A beginning

To start at the end of this tale would be too perfect; too absolutely come-around-full circle-and-be-totally-satisfied-by to really make this meaningful. What would my ending be, could I choose it first? Well, first, I’d be happy. Okay, I’m lying already. First, I’d be skinny. Not a Lord-her-thinness-makes-her-look-so-old kind of skinny. Not even a Tom-Cruise-forced-me-to lose-the-baby-weight-quick kind of skinny. Just a regular old shop-the-middle-of-the-rack kind of thin that the world once embraced and we all should feel good about.

But I’m not. I was, for sure. In high school, I was that girl with the really skinny legs, no butt and big boobs (yeah, I was lucky). I never remember having to think about food. I wanted it? I ate it. Exercise was such a part of every day that it really didn’t strike me as important (it was just constant). I was (and am) an expert skier. I could (and no longer can) do a back hand spring into a split on skis for many, many years. I remember thinking my freshman year in college, “If I just do one back handspring every single day, I’ll always be able to do that,” but something got in the way. Beer maybe. Laziness, perhaps. In any case, no way in hell my body can contort that way anymore.

I got married young (23 is young today, right?) and had kids right away. It was (and is) mostly good; we can talk about that later. In any case, each kid – and each year – added a layer to my life both emotionally (in a good way) and physically (in a bad way). It was hard to notice. I have always been a hard worker and I’ve never been afraid to shop for clothes that look good, no matter the size or department. I can still ski the butt of most females (and males). (I actually recently had a man say to me, “Wow, you are an incredible skier for a large woman.) I kid you not. I won a tennis tournament this summer after another skinny female player made a crack at me about how her doubles team should be called the “Young hot moms team.” I crushed them. Join me in the gym and I’ll always do one more set of reps than you do. It doesn’t make sense, my body’s ability to achieve through the layers, but there it is. And in a way, it’s hurt me. If I can move, I must be fine, right?

So in other words, life – or physics as it is – has let me sneak out of some of the troubles most overweight people have.

And then there’s that other problem: I love myself.

Or do it? Like any relationship, my romance with myself has suffered its ups and downs. But for the most part, I think we’re happy; me and myself. So why, one might ask, would I punish my body the way I do, allowing weight to cling on and stay forever? Why would I push myself up to the top of the size rack, then up the stairs to that other size department, then almost to the top of that rack?

And so, I must ask myself: why can’t you let me be skinny? I ask and ask. I start diets and fail them, quickly, dropping maybe 10 pounds and then, in a blaze of rebellion, gaining it all back and then some just to show me who’s who. I need me to be inspired. I yearn to be like Elizabeth Bennett, (Eat, Pray, Love) who, drowning in depression, was able to shed herself of all her requirements and roam the world to find her peace. But I don’t want to shed myself of all that. I love my kids. I have a good husband. I have a great job. People need me and I like to be needed.

So I come up with the idea. I’ve always been all about the show. I’m a bragger, and one who often talks well beyond what her game should be. It’s what led me to climbing – in the rain and untethered – a 200-foot ladder and then bungee jumping off of it in Toronto a few years back. I told the world before I went I was going to do it. When I saw it – and understood the pure stupidity of it; me with my two children depending on me and that tower looking questionable at best – I stepped up and said “I’m ready.” (I have video to prove it). When I was young it led me to hitch hike in bad places; to do more jello shots than anyone else in the room. But it hasn’t always been a bad thing. After all, my writing career is a product of it, and the gabillions of dollars I’ve helped raise for this charity or that over the decades are a bi-product. (PTO needs seed money for pencils? I’ll raise enough to refurbish the library!)

And so that leads me here, not to my ending (which while I’d love to predict, I have no idea what will be), but to my beginning. I’ve decided to take a public personal journey, one that will include eating better, exercising differently and hopefully, a trip back down the rack, down the stairs and to the middle of the rack again, where we all belong.

I’d like to ask you to join me, via this blog. I’ll try to post a few times a week; I’ve vow to be brutally honest. I hope we laugh; I think we might cry. In the end, I want to be fit. Let’s see where it goes.