125 pounds

When I was in my twenties I believed with my whole heart and soul that if I weighed 125 pounds my life would be better.  And by better I mean I’d have no problems getting a boyfriend, my clothes would be cuter; my life would be easier because I was skinny.  I thought I wouldn’t dread stepping on the scale and therefore would have less stress in my life. I could enjoy slipping easily into my jeans. I certainly could stop obsessing about what I ate or didn’t eat and I wouldn’t have to starve myself during the week in order to party on the weekend. The belief of course was a total load of crap.

 

At 41 I weigh 125 pounds. The first time this magic number blinked up at me I moved the scale, clearly there was an error. But after weighing myself in four different places in my bathroom the number remained the same, 124.5.

 

I couldn’t believe it. I weighed ten pounds less than I did when I got pregnant two years earlier with my daughter. How did it happen? I wasn’t trying to lose weight, I was trying to get pregnant.  I wasn’t eating less or even exercising that much so how was this magic number possible? My body clearly has a mind of its own.

 

Being skinny did not change my world in any dramatic way. I was married, had a career and a large wardrobe. I did go and buy some new jeans because I needed to prove to myself the scale wasn’t lying. The sales girl told me I was picking clothes too big. I didn’t believe her and let her select my clothes. And low and behold I dropped a size. My mom even calls me skinny!

 

The irony is I don’t want to be skinny now. I want to sport a round pregnant belly and carry a healthy baby inside of me. Me being thin does keep a sparkle in my husband’s eye, which is nice to see, but isn’t ironic that my prayer to be skinny is fulfilled when I don’t want it.

 

I have a choice to make. Enjoy my skinny time and come to terms with the fact that I may not be able to have another child or go crazy and try to control things that are beyond my control. There are worse things in the world; it just leaves me with a funny feeling in my stomach. Ironic hu?

 

Have you ever thought that a number could make you happy?

 

 

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One thought on “125 pounds

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  1. This is what I thought of. This is for all you “Pulp Fiction” fans! Enjoy!

    Fabienne: I was looking at myself in the mirror.
    Butch: Uh-huh?
    Fabienne: I wish I had a pot.
    Butch: You were lookin’ in the mirror and you wish you had some pot?
    Fabienne: A pot. A pot belly. Pot bellies are sexy.
    Butch: Well you should be happy, ’cause you do.
    Fabienne: Shut up, Fatso! I don’t have a pot! I have a bit of a tummy, like Madonna when she did “Lucky Star,” it’s not the same thing.
    Butch: I didn’t realize there was a difference between a tummy and a pot belly.
    Fabienne: The difference is huge.
    Butch: You want me to have a pot?
    Fabienne: No. Pot bellies make a man look either oafish, or like a gorilla. But on a woman, a pot belly is very sexy. The rest of you is normal. Normal face, normal legs, normal hips, normal ass, but with a big, perfectly round pot belly. If I had one, I’d wear a tee-shirt two sizes too small to accentuate it.
    Butch: You think guys would find that attractive?
    Fabienne: I don’t give a damn what men find attractive. It’s unfortunate what we find pleasing to the touch and pleasing to the eye is seldom the same.

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