There is just no pleasing me, is there? It’s going too fast, I complain. It’s so weird, I moan. My body changes every single day, I wail, and what the hell am I supposed to do with that, huh? How am I supposed to live with all the changes and it’s like going through puberty except I can’t go to my mom and whisper mom…there’s hair growing in places! Where there didn’t used to be hair! In short: wah and woe is me.
But then I shy away from thinking another thing, because good god, woman! What do you want? A diamond pony on a ruby wagon full of golden sandwiches? Sometimes, what I think is this: it is not going fast enough, goddammit. And I don’t just mean, why isn’t it over already, and my weight stabilized so that I can get my bearings and learn to live with my weirdo new body, blah blah blah? Though sometimes I do think like that, because that is how I roll and everything has to be difficult with me.
No, the thing I think, occasionally, is it’s not fast enough and hurry the fuck up, because I want to fit into these pants, this dress, that shirt. The funny thing is–funny ha ha and funny strange all at the same time!–I have not yet thought, "I’m not skinny enough!" because that is a weird concept for me. Being skinny! I don’t want to be skinny!
If I could stop here, I have thought for 20 pounds or so, I would be happy. Once I got out of the 200s, it is like everything in my body relaxed and I could breathe again. All I ever wanted was to not weigh that culturally-loaded 200 pounds. 199 was okay, all the way to 178, where I am now, almost every moment of it, psychologically speaking. I didn’t even know that I had that mental tic, but there it is, stark and smack dab in the middle of my 20/20 hindsight. That is interesting to me.
So why, if it has been okay and comfortable and happy-making to be in this size body, in these number of pounds, am I so impatient?
The elevators are being repaired at work, so they are unbelievably slow. Every once in awhile I think pshaw. I don’t need to wait. I’ll run up the stairs! And I know in my mind, all the way in the back where there are cobwebs and dangerous things, that what I am thinking, that my motivating motivation is going, "I am not fat! I am so small! I can fly up 16 flights of stairs and be ready to immediately run a marathon because that’s exactly how fancy and cool this new body is!" And I start to jog up the stairs but it is hard and I begin to plod and I get to the top and I am not feeling perfectly energized and excited, and might even bee a little out of breath and it makes me mad.
And as I type this, I am realizing at this very instant exactly how completely ridiculous that is. A little out of breath? A year ago I would have wheezed all the way up, would have had to take a break on every landing, and then would have had a heart attack on the last step. Where the fuck is my gratitude?
You know what? I am tired, sometimes, of reminding myself to be grateful and thrilled and happy and yay go me. I am kind of okay with not being able to be pleased, and getting irritated when the size 12 pants are still a little snug, and annoyed that while my bra cup has smallened, the band size remains the same, and pissed when I’m able to run for the bus without wanting to collapse and die once I grab it.
It makes me angry, and that is a good thing, because it means I’m going to keep taking my vitamins and get my ass back to the gym, and eat grilled chicken instead of sesame chicken which I pretend is perfectly awesome to have at every meal. It keeps me going, and from being complacent, and it gives me something to complain about. Because otherwise, I’d have to develop some sort of hobby.