This weekend I was blessed with a healthy dose of some wonderfully warm weather. It was 70 degrees F on Saturday and 65 on Sunday. After being closed in for months, it’s almost liberating to have the windows open and to see the windows gently fluttering in the sun soaked breeze. It’s wonderful to take a nice deep breath of fresh spring air.
Don’t get me wrong. Winter has its many charms as well. Have you ever woken up and looked out your window to see the barren, brown earth coated with snow? Maybe you’re lucky enough to have seen the snow before it melted or was disturbed by anything and just appeared as one glittering, soft blanket of white. Have you ever seen the way the sun glistens off of icicles or smelled the crisp icy air on a winter morn?
Yet for all the wonderful things about winter, it gets to the point where it just starts to last too long. You’re just plain bored of slushy snow boots and bulky winter coats. Your neck is sore from looking down all the time to figure out if what you’re about to step in is just water or if it’s a patch of slippery ice. And no matter how many times you wash your car, it seems to always be spotted with rock salt and mud.
It almost makes me look forward to summer.
Almost.
While I’m looking forward sunshine, and bright, shiny carnivals, and warm afternoons at the shore, and the sound crickets outside at night, I’m not looking forward to t-shirts and tank tops. (I’m choosing not to think of swim suits just yet.) My arms just aren’t ready. I’m not worried about my legs as much because I’ve never really liked shorts in the first place. Even when I was a bit thinner, never really found a pair I liked. They’ve either rode up or are just too long and make me look much shorter than I really am. Besides, I’ve never felt that much cooler in shorts anyway. I like a slightly baggy pair of cotton pants, especially the kind with drawstrings that hang down loose and free and sway this way and that when you walk in the breeze. Maybe when I’m down to 140 I’ll be willing to put up with ill-fitting shorts just so I can show off my legs.
But I still worry about my arms. What if I’ve been overweight for so long that the skin on my upper arms never tightens? What about my thighs? Will they still be all flappy and floppy on the inside? Will I have to save up and get plastic surgery? I’m not the least bit afraid of needles or doctors or hospitals. I’ve even fantasized about becoming a doctor myself. But I’m thinking, “what if the surgery doesn’t work? What is the surgery leaves scars that were worse than the loose skin?” I’d rather spend my money on books or a new tattoo or a DVD set of Law & Order: SVU than a surgery that didn’t do the trick.
Maybe it’s crazy to live in a society that values the beauty of tight skin over simply being healthier. Is cellulite and flabby skin unhealthy, or simply unsightly?
I’ve always figured that maybe when I lose all the weight I’ll tell my story to a talk show and maybe they’ll pay for my surgery in exchange for my story. But they’ve done that a million times so I’m sure they don’t want my dime-a-dozen story. Besides, would I really like to be in line and be recognized as, “hey, aren’t you that chick that was on Dr. Phil/Tyra/Oprah?” (Nothing against Dr. Phil, Tyra, or Oprah, but I’m not sure if I’d like that to be my claim-to-fame. I’d much rather get a bit-part on Law & Order or Cold Case than be on a talk show---fat or no fat!)
I guess I’m simply counting my chickens before they hatch. I’ll only know what I’m left with after I’m down to my goal of 140. Not if, but when. I’m not hoping to lose weight. I will lose the weight.
Don’t get me wrong. Winter has its many charms as well. Have you ever woken up and looked out your window to see the barren, brown earth coated with snow? Maybe you’re lucky enough to have seen the snow before it melted or was disturbed by anything and just appeared as one glittering, soft blanket of white. Have you ever seen the way the sun glistens off of icicles or smelled the crisp icy air on a winter morn?
Yet for all the wonderful things about winter, it gets to the point where it just starts to last too long. You’re just plain bored of slushy snow boots and bulky winter coats. Your neck is sore from looking down all the time to figure out if what you’re about to step in is just water or if it’s a patch of slippery ice. And no matter how many times you wash your car, it seems to always be spotted with rock salt and mud.
It almost makes me look forward to summer.
Almost.
While I’m looking forward sunshine, and bright, shiny carnivals, and warm afternoons at the shore, and the sound crickets outside at night, I’m not looking forward to t-shirts and tank tops. (I’m choosing not to think of swim suits just yet.) My arms just aren’t ready. I’m not worried about my legs as much because I’ve never really liked shorts in the first place. Even when I was a bit thinner, never really found a pair I liked. They’ve either rode up or are just too long and make me look much shorter than I really am. Besides, I’ve never felt that much cooler in shorts anyway. I like a slightly baggy pair of cotton pants, especially the kind with drawstrings that hang down loose and free and sway this way and that when you walk in the breeze. Maybe when I’m down to 140 I’ll be willing to put up with ill-fitting shorts just so I can show off my legs.
But I still worry about my arms. What if I’ve been overweight for so long that the skin on my upper arms never tightens? What about my thighs? Will they still be all flappy and floppy on the inside? Will I have to save up and get plastic surgery? I’m not the least bit afraid of needles or doctors or hospitals. I’ve even fantasized about becoming a doctor myself. But I’m thinking, “what if the surgery doesn’t work? What is the surgery leaves scars that were worse than the loose skin?” I’d rather spend my money on books or a new tattoo or a DVD set of Law & Order: SVU than a surgery that didn’t do the trick.
Maybe it’s crazy to live in a society that values the beauty of tight skin over simply being healthier. Is cellulite and flabby skin unhealthy, or simply unsightly?
I’ve always figured that maybe when I lose all the weight I’ll tell my story to a talk show and maybe they’ll pay for my surgery in exchange for my story. But they’ve done that a million times so I’m sure they don’t want my dime-a-dozen story. Besides, would I really like to be in line and be recognized as, “hey, aren’t you that chick that was on Dr. Phil/Tyra/Oprah?” (Nothing against Dr. Phil, Tyra, or Oprah, but I’m not sure if I’d like that to be my claim-to-fame. I’d much rather get a bit-part on Law & Order or Cold Case than be on a talk show---fat or no fat!)
I guess I’m simply counting my chickens before they hatch. I’ll only know what I’m left with after I’m down to my goal of 140. Not if, but when. I’m not hoping to lose weight. I will lose the weight.
