It Ain't Adding Up

“Food for thought so get a buffet plate
The lyrics are so fat you might gain weight” -Doodlebug (Digable Planets)

I really like math. One of my nerdy claims to fame is that I lettered in math in high school. I got a jacket and a pin and everything. Calculating things, proven formulas, and right or wrong answers feels safe. If I can remember the formulas, I can figure anything out. Math was much less complicated than the other murky areas of my life.

As I renew my commitment to fitness, I’m finding myself getting caught up in the numbers game. I want formulas.

5 servings of vegetables + 30 minutes of cardio = college weight

1 Zumba class + 20 sit-ups = jeans that fit better

8 cups of water + 1 juice fast = flatter stomach

Or something like that.

I have benefitted from size privilege in my life. I fit comfortably in airplane seats, even on Spirit Airlines. I can find clothing without price markups in my size in most stores. People don’t judge my food selections at the grocery store even when my cart is filled with tater tots and chocolate ice cream. My unhealthy choices aren’t considered character flaws because my body type has been labeled as “normal.” Normal or not, I still fall prey to societal fatphobia and obsess over numbers.

I Am NOT Having A Baby

Look, the freshman 15 ain’t got nothing on the perimenopausal 25. It would be cool if I could blame the extra weight on the addition of all these grey hairs but my stomach tells a different story. It’s as if, now that I’ve entered the “never pregnant again” part of my life, my body’s feeling nostalgic. It wants to remind me just how great (read “great” sarcastically) my pregnancy weight was. My diet and activity levels haven’t changed drastically in the last two years. Not enough, I believe, to account for the 25 pounds I’ve gained. Age, hormone fluctuations, and Zoloft are likely the culprits. Frustratingly, I don’t have a formula that stops aging. And each time I mention changing my meds in search of weight loss, my love reminds me that may not be the safest option.

Call Me Doughboy

A friend of mine hosts a badass podcast called Eff Perfect. In one of the episodes, the cohost mentioned knowing a woman who claimed that she never looked at her stomach. I thought that was odd and decided to make it a point to look at myself in the mirror. It was the most uncomfortable thing I have done in recent times. I realized that, although I have looked at my body in the mirror, I don’t ever do so without flexing, sucking in, or trying to alter my stomach’s appearance in some way. It was distressing to look at myself as is. I felt like the whole wheat doughboy.

Y’all, I know Black don’t crack. But, let me tell you, that shit sure rolls. And jiggles. And hangs over the waistline. And puts me in the “overfat” category even though I can squeeze into size 6 jeans. I know I should rejoice in finding jeans that fit, but I can’t stop thinking about the fact that 36% of my body is fat. Just about every step I take on the treadmill and every weight I lift in the gym is done with the hope of lowering that percentage. As if my life will instantly and drastically change if my body fat drops a percentage point and becomes “average.” Newsflash…it won’t.

Unhappy Plate

I have to be careful when it comes to food. I have overcome some bad eating practices. During tough mental health seasons, I have, alternately, binged on any and all junk food in my vicinity and deprived myself of food to atone for my gluttony. Eating too much junk and skipping meals are both symptoms of and triggers for my depression and migraines. Yet, skipping meals is my silent go-to when I think about how much weight I’ve gained. Even when I’m not skipping meals, I’m tempted to count and greatly restrict calories. And, yes, I’ve read all about the importance of eating and maintaining my blood sugar throughout the day. And I’ve read that consuming too few calories can lead to fat retention. The real issue that I don’t like to admit is that sometimes I don’t feel that I deserve to eat. The scale and measuring tape show me so. They don’t lie. Do they?

Healthier Math

Repeatedly weighing myself, obsessing over body fat, and calorie counting are not healthy practices for me. That’s not to say they don’t work for other people. Nonetheless, I have had to find other things to count and measure.

Exercise

My honey has a great formula for exercise. His goal is to be active more days than not. I’ve adopted that goal as well. Focusing on the process of being active instead of the end product has been helpful.

What’s On My Plate

Rather than focusing on decreasing what I eat, I’m trying to add more of the good stuff. More vegetables. More fruit. More healthy herbs. And, definitely, more water.

Sleep

Sleep experts (like the one I’m dating) will tell you that lack of sleep can cause a host of health problems. According to this WebMD article, sleep deprivation can lead to poor eating habits and a slowed metabolism. Eight to nine hours of sleep is ideal for me these days.

Neither perfect formulas nor perfect bodies exist. I’m working on taking small steps towards healthier practices for and acceptance of this perfectly imperfect body I have.

Categories: : Wellness