..which is not in compliance with my diet.
In middle school, I had a classmate oh so kindly describe my hips as womanly. I didn't get around to loosing my baby fat (or growing any boobs) until I was a junior in high school. After that I was able eat just about whatever I wanted and fail to exercise without much worry (my lunch was chocolate chip cookies, french fries and frutopia...remember frutopia?). I think that's what being 17 is all about. Fast forward more than four years and I am working out at the Rec Center several days a week and attending Ab Lab in the hopes I would have muscle tone in my wedding dress and on the honeymoon (I had a friend describe me as pear-shaped at the time).
I live on carbohydrates, so two year later when I attempted the South Beach diet, things got desperate. The diet calls for two weeks without carbs. By the end of the first week, I was licking pretzels.
When Cale and I left for the Peace Corps in 2007, I was at my heaviest. Third-shift cubicle jobs aren't known for being healthy. While at work I could slam three cokes, raid the vending machine for pop tarts and never resist the candy bowl.
Samoa was the first time I had ever really lost weight. All it took was a slightly more active lifestyle...oh, and two months living in fear of the food (don't be fooled by that blog entry, it was back when I was still trying to say only good things in the blog, there was a point in training when I didn't eat anything for like three days), horrible boils and a terrible case of bronchitis. In this instance I lost more weight than I was interested in (20 pounds in two months) and even our medical officer prescribed me a hamburger.
I never got below 110 pounds, so I was never officially underweight according to the BMI charts on the internets. Though other people expressed concern over my weight at the time, I was pretty pleased. My thighs didn't touch; my stomach was flat. For the first time in my life I didn't really complain when my clothes didn't fit anymore, since this time it was because they were literally falling off my body and not because I was having a hard time squeezing my ass into them. There are downsides to losing a dramatic amount of weight. My ever so practical Hanes-Her-Way underpants hung in loose folds around my nonexistent ass; surely a sexy look. The biggest problem was the disappearance of my boobs (which weren't so big to start with). Not to get too graphic, but when you lose all the fat out of your boobs, you don't lose any of the skin. Things start to look a little like a National Geographic topless woman.
Unfortunately, all the time I was at this weight I was in Samoa where modesty standards and traditional wear had me in head to toe dresses all day. So there is very little photographic evidence.
We left Samoa on Nov. 30. By the end of January, I was back up to my pre-Samoa weight and pretty unhappy about it. I had made some clothing purchases when we first got back to America that I couldn't squeeze into anymore (at least without obscene amounts of muffin top).
Now that I have started to complain about being fat, I am going to have to diverge. You see, people don't want to hear me complain about my weight. Apparently, I am a petite person. Personally, I feel pretty average. Officially I am only a quarter inch shorter than average height for a woman in the US (though, if we start narrowing the demographics I get progressively shorter until I am more than an inch shorter than the average height for a white woman between 20 and 39 - which still doesn't seem that short to me). However, clothes shopping has indicated to me that everyone else in the world is much taller and larger than I am. I find this strange because I have met many people who are smaller than me. If I walk into a store and have to buy a small, where are these chicks shopping?
Part of being an inherently small person is that people don't want to hear you are unhappy with your weight or trying to lose weight. They also refuse to believe your true weight. Though I don't mind everyone around me erroneously assuming I barely weigh 100 pounds (HA!), it doesn't change the fact that I cannot fit into my clothes anymore.
I lost the America weight quickly when we left for Southeast Asia, but almost immediately began putting it back on again when we were back in the States. So here I am once again in America in January overflowing my clothes. And that brings me to that loaf of bread.
Grad school had not been kind to my eating habits (frozen pizza again? ok), so after the holidays were over I intended to eat more reasonably. I even borrowed the South Beach book from my mom (though the carb-less diet went out the window immediately with a beer on day two). However, I have no will power. I just don't have it in me to lose weight by controlling my food. We recently had lunch at Cale's aunt's house and she sent us home with a loaf of freshly baked bread. It was gone in less than 48 hours (and Cale didn't touch it, that was all me). I can be sitting on the couch — not hungry in the slightest — and hear the bread calling me from the kitchen, "I am so delicious and doughy and yeasty. Come, eat half of me."
As far as I can tell, my only viable weight-loss option is to leave the country. America makes me fat and I don't have the will power to do anything about it. The question now is if I am going to break down and buy bigger pants or try to tough it out through the spring semester.