For the second morning in a row, I spent an inordinate amount of time trying to find something to wear that would hide the little spare tire I’ve been carrying around my waist.

For the second morning in a row, I finally had to give up and make do with “good enough”.  And the last two years now feel like a waste.

I’ve been on a low carb diet for about years now.  I started shortly after my daughter was born, determined to lose the “baby fat” from both my pregnancies.  My oldest was five at the time - and five years seemed like an extremely long time to be carrying around residual pregnancy pounds.  Shit, postpartum depression doesn’t even last that long.

When I first started losing weight nobody noticed but me.  And that was OK, because I assumed most people would never be able to tell.  I had never figured myself to be a really “heavy” woman..  My five foot one frame had carried around about 160 pounds at it’s heaviest, but I was pretty sure I possessed that Marilyn-esque ability to “carry my weight well”.

I never really felt “fat”.  A little chubby, maybe.  I just got tired of having limited options of clothing.  I got tired of having to hide this roll and minimize that one.  I got tired of dreading swimsuit and shorts season.  I finally got fed up with the morning depression of not having a damn thing to wear that I felt really, truly, cute in.

And then I lost about 40 pounds.  More like 38, total, technically, I think.  But let’s just say 40, m’kay?

And suddenly people noticed.  Everyone noticed.  Verbally.  Constantly.  As in ”holy shit you lost a ton of weight girl.  You look good,” said with just enough shock that I started to question how heavy I had been in the first place.

Had it been that bad?  Had I convinced myself to look the other way for so long that I had been completely oblivious to what I had really looked like?

I started meeting new people, through new jobs, etc. - people who had never known me before I lost weight.  And I noticed they treated me differently than people had treated me before.  They made assumptions and jokes in front of me - about fat people and thin people and ugly people and pretty people - that I had never heard people discuss so openly before.

I realized that this had been going on long before I came along - before I lost weight.  I just hadn’t been allowed to hear it before, because I was one of “them” then.  And now I was supposed to be one of a different “them”, and I wasn’t so sure I liked “them”.  Because skinny people?  Really are fucking mean sometimes.  Seriously.

Skinny people.  38 pounds later, I was officially “skinny people”.  I knew it.  I knew that a size 4 or 6 was small no matter how tall you were.  I knew when people made assumptions around me because “well, you’re so little” that they weren’t talking about me being freakishly short.

Skinny people.  It was fun, of course.  I could go shopping and buy off the clearance rack.  In fact, I could go shopping and buy pretty much whatever the hell I wanted because it all looked good.  (I mean, you know, not like parachute fucking pants or anything - that shit doesn’t look good on anyone.)

But mostly, it was freeing.  When I stopped having to worry about how much I weighed and how much of my sides were hanging over the tops of my jeans, I was able to start thinking about other parts of me.  Like… oh… I don’t know, my fucking BRAIN, perhaps?  My sense of humor.  My friendships.  My relationships.  My career.

All of it.  And every morning when I got up and was faced with a closet full of stuff that I could wear, knowing full well that it all still fit and that none of it was mysteriously shrinking in the dryer anymore - it was a better start to the day.

And then I’m not sure what happened, exactly.  I got a little bit cocky - believing the crap other people around me believed about me being one of those “lucky little bitches who can eat whatever she wants”.  And I’m not.  I can’t.

I got scared.  And obsessed.  Fearful that the weight would come back and I would have to go back to second guessing my reflection every day.

And then I got stressed.  Between a deteriorating work environment, personal problems and huge amounts of change and decision making going on - the stress just became too much.

And, ladies, what do we do when we the stress gets to be too much?  Well, what I do anyways… we fuck it.  Or, er, rather, I mean… we say “fuck it”.

For me “fuck it” meant not caring about what I ate.  It meant Gatorade and apple juice instead of water.  It meant tacos and enchiladas and free nacho chips instead of a taco salad.  It meant burgers and fries and spaghetti and mac and cheese and sandwiches on bread and.. ya know… just… fuck it.

I stopped weighing myself.  Because I knew.  I tried to ignore it and laugh it off.  But I knew.  And I just couldn’t face the proof that the last two years could have all been for nothing.

Two years.  Two freaking years.  Two years of taking control of MY body and MY eating and what I wanted.  Two years of sticking to a decision despite constant doubt and ridicule from every direction because “oh that diet just sucks” and “you don’t need to lose weight, duh” and “well I could never do that (and, therefore, you shouldn’t either)”.

Two. Years.

And in two days I feel like I’ve erased it all.  And  I just can’t.  I just. can’t. do that.  I cannot go backwards.  I cannot fail at this and become just one more woman who yo yo’s back and forth between fat times and skinny times, bouncing from one diet story to the next.

I just… can’t.

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