was obese is that I let go of any attachment to the idea of Being Pretty when I was a little kid. I figured that if everyone I met was so hateful and cruel about every part of my appearance, then I just wasn’t objectively good looking. I decided to let it not matter. I wanted what was important to be my intelligence, hard work, and academic results. I wanted to be nice, friendly, and compassionate… “unlike all you nasty people,” she shamed inwardly. I built my identity around other positive things. I realized that hotness or whatever would not last a lifetime. Many of the vicious little 12-year-olds who tried to ruin my young life probably quit being cute or popular shortly after high school graduation. That’s the thing. Adults are certainly capable of far greater bullying and much more creative psychic torture, but these were children. Why should I let the opinions of children, formed in the 1980s, have any effect on my life today? What’s funny is that at 41, I’m probably on the top end for looks. I have the taut body of a marathon runner. My thighs are noteworthy. I never dreamed of such a thing as body pride when I was a sensitive, weepy, socially ostracized teenager. Now, I know that my body is capable of very impressive feats of strength, endurance, agility, and balance. I’m traveling the world and earning race medals. Objectively, I look AMAZING. It’s much more important that I FEEL amazing, but hey, I’ll take it. I’m intensely proud of my body because of everything it can do, because of its healing powers, and because I’m walking proof that it’s possible to beat chronic pain and illness. Also, my husband thinks I’m sexy, and that’s not a bad thing. If someone who bullied me around, say, 1986 happened to show up in my café today, and we recognized each other, that would be interesting. If she happened to have gained a bunch of weight, and she envied my newly athletic build, I would laugh my gorgeously tiny little butt off. If someone who had shamed me felt shamed next to me, I admit, I’d take some gratification from that for a day or two. Then I would just feel sad that she was ruining her own life by not enjoying it. Fat, thin, doesn’t matter. Pretty, plain, doesn’t matter. These are not moral values. They’re superficial. We get that, right? When we think about it, we know that integrity, loving kindness, and accountability are things that really matter. Whether we’re honest with ourselves, whether we live up to our own values, whether we’re emotionally present and available to the people we care about the most – that’s why we’re here. If we let a bit of cellulite take over more space in our thoughts, we’re taking our attention away from our loved ones and our purpose in this world. Shame makes no sense. It doesn’t do anyone any good under any circumstances. All the wrong people feel it. (If you carry more shame than a serial killer or human trafficker, think on that). We dish it out even when we know how hard it is to take it. Shame can stop us from going to the doctor, saying Yes to love, moving forward in our careers, or even enjoying a day at the beach. Look around. Notice how many other people there are who are the same size as you. So freaking what? Smile at them, high-five, and make friends. We get more of whatever we focus on. That means more shame leads to more shame. We have to drop a manhole cover on that. We have to let it go. The only way to feel empowered and develop true body pride is to develop a vivid, intense image of what you want, and put your focus and effort on that. Whether that’s bold fashion, perfect hair, the ability to shellac people at every dance battle, being able to put your foot behind your head, doing a cartwheel or a handstand, or having visible abdominal muscles, pick something and go for it. Just please, for the love of all that is holy, call out your shame for what it is, drag it into the light, and watch it disappear. This body is temporary. I was born into a physical human body that will only be around for a measly few decades, twelve at the most. Nobody has lived to 130 yet, or if they have, nobody documented it. This body I have has certain limits. It can only endure a certain range of temperatures. It can only spend a limited time underwater without specialized equipment. It can only thrive on a limited range of foods, not including bark or pebbles. This body has joints that can only withstand a certain range of motion; its knees don’t want to bend backward. This body has bones that can only tolerate a limited force of impact or pressure. This body can be stopped in its tracks simply by inhaling or ingesting the wrong substance. The body I have won’t last forever, it can’t do everything, and in one way or another it’s inferior to every other animal on the face of the earth. No flight capability, no prehensile tail, no ability to see into the infrared or ultraviolet spectrum, no echolocation, no gills. Still, it’s mine. The body I have is the body I have. This body has given me some trouble over the years. In my early twenties, I was diagnosed with thyroid disease and fibromyalgia. I had my first migraine at 22, and that became a regular feature of my life