30 somethings

I've had a few experiences lately that have reminded me that 30 pounds overweight is a place I never care to (re)visit. Lugging Daniel around the airport - through the ticketing line, through security, through the terminal, down the jet way, up and down the aisle of the plane, through the terminal, through baggage claim, wash, rinse, repeat - is one of those experiences. Seeing a gaggle of 60+ women emerge from their water aerobics class and converge upon the showers at the YMCA was another one of these experiences. I won't heebie-jeebie you to death with the details, but sheesh. I don't care to arrive at 60 in that condition. Arriving home from Phoenix four pounds heavier was a wake-up call (and a slap in the face). It reminded me just how quickly those 30 pounds sneak up on you.

People who have known me for 20+ years know this, but many people don't - I was the fat kid. I wore elastic-waist jeans. I shopped plus size little girls clothes. I went home crying many times because I'd heard someone call me fat. I did everything I could to wriggle my way out of running the mile in elementary school. It was embarrassing to have to walk most of it because I was too fat to run a full mile. God only knows how I wound up that way. Well, maybe that's a stretch. HoneyBuns and Coke for breakfast will do that to a nine-year-old, even when she plays softball and dances on the drill team. When I was 12, I fought my first fight and won. I stepped on the scale in the sixth grade and cried all the way home from the doctor's office when I weighed 153 pounds. Thank God I had more guts than to just cry about it. I went on a rampage, cutting most fats and sugars out of my diet, running several days a week, and doing 100 crunches 3 times a day. On the first day of seventh grade, I wore Gap jeans and an Esprit shirt to school. I'd lost 30 pounds over the summer and was damned proud of it.

I managed to keep most of it off through high school. I had some ups and downs, but I still got to shop at Old Navy, American Eagle, and the Gap. When my dad had triple bypass surgery in 1995, our whole family changed its way of life (by life, I mean eating). Red meat was rarely served (no pun intended). Fried foods became a distant memory. Low fat margarine became a part of our every day life. My dad started walking and I continued eating healthy. It wasn't until the fall of '99 that I started packing on the pounds (again).

It was my sophomore year of college. I'd managed to avoid the freshman 15 through 3-a-day workouts on the softball team. The summer after my freshman year, I regularly ran 5 miles at a time, lifted weights 3-4 days a week, and ate like a horse. I didn't have to avoid fried foods with my dad safe back at home with his grilled chicken and steamed veggies. I drank like a fish and partied like only a 19-year-old college student can. Then I had knee surgery. Those softball workouts were over. I couldn't run for several months. I continued eating like a horse, drinking like a fish, and partying like an idiot. In less than 3 months, I was 30 pounds up, several GPA points down, and well on my way to losing control. I'm not sure what happened (exactly), but I started running again. I scaled back my calories. I still drank and partied like there was no tomorrow, but somehow, I managed to fight my way back through those 30 pounds and into my Abercrombie jeans.

I can't put my finger on the beginning of this last 30 pounds, but I weighed 167 when I went to my first OB appointment with Daniel. I'm 5'8", so that isn't obese, but it's certainly not thin. The day Daniel was born, I clocked in at 199. By the skin of my teeth, I missed that 200 mark. Today, 17 months and 52 pounds later, I feel good. I *think* I look good, which I've learned is much more important than actually looking good. I've never had what I would call a "positive body image." Until now. Now, I'm proud of myself and of my body. I made a baby, people. Many of you have, too, but I made a baby. I carried him for 39.857 weeks. I gave birth to him and brought him into my life, my family, and my world. I nursed him for 13 months. I have rocked, held, cuddled, carried, and otherwise lugged around that kiddo (all 28 pounds of him) for almost a year and a half. This body? It's amazing. It did all of that, shed 52 pounds, and is mine. For the first time in 30 years, I am truly happy with my body. Oh sure. I've been happy with myself for a good 29.5 of those years. But being happy with my body is another thing altogether.

So when it's 35 degrees out and going to the Y sounds like pure torture, it might be. But I'll do it. I'll be happy to do it to avoid fighting that fight again. They say the third time is a charm. I sure hope so, because right now, I'm charmed silly.