In middle school, I was skinny. Like, skinny skinny. Kids called me “Toothpick” and “Skinny Bone Jones” and “Chicken Legs” and every other uncreative nickname you could think of for girl whose puny 71-pound body drowned in her Hypercolor tees and cuffed denim shorts. In my yearbook, someone even wrote: “Be careful not to fly away when the wind blows!” Har, har, thanks, growl. I hated being skinny. So I ate.
In high school, I was skinny. I wore the elusive size double-zero jeans and still needed a belt, but at least I was starting to look like a human being. Friends emphasized that I was so lucky to be able to scarf down whatever I wanted and not gain an ounce, so I basked in my God-given gift. And I ate.
In college, I was skinny. And oh, I ate. Waffles smothered with strawberry glaze and ice cream for breakfast (dorm food, yum), fast food for lunch, Alberto’s carne asada fries for late-night snacks. I complained that I was starting to look like one of those starving kids from Somalia — frail limbs with a portruding belly, but overall, I was still skinny. And for the first time, I was happy with the way I looked. So I ate more.
When you’ve been skinny throughout your life, you kind of assume that you’ll stay that way forever. In the past few years, I’ve been pretty blah about my body and how it has expanded (I wear like a M/L at Forever 21 – ugh!), but I keep telling myself that it’s no big deal, everyone gains weight as they age, empire-waist tops are still in, I’m still thin by American standards, I shouldn’t compare myself to others, Sausage McMuffins make me really happy and in the end, isn’t that what’s important?
But the truth is, I’m sick of seeing my gut spill over my pajama pants as I sit indian-style in front of my closet mirror and do my makeup. I’m sick of not being able to see my hoo-ha when look down in the shower. I’m sick of having to do five squats every time I put on my jeans to give my thighs a teensy bit of breathing room. I’m sick of not feeling hot.
This weekend, I cleaned out my closet and got rid of three giant trash bags of old clothes. (They’ll be donated, or sold, or something.) Most items were chucked because I no longer like them, but many items were begrudgingly shoved in a bag because I just can’t fit them anymore. I wistfully showed Matt one of my favorite tops from college, a lacy halter that, in my own words, “brought all the boys to the yard.” He urged me to try it on and for some stupid reason, I did. The thing looked like a fancy sports bra. It was kind of a wake-up call.
Anyway, this whole memoir here is to announce that Matt and I are in a competition. We’re both aiming to lose 10 pounds by mid-February. There are prizes and such, but really, we just want to be sexy.
I don’t know what sort of lifestyle changes I should make, so any advice would be appreciated.
I’m excited.
I’m gonna be skinny.
