I used to worry a lot about how my body looked — fat, thin, and everything in-between. When I was young, I was rather overweight; I was self-medicating bad feelings with handfuls of sugar. When I got into high school, I decided to diet to a mind-boggling 110 pounds, which I didn’t think was enough (I was 5’8″). I had a pouchy stomach even after losing 100 pounds.
I gained weight again through binge-eating (and sleep-stealing food) in my undergraduate days, then walked much of that off in graduate school. I didn’t feel skinny, I didn’t look skinny. I was round and chubby. I knew I still wasn’t attractive, but I wore a dress size I was comfortable with. Then I broke my leg getting hit by a car, and I gained all the weight back and more.
It was easier coping when I was fat, because I knew I was fat and didn’t look pleasing. I lost weight several times in my adulthood, getting within 10 pounds of my goal weight, and I never felt satisfied. My tummy was still round; my arms saggy. I did not like the way my body looked. I knew other people would critique it badly.
This time around, I lost weight for health reasons — that and the availability of Ozempic to shut down my food noise (look up “food noise”. It’s a real thing.) I lost 90 pounds, and I am at my goal weight, and I haven’t been at this weight since High School, on my way down to 110 pounds. My body, quite honestly, is awful. I have a big and saggy belly. My upper thighs are wrinkled. My arms have batwings.
But I don’t care. I bought a swimsuit and will go into a hot tub without apology. I am sixty-two years old, and our bodies don’t bounce back after a big weight loss. I would look less wrinkly if I gained the weight back, but I don’t want to hurt my health. And I like the clothes at this weight. So I don’t care how I look. Much.
Words Like Me 