for the next fifteen years. There have been other problems: weird moles that had to be biopsied, impacted wisdom teeth, sprains and strains and skinned knees and second-degree sunburns. I’ve walked into stinging nettle and had a fire ant crawl up my pants. At these times, I often wish I were a floating consciousness with no body at all. Why can’t I be me without having to inhabit this inconvenient meat puppet? The truth is that without the body I have, I would really freak people out. I need a human form to be able to hug people, hold hands, dance, and eat my favorite meals. The body I have makes it possible to participate in conversations. I can see and hear and taste and detect odors, which, alas, isn’t always such a bonus. I have the physical power to intervene, for instance the several times I have chased a toddler who was about to run full-speed into danger. As a floating ghostie I wouldn’t be able to do any of that. The body I have is a useful vehicle. It’s “me” in almost every important way. It’s what my friends and loved ones recognize when they see me. My physical health, as it turns out, is almost completely responsible for my moods and attitude. When I eat poorly and lapse into sedentary behaviors, I become bored and sullen. The consequences of my less-than-optimal choices rebound and affect everyone I encounter, from those closest to me to the most briefly glimpsed strangers who happen to see my scowling countenance. It turns out that I look really angry when I’m in pain. Treating this human vessel respectfully, feeding it within the range that is biologically appropriate for humans, moving it the required amount, makes me much more pleasant to deal with. It also makes it easier for me to enjoy living in this world for the few decades that I will be here. When I was ill, I blamed the body I have for all my problems. I didn’t understand that I could impact any of these health issues through my behavior or choices. I didn’t realize I had a choice. I wouldn’t have believed it if someone told me I did. I would have felt that that was a very unsympathetic, even cruel, thing to say. Only after I experienced it did I start to believe that whatever my body is doing on any given day is a snapshot, one frame out of a mind-bendingly long movie. It should be more intuitive than it is, but a body that begins as a single cell, is born into a tiny infant, and then grows continually for two decades is designed for constant change. Why is it so easy to fall into the trap of thinking we are stuck with whatever physical state we are experiencing at one moment on the timeline? I needed to experience change in this body that I have before I could truly believe it was possible. First the change, then the belief. I could never have taken it on faith from someone else. Now, I see examples of other people who have changed their bodies in adulthood on a daily basis. It’s just like when you buy a new car and then start seeing that make and model everywhere you go. Vehicle, vehicle, same thing. Tens of thousands of people have reversed health conditions, gotten off medication, and/or lost hundreds of pounds. For mysterious reasons, those of us who still have physical issues never believe that we could be a part of this group. Other hominids may be able to change their bodies, but not us. We’re special, special in a bad way. We have been punished by fate and genetics to suffer and have a bad body! We accept this dire sentence, carved into stone by unfeeling deities. We can’t spend more than a couple of days half-heartedly dabbling at one change or another, never enough to convince us that it just might work if we kept going. We think a body must continue as it is, the only changes possible being negative changes. The body I have can sicken and gain weight, but it can’t heal or return to a lean, thriving form, even as I see cuts and scrapes return to quality new skin on a routine basis. Other people who experience healing and increased health must have better bodies than the one that I have. The body that I have can do amazing things. It remembers to breathe and keep its heart, lungs, and blood moving even when I sleep. It recovers from illness and injury. Every time I have tested it to find out what else it can do, it rises to the occasion and meets the challenge. I’m 40, probably at the halfway mark of my life (if I haven’t passed it already), yet I am still continuing to discover new capabilities. I continue to grow extra muscle and become faster, stronger, and more agile. It feels as though I am aging in reverse. Despite my history of chronic illness, I have started to be satisfied, even impressed, with the body I have. |
AuthorI've been working with chronic disorganization, squalor, and hoarding for over 20 years. I'm also a marathon runner who was diagnosed with fibromyalgia and thyroid disease 17 years ago. This website uses marketing and tracking technologies. Opting out of this will opt you out of all cookies, except for those needed to run the website. Note that some products may not work as well without tracking cookies. Opt Out of CookiesArchives
January 2022
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