I’m All Too Consumed With My Body
And I don’t know how to stop
Almost every morning, my fiancé takes out our cold glass scale from underneath our dresser, and steps on to weigh himself. If I’m still in bed, I can hear the dragging across the floor and his feet gently touch the top while he awaits his (hopefully) lower number. When he’s done, he slides it back under and more times than not, exclaims he’s lost another pound or two. His newfound obsession started after seeing a new doctor about 3 months ago, to which she mentioned his BMI was too high. How? I don’t even know since he looks pretty damn average to me.
As someone who has struggled with weight her entire life, I remember when I used to weigh myself every single day. The number staring at me, unchanging time and time again, despite many diet efforts and workouts for more than 1–2 hours daily. That was in high school and throughout the years, I’ve still struggled. Never seeming to be at a happy weight until before the pandemic when I found peace and truly didn’t give a shit. Body neutrality was in full effect.
The pandemic changed all that. Same old story. Tale as old as time. Weight gain stories — especially those during a global pandemic — are somewhat boring, even to me. Even as I write them. I’m tired of the back and forth, of my mailbox being cluttered with new ways to “lose the quarantine pounds” or that “if you gained weight, you’re not alone.” I get it — I fucking get it.
And yet — I’m here, still needing to express my own disdain with a bigger body, less clothes options, and the glaring fact that when I do get married I will be a fat bride. I used to not weigh myself, preferring to go off measurements instead. But I have found my own obsession with weight returning. My own bare feet touching the glass scale right after my fiancé puts it back, and starts working in the next room. The number staring back at me every morning as if to say: look at what you did, you fat stupid bitch. I slide it quickly back to it’s home, fear that he’ll come and surprise me, see the number accidentally, and decide that while this has been fun — he’s out.
I’ve had many conversations with friends and my therapist about this whole thing. I’m told to stay positive, keep exercising, eat right, and remember that we are still in a global health crisis — it’s okay to have gained weight. Just be grateful for all your body has done. I not only am told these things, but have recycled the philosophy to others. I believe all of it. I believe we should show our bodies appreciation. Eating greens and fruit and being active each day is wonderful. I fully stand by it. But even while fully supporting this lifestyle, I also recognize the difficulty. The grey area consisting of loving what is, while simultaneously trying to change it, while also being so emotionally and mentally exhausted with the fight that you just want to say FUCK IT, grab your sweatpants and eat whatever. Because, lest we not forget — the world is also going to shit. Time’s ticking people!
To care about our health is a great thing and we owe it to our bodies to give a shit and do the best we can. However — to obsess so much that you decide to skip meals, fill yourself up with water, and scratch at your skin while looking in the mirror, wishing you just had any other smaller body…is just plain sad. It’s boring. It’s trite. It’s stupid. It’s important while also remaining a question as to how much. But we aren’t rid of this ugly cycle — at least I certainly am not.
When I look back at my life, I wonder how much time on earth I’ve spent obsessing over my body, my lack of breasts, lack of hair, lack of ….well, just lack. But also the too much of’s: too much fat, too much acne, too much height, too much bigness in places I don’t want it! It’s a damn shame how much time I’ve spent — time I can never get back — in this cycle of love and hate and dread all towards myself.
In a weird twist, it’s also somewhat privileged. Although I cannot minimize all of my personal challenges, I’m aware that I’m saying to myself — to the world — I’m a subjectively larger bodied person. I’ve gained 30 pounds since late 2019 and much of it happened during lockdown. I’m still relatively healthy, can move my body fearlessly, I’m loved by a person who tells me he thinks my body is beautiful and sexy. I have my mobility and every doctor’s visit yields a clean bill of health. Sounds like a bunch of champagne problems in the grand scheme of life and all the other tragedies humans can face.
I want so badly for all these things to have more energetic, emotional, societal and mental emphasis rather than being drowned out amidst the desire to be thinner. I want so badly to experience pure appreciation for my body functioning, and not just functioning — thriving. I don’t want the skinny narrative to win but every damn day, that’s exactly what it’s doing. I’m aware and awake and yet I can’t seem to find a way out.
Since getting engaged, the countdown to becoming less of a body so I can look nothing short of fabulous in a stupid dress, certainly caused pressure. I can’t say I successfully lost any weight since becoming a fiancée about a year ago. I exercised a ton, joined a gym, drank more water, ate more vegetables, and really gave it a try. But I also ate bagels on Saturdays, had brunches, maybe one too many drinks when out with friends, and champagne… oh yeah… a lot of champagne. But I don’t know how much I actually care or if any of this is just me believing I should care. I’m supposed to care. But getting married should be about so much more than what you look like on ONE DAY — right?
Life itself should be about so much more than superficial metrics. The annoying part is I know this — we know this — but I’m still enslaved by the larger narrative which suggests the contrary.
I don’t know how to write a conclusion because there is none. I’m still in this seemingly endless cycle of wanting better for myself while also being too drained. I still step on the scale all too often, while knowing the numbers don’t represent all fat. I still wake up and go through mental gymnastics debating if I even should step on the scale.
At this point — maybe the only thing I should do — is throw the damn thing out.
