06-06-00
Like most American women, I have body image issues. When I look in the mirror, I can't help but notice my fat ass, my flabby upper arms, the disturbing spare tire that completely encircles my midriff, and don't even get me started on the cottage cheese that has taken up residence on my thighs. I completely repulse myself.
Clinical obesity is defined at being 20% over one's ideal weight. I am hovering somewhere around 18%. Some people look at me and consider me slender, but we are always the most critical of our own faults. Where you see petite, I see jiggly, fat, cottage cheese. No matter how hard I work out, the fat won't go away. I walk almost everywhere, and I run and lift weights every other day. I also do somewhere between 30 and 60 abdominal crunches, 15 to 30 push ups, and 15 to 30 tricep dips every day. I am strong now, and getting stronger by the day, but I still don't feel healthy.
And I know I can't be wrong about these things, because other people have pointed them out to me. One of my stranger [as in odd] clients asked me if I was pregnant and kept pointedly staring at my abdomen. She could see the fat, too. Enough to think it was a bastard lovechild. And then the other day, Carol's client pointed out my disproportionately large upper arms. She posited that I probably had hefty thighs too. She couldn't see them beneath my long skirt. She just knew. Today I couldn't even fit my big ass into a pair of size small capri pants. I know that they were most likely mis-sized, but God did that hurt my feelings. I almost broke down crying in the dressing room, swore I would not try on another pair of pants until I dropped 15 pounds, and obsessed the entire walk home about my bubble butt.
My archnemesis is high-caloric junk food. I consume empty calories like most people breathe air. I have also lived a primarily sedentary life. The only place I don't really feel fat is the gym, except when I wear the evil adidas shorts and run on the treadmill. They ride up over my thighs, which rub together and chafe horribly, reminding me of my faulty physique. And that is almost as bad for me as Taco Bell and fashion magazines.
Inspiring, aren't I?
