Just You Weight Unpublished Works 3 by Marcia Z. Nelson

Just you weight

Until recently, I had been living with a rare condition all my adult life.

I didn’t gain weight. Except during two pregnancies and occasionally after the holidays, the number on the scale always stayed the same for me. Even those exceptions were unexceptional. As easily as pumpkin pie and pregnancy pounds came, they went, with little effort. For many renewals, I never had to change my driver’s license statistics: my birthday, height and weight were all equally fixed and immutable numbers.

In restaurants, I could order anything for dessert. At the coffee shop, I could request whipped cream on my lattes. On break at work, I could buy premium oversize chocolate chip cookies and take them back to the office, savoring them bite by hunk to carb-rev out of afternoon mental fog.

I never had to get into the world of dieting: the next bestselling book, the ever-changing fads, the cardboard carbohydrate substitutes. I didn’t know which came first: Pritikin or Ornish, low-fat or low-carb. I could pass the anxiety and guilt and help myself to seconds of buttery mashed potatoes. I saved time, money and self-loathing. I was unique among women. Weight gain was not my problem!

But then, something happened.

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The change was gradual, incremental, even stealthy. Calories that were once free began to stick around like dinner guests overstaying their welcome. As the years slowly began to creep up on me, so did the number on the scale. As the pounds registered, so did this thought: they’ll go away, as usual.

Then came an attack on my complacency: I noticed my clothes appeared to be getting tighter. That couldn’t be. They must be shrinking after years of laundering, finally wearing out.

Right?

One day arrived a wardrobe tipping point. My favorite skirt, a slim, basic-black wool investment that had worn well for years, was, impossible though it seemed, impossible to zip. I moved it to storage, sadly, reluctantly. Maybe next season, I said. Others soon joined it: a slim grey silk skirt I loved, jeans. I began to wonder with growing apprehension: Was this the beginning of two wardrobes, a fat and a skinny one?

I gave the black skirt away.

Each year, the figure on my figure was officially noted at my annual physical.

“Hmm,” said my doctor, commenting on the ascending numbers. “Are you getting enough exercise? Make sure you stay active.”

“I am staying active,” I responded defensively, and truthfully. “I swim. I do yoga. I walk.”

“Walk with weights,” she suggested. “Add another day of working out.”

I did. I started walking more. I returned to the gym. Killing two birds with one exercise, I walked to the gym. It’s a walk downhill to the gym, but a walk uphill to try to stop the weight creep. I haven’t yet.

It’s 20 pounds.

So what came first: age or weight gain? I think the answer to that question is yes. I don’t mind getting older, but I’d prefer giving weightier advice to having a weightier frame. It’s odd to let go of a lifelong self-image; even as a child my legs were stick-thin. Now I think medium for clothes size, and small for portion size. I resent having to even think about portion size.

Above all, I hate being a normal American woman. I’ve lost the moral superiority that went with being slim. I’ve even lost the familiar nickname my husband used lovingly for years: Slim.

There is some consolation. Buying new clothes is fun, and I needed a wardrobe update. And I’m not overweight for my height.

At least not yet.

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