And then, most importantly, I realized I am the mother of the coolest little kid I have ever met.
So here’s the deal. I know (consciously) I am not fat.
But, the bald guy at the gym with the scale and charts (who weighs people in front of the WHOLE WORLD) says I “need practice” at some things. Apparently I have a BMI of 24.1, which is in the “normal” range, but if I gain five measly pounds it would be 25 which would put me in the “overweight” range.
I have been trying to let this go. But it has been really on my mind.
My weight has been an obsession of mine for two decades now. I am twenty-eight. I went on my first diet when I was eight. Really, I was eight.
After my “assessment” at the gym (the guy asked me if I graze. Graze? What the hell was he trying to say?) I started to rationalize. I figured I had guessed at my height and so I thought there may be hope. Checking online I discovered there are several (thousands) of calculators that will give me the magic number but they all seem to agree on the number the bald guy gave me. So my only hope was that I was wrong on the height thing.
I decided to find out for real, which is where my epic tape measure hunt began.
The places we Do NOT keep the tape measure include: the drawer by the fridge, the pantry, the tool box, under any sinks, the cupboards over the washing machine, any dressers, the water cooler closet, or on top of the fridge.
I appealed to my darling husband for his input on where this item is kept. All I got was a shrug. In his defense, he was very busy killing a really mean ogre or something like that with a group which included some very hot (and thin) fighting, dancing, roaring elf chick. Elf chicks can be pretty hot. I also tried to get his attention by speaking in to his little microphone to his “guild” and saying he needed to take a break to go measure his wife. But I was quickly muzzled by his palm. (I know! I am shocked too, but the guy actually put his hand over my mouth!!!)
(For those who don’t know, a “guild” is a group of cartoon character to whom wives must never ever speak.
Also, one must never ever type, “I love you all and I don’t say that enough” to the guild when her husband leaves the room.
They are sorta like a secret society for the lazy. They meet in taverns at designated times, have cute little rituals, silly outfits, and they bless each other and crusade or what ever together. What’s really amazing is that this can all be done online so the guys never have to actually leave home to wear silly robes!
It’s like Freemasonry without the hassle.
The Elks club with out the lodge.)
I would be pretty mad about the hand muzzle, but then I asked him to guess at my waste size. He said (and he acted dead serious too, as if I would be crazy to think anything else) “it can’t be more than twenty-eight inches.”
Twenty-eight inches? Awwwwwwwwww….gad love’m, my baby can play with the elves and midget-warriors all night if that makes him happy.
I was still not getting anywhere with the one BMI calculator that wanted my waist size.
Then it occurred to me that I do remember buyin’ a particular pair of jeans that had the number by number thing going on, like boy pants do, instead of just regular numbers like size 10, or 14 or whatever. It seems to me I remember that one of those numbers in a waist size. Brilliant! I just need to get those pants!
Places my pants are not located: The dirty laundry, the pile of clean laundry, the dryer, the floor of my bedroom, my closet floor, any of my three bathroom floors or my dresser drawers.
At this point I realized I have several problems. I don’t know my waist size, my husband is in a cult, we are very disorganized, (I mean I know we OWN tape measures), I am two cookies away from being Homer Simpson, and where the Hell are my jeans???
Eventually I found the tape measure, got my waste size (which is not 28, but when he measured I think he could have pulled a little tighter…just saying), considered drowning my sorrows in a bowl of ice cream and then…
I started dancing with my little girl. And we were laughing. We dipped eachother (she dropped me, but I am a pretty tubby lady.)
Some one once convinced me that these numbers mattered, that these numbers some how make up my worth as a person…scale number, pants number, BMI thingy.
So here goes. Here are the numbers. I don’t care who knows em’. Click them if they matter to you.
I will never have the stomach I had at 18 (that’s years old, not 18 BMI. I am not sure my BMI was ever 18, not even when I was born).I have evidence all over my abdomen that I am a mother. I don’t care who knows that either. She was worth it.
And I have always liked the number 24. It’s a solid number.
I danced with my daughter for two hours tonight and I did not think of numbers once.
To get in a magazine they would have to be thinner, and longer but still, I like the way my legs look in this picture.
I am probably never going to be able to end the obsession completely. My positive(ish) attitude will falter. I am ganna try not to pass it on though.
I know women with numbers higher than these who are stronger, wiser, and more sparklingly beautiful than I can even hope I will ever be. I know girls with prettier numbers I would not even want to serve my breakfast.
I am ganna teach her (by showing her) that a real life has almost nothing to do with these numbers.
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