Raven's Roads
Living an interesting life: the travels and musings
of motorcycling author Linda R. Moore

Jan 17, 2007

Thinking Out Loud: A vanity size 14

Weight issues are depressing. I first thought I had a weight problem when I hit 160 pounds sometime about a year after I moved to America. Now I’d be delighted to weigh 160 pounds again, to even come close to fitting into my leather jeans or my Incentive Little Black Dress. (You know. The classy, flirty garment that most of us have at the back of a closet, waiting forlornly for that day when we can not only fit into it, but also look good in it.)

For me, it’s been a constant fight since then. While attending the gym for three years has certainly been a stress reducer and a stamina increaser, it hasn’t fixed the problem. Anyone who says that only one thing–diet or exercise or attitude–is the answer, really doesn’t have a clue. Each concept is only part of the battle to fight the ever-encroaching gain. It really is about mind, body and spirit.

I got down to the top end of something that was acceptable to me round about last April. According to Official Sources I was still obese, an ugly, shaming term that I despise with all my heart–but it felt good to be where I was. I could accept it; here’s where I am, here’s what I have right now, and that’s okay. Since then, though, I’ve put every pound of that weight back on and I find that I can’t accept and be comfortable with where I am, what I have right now. In fact, it annoys the heck out of me. While it was certainly a mild relief to learn that stress works actively against weight loss, that’s just an intellectual kind of thing. Emotionally it’s quite something else.

One thing I try to never do is to compare myself with others or to look down on anyone who wants to lose ten pounds: I have come to understand that everyone has their own goals and their own comfort levels. Put another way, being heavier than xyz person doesn’t make me more worthy of understanding than xyz person–I think hierarchy of this kind is very silly indeed. But I find it interesting that I have different tolerances for myself to different sizes, and they don’t conform to medical standards. According to the powers that be, all the sizes that I’ve been since that startling 160 pound discovery have been “obese” or “overweight!”

Yet within my own personal scale, size 14 was great. Size 16 seems like a failure. I’m starting to think that the responsibility I have to myself and my own comfort levels is a great deal more important than trying to follow some kind of medical guideline. Sure, it’s nice to have “a healthy weight” in mind as the ultimate goal, but right now if I think about all those pounds I’m never going to get my head around it. Working within my own sliding scale makes a great deal more sense to me. From where I am, 14 is the next goal. When I get to 14, 12 is the next goal. You get the idea.

Emotionally, I’m having a hard time accepting that I’m not a size 14 any more. I can get into my size 14 jeans by putting them on until they stretch enough to close the button and zipper. That’s sort of okay if I don’t have to go outside until a few hours after I wake up. Emotionally, I’m torn between to *** with it and ***, I need to do something about this.

I don’t hanker after looking like a Victoria’s Secret model. Frankly, those women look unwell and even a little repulsive to me, the sick output of a society that deals in extremes. I do, however, care about how I look and feel. I feel sad that I’m not really a 14, and that I’m trying to squeeze into jeans one size too small.

I’m a vanity size 14, that’s all. Pass me a carrot stick, would you?