I’d just sold a great article that I’d been doing investigative work on for a long time.
I’d finally moved into a pretty house on a nice street.
My husband had recently gotten a raise.
It was just one of those times when everything was going my way.
My friend Rachel and I decided to go out to lunch to celebrate.
“I’m glad you’re so happy,” she said.
“I know, I am,” I said.
And here I let it out.
“But if only I were thin, right?”
Rachel, who is thin, looked shocked.
I knew I sounded crazy.
I tried to explain.
“Yourweightis the most important thing in the world to you?”
“Well, obviously, not the most important thing in theworld.
I changed the subject.
I know enough to at least act as if I’m ashamed when words like that leave my mouth.
But as bad as it sounds, it’strue.
Somehow, though, when I tally the time I spend thinking about everything, my weight wins.
It hasn’t always been this way.
I was a skinny kid, but post-puberty, pounds began to attach themselves to me.
At first, it seemed kind of like a flat tirejust something to fix.
Over the years, I’ve been way more and way less.
I’m a size 14 at Gap, sometimes a 16 if it’s a rough month.
But I’m only about 10 pounds from being relegated to plus-sized stores.
Worse than that is the feeling that this linebacker-like body isn’t mine.
Surely I wouldn’t be this size forever.
The postponing took off from there.
I told her mere hours before midnight.
Didn’t give a reason; just said I couldn’t.
What I meant was, “How long do I have to lose the weight?”
She answered me excitedly, never knowing that my question was about me, not her.
I was too busyaka too fatto do something that would have been a huge honor in my career.
The last time my grandmother ever made her special cookies for me, I was on Atkins.
I told her I wasn’t hungry.
Shortly after, she died.
Yes, I missed my own proposal.
Years later, he still brings it up, disappointed and hurt.
I was so self-conscious, so absent.
When I did manage to show up for things, I was obsessing over my weight the entire time.
Yet I kept it together on the outside.
To this day the Marnis of the world don’t know why I let them downnot really.
I did all I could to cover up my underlying reason.
I was always able to mount a case, to fool everyone.
That changed last summer when my friend Daniela got married.
The night before Daniela’s wedding, some friends and I took her out to dinner.
I ordered a tasteless “healthy” shake.
(I live in L.A.; there are always shakes.)
I spent the morning consumed by it.
What would I eat?
Would there be something for me to eat?
“You must be so excited.
Do you need any help?”
“No, but it’s so nice of you to ask.
I’m still a little nervous.”
“Oh, it’ll be great,” I said.
Then, “I was wondering, what are they serving for dinner?”
“Steak,” she said.
Red meat was an inflammatory food, banned on my cleanse.
“Is there any way to make a change?”
(In case you haven’t gotten married recently, this is aterriblefaux pas.
There was silence on the line for a long time.
When she spoke, she was politemore polite than most people would be to their close friend.
“It’s too late.
I’m sure you understand.”
We ended the call quickly.
My face was hot; my eyes lost focus.
When my eyes focused again, things looked different.
At the wedding, Daniela was lovely.
“I’m sorry,” I said, guilty about even bringing it up again.
“I just…I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“It’s OK,” she said.
“Something just came over you.
I know it wasn’t you.”
I hugged her again but couldn’t help feeling she was wrong; it was me.
It was just usually a hidden me.
I had somehow started to believe that change would be quick, that my transformation would be epic.
But it wasn’t true.
I was me, and I had to show up for my life.
I was the only person paying attention to my weight; others measured me on what I did.
Mybehaviordefined me, I realized, not my weight.
My actions had to become more important than my weight.Everythinghad to become more important than my weight.
I stepped away from Daniela and let her go enjoy her reception.
I let myself sweat; I sang along.
Not Daniela, or Marni, or my husband.
It’s been almost a year since Daniela’s wedding, and I’m still working on this.
I’d be lying if I said my weight doesn’t occupy an important place in my thoughts.
I’m still dieting, still planning my next cleanse.
I’m still failing spectacularly at significant weight loss.
It’s important, but I won’t let it be themostimportant thing.
I’m getting better at it.
It’s the start of not letting my size define me.
Photo Credit: Meredith Jenks
