Personal Accountability

I went shopping for jeans the other day.  The only size that fit was a 10.  I stopped for a moment; I did not want to buy jeans in that size.

Now, a size 10 is nothing to run away from.  No one could say that a woman who wears a size 10 is morbidly obese or even seriously overweight.  But there I was, terrified of buying those size 10 jeans.  In a frightening flash-forward, I could see myself buying size 12 next, size 14 and so on.  I could see myself becoming the Honduran Kirstie Alley.

My struggle with my weight began only 3 years ago.  I was not a chubby child -- to the contrary, I was often underweight.  I had to eat constantly to maintain a decent weight.  This went on into my teenage years and then into my twenties.  Everyone said that my metabolism would come to a crawl when I hit thirty, but it didn't.  In fact, when I was 30, I went on a vacation with Big Bren and I was so annoyed because the smallest shorts I could find at the Gap for the trip were a size 4 and they were too big.

The prognostications continued -- I wouldn't be able to lose the weight when I had Brendan.  I hated to disappoint the Negative Nellies, but two weeks after I gave birth, I pulled on my size 4 jeans and zipped it up -- with a few inches to spare.

Then about 3 years ago, the prophesies proved true; I began to pack on the pounds.  So what happened?

For the past three years, I've made every excuse:  everyone my age is this size; everyone in my family is fat, it was a miracle I managed to stay so thin for so long; I have no time to exercise; the foods I eat are not that fattening; etc, etc.

The fact is that I stopped doing all the things that were keeping me thin.  I stopped walking.  I stopped dancing.  I stopped going to the gym.  I stopped noticing when I was full and ate until my plate was empty.  And I eat when I am tired.  I eat when I am depressed.  I eat when I am bored.  I eat when I need to fill in the time.  I eat when I am stressed.  I eat when I am relaxed.  I eat, I eat, I eat.

After deciding that I had to do something about my weight, I hopped on the scale and gasped at the number:  158 lbs.

And that is when it hit me.  That is why I was so reluctant to buy those size 10 jeans.  At my last weigh in before I gave birth to Brendan, I weighed 159 pounds.  And at my baby shower -- when I was 8 months pregnant -- I wore a pair of size 10 jeans from the Gap.  Not maternity jeans; regular size 10 jeans.  I was now wearing the same size jeans that I wore when I was practically in labor.

Talk about a wake-up call.

Last Tuesday, I went to Weight Watchers for the first time.  I have often called out others for their delusions.  Well, today is my day for personal accountability.