Let’s just start this off with complete honesty. It’s hard to say out loud, hard to write, still, despite the evidence of my own mirror and countless frightening photographs, hard for me to admit: I am fat. At five-foot 2 inches and 226 pounds there is no denying it. I am fat, obese, morbidly obese. Not just overweight, as I have been telling myself all these many years.
The first time I really thought about being fat, I was 19 years old. Somebody bought a new bathroom scale and several of us tested it out. My father-in-law, Ed, weighed 119 pounds. My sister-in-law, Ruby, got on the scale next. She weighed 119 pounds. Then I got on the scales, and was surprised to see I also weighed 119 pounds. My husband got on and weighed 165 pounds, so we knew the scale wasn’t broken.
At about six feet tall, Ed was much too thin. At five-foot-seven, Ruby looked good. At 119 pounds she was stacked. But the same weight on my small boned five inch shorter frame left me looking pot-bellied and soft. I vowed to lose weight that very moment. An hour later when my mother-in-law served up the pot roast, mashed potatoes, gravy, and apple pie, I forgot all about it.
Over the years I have made the same vow with nearly the same results so many times I can’t count them all. Sometimes I stayed with it long enough to lose a little, even as much as 20 or 30 pounds. But every time I gained it all back and then some.
Just think about it. I was overweight at 119. Now I weigh 229. That’s a whole extra person I’m carrying around.