Fat baby, fat adult, right? That's the saying. So, I ask you, was I genetically screwed at birth? If you've ever seen my baby pictures, it's all there, in glorious black and white, circa 1964.
And, if you Punnett Square the whole family, you get a nice even roll: My sister, petite of frame and loses weight easily, like Mum. My brother, tall like my Dad, but again, like my Mum. Then there's me and Dad, both tall but with the whole Eastern European zaftig/large frame thing going on.
But when you see it in living color, on Facebook, for all the linked friends to see, and you thought you didn't look that bad, but you do, well, it's so depressing.
It's a life-long struggle, the fat thing. It's ridiculous that we live in a day and age when if you called a person of color "nigger", you'd be branded a racist, yet complete strangers feel perfectly free to call me "fat" without thinking twice. Well, I am. But I'm bigger than I thought I was, at least in the D&M wedding photos, and here I was, heading off for pictures, thinking I looked darn swell.
But I don't.
(I was thin once. I swear to god, I really was. There are caveats to this: I expended a tremendous amount of calories. I rode my bike between 10 and 12 miles per day, and on top of that I worked out at least 1.5 to 2 hours, three to five times per week. I walked or took public transit everywhere. I ate crap, though. Tons of pasta, beer, not big on the vegetation.)
And now? Well, I freely admit that I'm a lazy poop. I gave up cycling because I had a fairly nasty accident that resulted in some facial scarring. My new bike commute is somewhat treacherous. I gave up taking the T, so I no longer walk 10 blocks per day. (New car is so fun, plus free parking at work.) And I cannot get motivated to go to the gym.
The flip side? I eat more healthfully than ever and I spend time with Husband, who loves and is attracted to me just the way I am.
So what to do? I felt like I finally made peace with my fat. I've tried to stay fit and healthy, with good blood values, but it's not enough; maybe it never will be. But I know I cannot look at those pictures. They are hellishly awful.
So next week, I start at the gym first thing in the morning and foreswear many, many forms of carbohydrate. I'll switch from plain yogurt and blueberries to veggie fritatta.
I refuse to become a food nazi, but I also refuse to be photographed with six chins.
And I love my friends who know all this and never said a thing about it, but instead, respected the silence of the fat.