Oct. 8:
Now that I’m halfway down to my normal weight, my perceptions are subtly changing. I am no longer morbidly obese. I’m just kinda fat. My 2X plus size clothes are now just too big to wear anymore. The pants fall down, the tops are too baggy. And believe me, I want them baggy to cover the shame of being fat.
But nothing can cover fat. Nothing. Fat announces itself to the world by displacing more air or water than not fat. And I’m not good at delusions. I see myself for what I am.
Being fat alters your perceptions of everything around you. When I was a normal weight, I loved picking out clothes to wear each day. Normal weight me sometimes admired my own reflection in the mirror. I’d parade around in a new outfit for my husband. He always liked. (And is still liking, although liking a lot more than before, bless his heart.)
Morbid obesity put an end to mirror time, and for the last six years I hardly glanced into the glass other than to check my teeth. The mirror was the ENEMY. Clothes became a necessary evil, coverings, tents. I resigned myself to never looking nice, no matter what I put on. All I ever looked was huge, so I didn’t want to look.
This week I notice myself looking at my reflection with less revulsion. My stomach sticks out, but not nearly as far and wide. When I look down I can see the floor, not my stomach and giant boobs. When I bend over, it doesn’t feel as if there’s a barrel of bounce strapped to my belly.
And I’m experiencing memories of my old body. Of sitting in a chair, crossing my right leg over my left, and hooking my right foot under my left calf near the ankle. I remember feeling bones when I folded my arms or put my hands on my hips, two poses that are still quite padded, but much less so. A lot of this weight sits in my midsection and upper arms, and it is still distorting my movements and the fit of clothes but to a lesser degree.
At the highest weight, my arms stuck out slightly. I could not rest them at my sides completely. Between the roll just under my breasts and arms, and my too big upper arms there was no room, so my arms stuck out.
I am still too fat. But something deep inside the recesses of my psyche now remembers that fat is not “me”. Me, I–am a normal weight person that fits in coach seats on an airliner, can fit into 30 inch jeans–the 505 slim cut kind. She is still in there, and slowly emerging from under the blubber, as if the air is slowly leaking out of a balloon.
This is motivating on fast days such as today. Food schmood. Who needs it? I’m gonna wear me some skinny jeans and a tight top. And a new Speedo, for sure.
Besides. I can eat whatever I want tomorrow.
alternatedayfast 