Okay, I’m obsessing now. I’d love to blog about something else—anything else—but today's post is an attempt to clear my head. Not that it will work, but I can say I tried. It is safer to share in the virtual world. You, potential reader, can quickly click over to something more interesting—perhaps a YouTube video with crazy cats on catnip, an impassioned defense of Miley’s right to twerk or a how-to article on filing down the corns on your feet. Yes, there is so much competition for your time on the internet. I just need to purge myself of a weighty issue, namely, my weight.
To be clear, I am not a candidate for “The Biggest Loser” or
some other televised humiliation approach to dieting. In fact, fully clothed,
most people would think I am trim. But I have five pesky pounds to shed and,
like unwelcome houseguests, they won’t take the cue from my looks of contempt
and disgust and leave.
Oh, how I hate my five hangers on! They have led me to an
existence of non-fat/low-fat, flavor-lite meals and six workouts a week. Nothing
I do gets them to scram once and for all (or even for one blessed day).
Every summer I have to up the effort to trim the gut and
every summer I have succeeded. Until now. A month away from 49, I fear that my
body is changing. There are a few men with super slim physiques that are part
of their DNA, but most men acquire Permabelly of some size once middle age
hits. I don’t hear men talk about it. They continue to sit shirtless in summer
chairs, swigging from a six-pack and downing Doritos while dreaming about the
thick slabs of steak that will sizzle on the barbecue in a matter of hours. (I
cannot relate to anything in the previous sentence.) I cannot stomach the
notion of Forever Flab. It is simply not an option.
Part of it has to do with being single. Many of us let go a
bit when we’re settled into a relationship. He
loves me for my mind, not my midriff. Yes, I can recall a time when I was
partnered and I had ten—maybe eleven—extra pounds to shed. How repulsive! It is
hard to fathom. Five is plenty.
Not that I know it is five. That’s just what I’m going with.
I never weigh myself. I went through years of trying to add muscle and then
panicking over the increase on the scales, only to resort to radical dieting,
thus losing all muscle I’d sought to gain. When you struggle with body image as
much as I do, the mind lacks any sense of logic. I now go with what I see in
the mirror rather than what shows on the scales. And what I see is a stomach
making a spot-on impersonation of Jell-O.
I don’t just see it; I feel it. As I write this, I know it
is there. My gut doesn’t have the grace to hang tight. It sits over my
waistline, even on the shorts that I bought two sizes larger than I ever
wanted. The larger size was supposed to keep things in check, create a laissez
faire scenario as I grab a belt to prevent the saggy look.
As a single guy, first impressions matter. I cannot attract
a man with amusing anecdotes about the life of Miley or an insightful analysis of
matters in the Middle East if he is distracted—repulsed—by my belly. And, more
to the point, I cannot confidently interact with a desirable single gay man
(should one ever surface in my present Never-land) as long as I am repulsed by
my belly.
Sometimes it takes repulsion to get a person to take action.
That would be great if I weren’t already working furiously to trim the fat.
(Okay, I suppose I should have done without Saturday night’s pint of Ben &
Jerry’s, my once a month indulgence of my favorite food.) I will carry on with
the extended workouts and continue feasting on non-fat cottage cheese each and
every freakin’ lunch. I shall continue to deceive myself into thinking that
spooning a cup of frozen apple juice is almost as pleasurable a dessert as
Cherry Garcia. And I shall hope upon hope that in the days, weeks (months?!) to
come I will finally clear the five-pound hurdle. I need to know that it is
still possible.
3 comments:
Only 5lbs? What on earth are you worried about? Relax. Think what you'll save on botox and filler!!;)
Wish I could relax over five measly pounds. Unfortunately, I have struggled with an eating disorder since I was a tween. The best way for me to put it in normal terms is that each pound looks and feels like six in my mind.
The concern I have now is that, perhaps with middle age, a gut is a reality. I am not sure how I will handle that.
My comment for this post isn’t all that different from the one I wrote for “Inappropriate Poking.” Seems to me that for those of us who suffer from body image issues, the mirror seldom offers a satisfying reflection. We can work like a madman to lose those “pesky pounds” only to experience a fleeting success. That’s because our attention soon shifts to some other perceived anatomical inadequacy—even if, as in your case, we’re already plenty fit and evidently more than commonly attractive. The thing is, that kind of astigmatic thinking can color the way we perceive everyone else, can make us hyper-critical, even dismissive of anyone who may have “ten—maybe eleven—extra pounds to shed.” I can’t help wondering what human treasures we may be ignoring as a result of our inability to see clearly, to see past the physical evidence—which is where one often finds the real buff and brawn, and love (even lust!)—to what really matters, to what lasts.
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