I’ve recently lost 11lbs. As someone who doesn’t carry a lot of weight, this is a substantial number; all the more significant because I don’t lose weight easily. Not that I’ve ever needed to. Until I hit 40, my consistent training and healthy (ish) diet meant that I always met the societal norms of how a women should look. Not too thin but definitely not overweight, while always striving to drop that last couple of pounds.
I was the diet industry’s dream customer, fully buying into the lie that I was one extreme diet, one fad workout regime away from the perfect body. My whole adult life, my identity has been wrapped up in the way I look; my flat stomach and my toned thighs my currency. I could talk endlessly about what I ate in a day. Give a road by road description of my preferred running route. I presumed people feigned disinterest because they were jealous. Now I know that they were just bored.
Perfection equals boring
It took me a long time to realise that the perfection I sought was unachievable. That even the models on the front of the glossy magazines didn’t look like that in real life. But even this realisation didn’t deter me from trying to achieve the impossible. My conditioning ran deep and I continued to strive for better. When I say better, what I actually mean is smaller. Always smaller.
Recently I was out for dinner with a group of friends and I realised that I was not alone. So much of our conversation revolved around what we should or shouldn’t eat, based on what diet we were currently following or how much weight we had lost or gained. These women are funny and intelligent, with a wealth of life experience; the least interesting thing about them is the shape of their bodies. That we waste our precious time, that we part with our hard earned money, without questioning these ridiculous expectations suddenly feels like insanity.
The gift of giving less fucks
Ironically, it was at my heaviest that I felt most free. It was only in letting go of my smallness that I was able to see myself as more than how I presented to the world. And, thankfully I’m at an age when those societal expectations start to loosen, this being, perhaps, one of the greatest gifts of ageing. That, and the fact that you start to give less fucks.
But, like I said, that conditioning runs deep, I still wanted to drop the extra weight that middle age had gifted me. I toiled over my reasoning. Yes, I wanted to feel better in my clothes, and it’s true that I was concerned about my future health. But, self-aware as I am, I couldn’t discern how much of my decision was influenced by those damn societal demands.
Freedom?
I know that when I finished the plan, I had more energy and felt fitter. I know that I learned how to feed my body the nutrients it needs instead of starving it. But, I also know that I couldn’t walk past a mirror because I liked what I saw there. That I was quick to share my before and after picture like one was better than the other. That I couldn’t wait to exalt the benefits of the plan to all who would listen so that they too could be ‘fixed’.
Seeing all of this is half the battle, but, the problem is much bigger than me I know. And all I can do is work out my own solution. That means steering the conversation away from diet and weight, acknowledging people for something other than the way they look, and giving myself grace when I invariably get it wrong.
Honestly, it’s boring to me now. There is so much much that interests me. And, I’m excited to see who I am without it.
